Reminiscences of a Showman

We had just returned from the night performance of the Ringling Brothers' big show and were sitting in "The Limited" at the Continental Hotel for a little refreshment.

"The Limited," it may be explained, is a very good replica of one side of a Pullman sleeper, only that its upper berths are mere imitations. It was installed either to make the traveling man feel at home or to remind mine host, Louis E. Cooke, of his forty years of globe trotting. There is no cosier spot anywhere, nor one more conducive to good fellowship and an exchange of confidences.

Out at the circus we had enjoyed a pleasant chat with sturdy John Ringling, and Mr. Cooke had been busy in exchanging greetings with performers of various colors and tongues who recognized their former master and pressed forward to grasp his hand. The odor of the sawdust was in his nostrils as he sat silent on the other side of the little table. He was conscious of the blaze of light, the dazzle of the three rings, and all the orderly confusion of the great show. The memories of the past were upon him.

It was my opportunity. He had refused my plea for some reminiscences of his forty years as a showman again and again. Other and far more able newspaper men had met him with no better success. He is one of the best advertising men in the world, but when it comes to talking of his own deeds, an innate modesty, quite incomprehensible in a showman, asserts itself. As Frank Winch wrote of Mr. Cooke fully four years ago, "He is a wondrous believer in publicity for everybody but himself."

He told me about the Ringlings, making innumerable excursions into the bypaths of showdom, and painting intimate pictures of masters of the sawdust ring who had been the idols of my childhood. I coaxed him on with greedy attention, until in the high tide of emotion born of his story he was induced to see that he owed it to posterity as well as to himself not to die with all this wealth of interesting fact locked within his breast. As we parted In the "wee hours" it was with his consent that I should write the stories which are to follow and give them to the readers of the Newark Evening Star.

The stories are written in the first person, for Mr. Cooke tells them, although his life is so busy that I am compelled to put them into words. It is the reader's misfortune to be thus deprived of the terse and vigorous English of which the veteran showman is a master. The first one tells of the long series of battles in which the Ringlings became masters of the amusement world. - C. H.

The Rise of the Ringlings.

It is a great show that we saw tonight. There is no better. There never has been. Do I know the Ringlings? Very intimately. I have known them, in fact, ever since they were youngsters out in Baraboo, Wisconsin.

There were seven of them in those days and, although their father was a harnessmaker, every one [missing text] boys was, born a showman, [missing text] were progressive, alert, energetic [missing text] as I later found in many a [missing text] with them, very resourceful.

They formed themselves in [missing text] vaudeville company about as [missing text] they put on long trousers. Charles was a good fiddler, and the rest were musicians. I remember that in their performances John, with whom we talked tonight, used to do a Dutch song and dance turn in costume, including wooden shoes.

They toured the rural districts about Baraboo, playing in schoolhouses and village halls, and did very well, too. I am quite sure that they would have developed into a big theatrical enterprise after a while if they had not met Yankee Robinson.

A Yankee Robinson Adventure.

He was the greatest showman of his day, and I'll tell you more about him later on. When the civil war broke out lie was playing Uncle Tom's Cabin in a little tent down in Charleston. You can well imagine that the atmosphere of the time and place was mighty unwholesome for a down-easter playing Mrs. Stowe's masterpiece, and the very day war was declared there was a rush for the tent, while not far off a kettle of tar was placed on the fire and some loyal Southern woman contributed a feather bed to the contemplated festivities.

But Yankee Robinson wasn't a man to be, caught napping. He learned of the ovation in store for him in time to scoot for the swamps in the neighborhood of Charleston, leaving his tent, his properties and his players to the mercy of the mob.

The Confederacy needed the tent, but Robinson never told me what became of Legree, Topsy, the "man-eating bloodhounds," and the rest. I don't suppose he knew. At any rate he waded around in the swamps and through the country for three days and nights, finally arriving at Yamasee Junction, fifty miles from Charleston. I've spent many a dismal hour there myself waiting for trains.

He had hardly entered a waiting train and fallen into a seat as if asleep, when he was frightened within an inch of his life by yells outside. "Kill the d-d Yank. He'll play Uncle Tom's Cabin, will he? Don't let him go." But just as he was getting ready to put up the fight of his life, and he was a fighter, let me tell you, a poor wretch, covered with tar and feathers, rushed in, fell down in the seat beside him, and the train pulled out.

