Reminiscences of a Showman

In this installment of his reminiscences Mr. Cooke speaks briefly of his boyhood days in the "wilds of Michigan." He relates his experiences in learning the cobbler's trade and becoming an expert printer, and vividly describes his entrance into the amusement field as an assistant to the noted California illusionist, Professor Martino. The narrative is carried up to the point where he joins the W. W. Cole circus. Next week Mr. Cook will follow the fortunes of that great show which was the first to cross the continent by rail and to tour Australia and the South Seas.

My earliest recollections are those of the hardships of frontier life, for although I was born in Jackson, Tioga County, Pa., my parents emigrated to what was then "the wilds of Michigan" when I was but six years old.

My father purchased a farm in the timber, moved us into a little log cabin at once and set about the work of clearing the land. Naturally crops were scant the first season, but we had nothing besides upon which to live during the winter. That was in 1857, the year of the financial panic which will never be forgotten in this country.

It was impossible to obtain wheat or wheat flour, even had we possessed the money, but there was a moderate supply of corn, and mother was an artist in preparing it. We had vegetables, too. Our appetites were keen and we lived well.

There was meat in the woods in the shape of wild hogs, gaunt, ferocious little beasts that belonged to any who could capture them. Among the most stirring recollections of my childhood are those of hunting these animals. I would ride with my father and brothers out into the woods, where runways in the deep snow indicated the paths by which the hogs traveled. Some of us would station ourselves by one of these with our dog, who was an expert at the business, while the rest of the party beat the woods until a hog was started. Then, as the quarry came down the runway, the dog would seize and hold him until we could capture or kill him. I do not remember that in all the years I have tasted pork that was quite as well flavored as that which we used to capture in this manner.

There was no money for shoes and no place within reach where they could be bought. So we all want bare footed in the summer and patched. up the old ones for winter until, making a virtue of necessity, we learned to make them ourselves.

I was only a child. I had no conception of the hardships of the life which I enjoyed so much, until at the end of two years my mother succumbed to them. The rigors of the climate and the privations which she had endured so bravely were too much for her naturally fragile constitution, and we laid her away in the grave.

Until I was sixteen my life was that of the ordinary pioneer lad of the day. I was doing a man’s work at twelve, and a man's work at that time was not mapped out by the labor unions. In summer I plowed from dawn until dark with an ox team and filled my place in the harvest field.

There was a schoolhouse a mile and a half from our home. It was a mere shed with hard slab benches, but no place was more attractive to me. I attended regularly, wading through the deep snows of the winter and "doing the chores" at home mornings and evenings.

Spending Money.

On Saturdays and holidays my brothers and I found recreation in splitting rails, which we sold for fifty cents a hundred. Later on we cut cordwood and hauled it to a distant village, where we received a dollar and a half a cord for it. It was with money thus earned that we purchased our clothing. If there was a surplus it was spending money, but it may well be believed that a surplus was exceedingly rare and very small.

When the Civil War broke out my elder brothers enlisted at once and went to the front. One died in the army as the result of confinement in Andersonville prison. Another was terribly wounded, but upon recovery returned to the ranks, and when his time expired re-enlisted as a veteran.

As I was too young for military service, I remained at home until I was sixteen, when I removed to a neighboring village. There were better school advantages there and, what appealed to me particularly, an opportunity to learn the cobbler's trade. I had already done considerable shoemaking on the farm, and the work was not distasteful. It occurred to me that it would be a good means of making a livelihood.

The Cobbler's Trade.

With the consent of my father I made an arrangement with the cobbler of the village, who was the postmaster as well, to learn the trade with him, in the meanwhile attending the village school. I soon became proficient. In six months, indeed, I made the best pair of boots I have ever had. I think I could make another pair today if necessary.

It wasn't long until my boss perceived that I was an asset, and one day he presented a document to my father for his signature. It bound me as an apprentice for a term of years, and among other things specified that the apprentice was to obey his "master," etc.