As soon as the sound of the yells had died In the distance Yankee learned from his fellow traveler that in spite of his protestations the mob had taken him for an infernal abolitionist showman and treated him to tar and feathers.

The Ringlings In Circus.

It was his stories of the perils and excitement of the circus life, as well as the profits to be derived, that induced the Ringlings to cast in their fortunes with him, thus launching the Ringling-Robinson show.

He was an old man at the time and took little part in the management, but I remember that he used to conclude the speech that he made in the ring at every performance with the prophesy that they would one day be supreme in the circus world.

"Cooke," he has said to me very often, "You ought to be with those boys. They are the coming showmen.”

Henry and "Gus" did not go into the partnership. They were a little skeptical about results and preferred to work on salaries. Each of the seven, however, had charge of a department. There was a general understanding then, as there is today, that in all controversies a vote of three of the proprietors should decide, and it is a tribute to Otto's soundness of judgment that up to the time of his death he was invariably on the winning side. Otto, by the way, was the financial man of the concern.

The show was a very small affair. It had no menagrie, and traveled from town to town on wagons. When I was general agent of the Forepaugh show I happened into a small Wisconsin town not far from Baraboo on the day when the Ringlings were giving a performance there. My car had hardly been switched to the side track near the depot, which was just around the corner from their tent, when two of the boys made their appearance.

Their purpose was to renew a pleasant acquaintance of long standing and to request that I would not bill the town until the next day, lest the bare announcement of the coming of Forepaugh might cut down their night audience.

I consented, of course, and went over to the show that night.

In a short time, however, they were in a position to fight for favors rather than entreat them. In fact, their energy and acumen were such that in a few years they were our chief competitors.

Our First Fight.

It was in Milwaukee that they first locked horns with us. I was with Barnum & Bailey then. The Ringlings, being Wisconsin boys, very naturally concluded that a fight on home grounds would end in their advantage, no matter how big their antagonist. And after all the years, I'm free to confess, they put up a hard battle.

By some mysterious means they secured a knowledge of our routing and billed the town to show a week in advance of us. Then the fight was on.

Such battles, it may be explained are fought with printer's ink. Let me illustrate, even if I digress.

A Fighting Digression.

In the early days I went into Sandusky, Ohio, for the Cole show. The newspaper was about to go to press and short of compositors. I was informed that for these reasons my "ad" could not be accepted.

"But I am a printer," I protested, "I'll set it myself."

"You a printer?" incredulously asked the business manager.

Certainly, and I'll show You, if you'll give me a chance."

There was many a wink and knowing smile among the compositors as I took off my coat and went to the case. But I knew how to stick type, and was hard at work when who should walk in but big, pompous Sam Josephs, of the John Robinson show.

"I am Mr. Josephs," he announced, looking down on the business manager, "Samuel Josephs, the agent of John Robinson, sir."

"Yes, sir," mildly responded the manager.

"Here's copy for our 'ad.' Please see that we get good position."

There was an argument. I made sad work of my typesetting in my anxiety to hear all that was said. Finally the "ad" was accepted conditionally and Mr. Josephs departed without a suspicion of my presence.

With the consent of the manager I xet his "ad" myself amidst the plaudits of the compositors, and then placed it away up in the northeast [missing text] of the page, and literally [missing text] it in the big black type [missing text] of the glories of the Cole [missing text]

[missing text] manager gave me at [missing text] reading notices, and I could had more had there been time [missing text] them.

To this day I don't know that Josephs ever discovered why the John Robinson show did such poor business in Sandusky that year.

The Battle Waxes Warm.

But to return to the Milwaukee fight. Our bills and posters disappeared beneath great plasters of Ringling paper. Our show was sneered at in the Ringling "ads," which incessantly played up the fact that the Ringlings were home folks in Milwaukee.

Of course we took much larger space in the newspapers than usual. And I'm not quite sure but that a good deal of their paper disappeared, but otherwise we ignored them until their resourcefulness finally drew our direct fire. We printed comparisons of the shows, showing our big superiority in railway cars, cages, performers, and the like, and since the truth must be told, designated our competitors in the public prints as "The Baraboo Boys," "The Tingling Brothers," "The Ring-'Em-In Brothers," and other titles equally offensive to their pride.