Father looked it over and returned it.

"My boy was free born," he declared with some emotion, "and is a good deal more than half white. He never knew a master. He may sign it if he wants to, but I never will."

I was willing to work, but not under such conditions. Besides, I had been reading much of Horace Greeley during the winter and had become an ardent disciple of his. It seemed to me that there was something better in the world for me than making shoes. I therefore returned to the farm for the summer.

Printers' Devil.

In the fall I obtained employment on the village paper, the old Otsego Herald, working as "devil" nights, mornings and Saturdays for my board and attending school by day.

The Proprietor of the Herald sold the property in a few months and I went to the Battle Creek Journal, then edited by Hon. George Willard, well known as a minister and congressman.

Six months later I was offered and accepted a better position on the Kalamazoo Daily Telegraph, where I finished my trade, becoming a proficient job printer, compositor and pressman.

It was in Kalamazoo that I essayed reporting for the local and city newspapers. It was my custom to sally forth every evening for the regular round and upon returning to the office to put my notes into type receiving therefor 30 cents a thousand ems. Then, when the forms were ready for the press at 4 in the morning (it was an old-fashioned Taylor press, turned by hand) I was at my post ready for service.

The First Scoop.

It was in Kalamazoo, too, that I first experienced the thrill of a real “scoop." As I was on the way to the office one morning I fairly stumbled over a dead human body. Frightened as I was, the importance of the news thus thrust upon me was evident. it was a murder. First notifying the police, I rushed to the office and breathlessly informed the foreman of my find. We got a half column into type quicker than I can tell it. It was mostly headlines, of course, but it answered the purpose. It went into the form and we were on the street with the first great "beat" of my life, I have had some successes since, but none that gave me greater pride.

In the Show World.

During this period I came directly into contact with many show people because I "covered" their entertainments. They apparently appreciated my stories and on several occasions offered me a position as advance agent. These propositions seemed to me to be a form of flattery rather than real, and I declined them for a great while. But when at last Professor Martino. the great California illusionist, made such a tender, I laid down the stick and rule and abandoned the press finally to begin my career in the amusement world.

That was in 1870, forty-five years ago.

My initial engagement was for the balance of the current season, but I was re-engaged the following year and when we came to open the tour the Professor called me 'back from the road and made me his assistant. In my opinion the professor wag one of the most expert illusionists that the country has ever known. He was originally from Buffalo, the home of Macalister, and both deserve to rank with Hermann, Keller and old Professor Blitz, with whom I was also associated later on.

His principal Illusion, as I remember them, were "The Enchanted Canopy,” “The Magic Cross," "The Mystic Barrel,” “The Living Head" and "The Talking Lion."

The last named was especially interesting. It consisted of a papier mache lion posed upon a large and apparently empty box. The box was mounted upon castors, so that it could be rolled about the stage, demonstrating that there was no contact with wires or any other means of communication.

The lion itself was first taken apart in plain view of the audience, clearly showing that nobody was inside, and put together again. It would then enter into conversation with the professor and answer questions from the audience with great intelligence. Finally it would "ramp" and rage and roar like any other savage beast of the forest. When at last it subsided, the professor would again dissect it before the audience, once more showing that the interior of the beast was quite empty.

As a matter of fact it was I who talked with the professor, answered questions from the audience and strained a naturally melodious voice by roaring. I was securely strapped to the top of the box in the most uncomfortable position, and had just sufficient room to force my hands into the paws of the lion. I moved his lower jaw with my chin, and with a cunningly concealed spring worked his tail until it lashed his sides with fury.

A Close Shave.

It was a great illusion, but it almost resulted in my undoing in a small town down in the coal regions of Pennsylvania. We were showing in a little hall upon a stage which was only about two feet above the floor. The house was packed with miners who were breathless with wonder as illusion followed illusion. One of them had brought his family dog, a big, savage brute that I shiver to think of even to the present moment.