I met John one day when the battle was at white heat.

"We'll lick you to a frazzle," he boasted.

"You will, will you?" I replied, pulling a big roll of money from my pocket. You see I was younger in those days. "I'll bet you a thousand dollars, John, that Barnum &,Bailey will take in more money in one performance than your show has ever taken in three. And I'll wager another thousand that we'll take in more money in one day than you'll take in in three days, Milwaukee included."

John looked at my roll and smiled faintly.

"All bets are off, Lou," he said. "You are too strong for me."

Well, the newspapers and. printing houses made big money out of the war, and both shows played to capacity. The Ringling boys were on the ground the day of our performance to bring suit against us for defamation of character. That "Ring-'Em-In" designation rankled. But we talked it over, shook hands all around, and have been the best of friends ever since. At the same time I don't mind saying that the Milwaukee fight was by no means the last in which the boys showed themselves worthy of any man's steel.

A Permanent Peace.

At the death of Peter Sells the disposition of the Forepaugh-Sells circus became a matter of much moment. Mr. Bailey, who owned a half interest in the show, came to me, his personal representative at the time, for advice. I could give none on the instant, but a week or so later It flashed upon me that here was an opportunity to end the heart-breaking competition with the Ringlings, and not stopping to consult Mr. Bailey, I wired the boys, who were then in California, asking if they would consider a proposition to acquire a half interest in Forepaugh -Sells.

I received an affirmative answer almost immediately, and armed with it I went to Omaha, where Barnum & Bailey were showing, and visited Mr. Bailey in his private tent.

"Have you done anything with the Forepaugh-Sells show yet?" I asked asked as soon as greetings were over.

"No. Have you?"

"I surely have. It's sold."

"Sold? Who'd you sell it to?"

"The Ringling boys."

"What?"

"The Ringlings, Mr. Bailey."

"Nonsense. I tell you they are up to some game. You must watch out for those boys."

"Mr. Bailey," I replied, "to sell to the Ringlings is to make the show neutral ground on which both parties may meet and amicably adjust their differences. As for Buffalo Bill's, it has a field of its own and can compete with neither of the others. With the Ringlings half owners of Forepaugh's there will be peace.”

“You talk like a Ringling man, Lou."

"No, I'm a Bailey man. We must look facts in the face. You and I and the rest of us can't live forever, and my only desire is to make the balance of your days in the show business as pleasant as possible."

He looked into my face a moment, grasped my hand and replied:

"Well, Cooke, I like the way you talk. Go ahead and see what you can do."

When the Forepaugh-Sells show closed its season it was sold to James A. Bailey, the highest bidder. Otto Ringling was on the ground and through him a half interest in he big concern was immediately transferred to the Ringling Brothers. In less than twenty-four hours the formalities were over and the operations for refitting and equipping the big concern for the next season were under way.

Permanent peace was thus established in the circus world. Bitter competition developed into a friendly rivalry to secure the best attractions. Both the great shows and the amusement-loving public were profited. I shall always view my part in the transaction with pride and pleasure.

Kings of Circusdom.

There is little more to tell. Upon the death of Mr. Bailey his interest in the Forepaugh-Sells show was taken over by the Ringlings. Two years later, when the arrangement between Mrs. Bailey and a British syndicate by which the latter operated the Barnum & Bailey shows expired, that great institution was offered for sale as a going concern. The Ringlings, who were the only showmen with money and inclination to handle such an enterprise, purchased it.

The "Baraboo Boys" now owned the greatest shows on the footstool. They had fought their way upward to kingship in the circus world.

There have been some changes in the Ringling firm. "Gus," who remained on salary rather than participate in ownership, died some years ago. Later Otto passed away. He was a bachelor and willed his interest to Henry, then working as an employe, so that today, as in the beginning, there are five Ringlings in the concern. They have a brilliant record, characterized by energy and acumen. They have fought hard but never unfairly. They have insisted upon clean entertainment, and been honest with the public, Their success has been fairly earned.

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