The dog wasn't much impressed in the beginning. He dozed contentedly in the aisle during the "Enchanted Canopy," and had no eye for "The Living Head," which was my head, by the way. But when the lion began to talk he pricked up his ears. At the very first roar the hair rose in an ominous ridge along his back, and when the "ramping and raging" began he evidently viewed it as a challenge and rose to the occasion.

Growling with rage and with every hair erect he made for the platform. I heard him and divined his purpose, while my blood froze with terror. There I was, strapped securely to the box, an unresisting meal for the infernal brute that was almost upon me. I have never had as little enthusiasm for the show business as at that moment.

I don't think the professor thought of my predicament, but the idea that his illusion was about to be exposed aroused him to such desperation that he was able to check the advance of the enemy in time to save me, and the show went on, although I was of little assistance during the rest of the performance.

Great Liberality.

it was our custom to give, 150 presents of some value to members of the audience at each performance. We also advertised that we would present "a fine oil painting in a gold frame" to every purrchaser of a 25-cent ticket. We always packed up our apparatus, usually carried in a suit case, while the valuable presents were being distributed. When it came to the “oil paintings," which were little chromos, three by four inches in size and pasted upon pieces of cardboard with embossed gold frames, the situation was always more or less critical. We met it by employing the janitor to hand the "oil paintings" to the people as they passed out of the door, while we were rapidly making our way to the train or our hotel.

Curiously enough there was no better field for these operations than right in the heart of New York. In fact, two or three of our highly meritorious performances, "oil paintings" and all, were given in Cooper Institute. I may add that we were never subjected to bodily injury or legal proceedings because of our liberality.

I was never discharged but once in my life, and that was by Professor Martino. It was all because of a new pair of boots that persisted in squeaking as I passed quickly back and forth behind the curtain assisting in the illusions.

Naturally nervous and irascible, the Professor was in a white heat of rage by the time the performance closed, and after telling me what he thought of any person dumb enough to wear such boots while doing such work he ordered me out of his sight.

But he came to me at the breakfast table the next morning with the kindliest of apologies and took it all back, only that he still insisted that I must tone down those boots or obtain footgear more adapted to the labors of a magician.

With Lyceum Attractions.

Following my engagements with the illusionists, I became connected with The Redpath Lyceum Bureau, of Boston, and at various times acted as advance agent for some of the leading lecturers, concerts and lyceum attractions during the winter months. In this capacity I had the honor of being associated with Henry Ward Beecher, Theodore Tilton, the Kellog-Carey Concert Company, the Hyers Sisters and many other entertainers of world-wide fame.

In the Circus at Last.

During all these years I had acquired an ambition to become connected with a circus. where there was, of course, a much wider scope for action. While yet with Professor, Martino I had met W. W. Cole at, Quincy, Ill., where he was outfitting his show at the time. It was a small affair, as circuses go these days, but I knew something of Mr. Cole's antecedents and ability, and was quite certain that he would make circus history in this country.

Two years after this meeting I wrote him applying for the position of middleman. The middleman, I may explain, travels intermediate between the advance brigade of agents and billposters and the show itself. It is his duty to check up the work of the advance men, to distribute special programs and to supply the newspapers with stories and other interesting matter just previous to the coming of the show. affair, as circuses go the I was engaged immediately, although I had not met Mr. Cole after I left Quincy, and there began a friendship that is among the most delightful memories of my life.

Mr. W. W. Cole.

William Washington Cole was a born showman. His maternal grandfather, Thomas Cooke, brought his own "Royal Circus" from England to this country in a sailing vessel in 1836. It was the first entire circus to cross the Atlantic. It opened in New York at an amphitheatre built at Vauxhall Garden, on the Bowery, and afterward exhibited in Boston and Philadelphia. While showing in the Front Street Theatre in Baltimore the building was burned to the ground and all the livestock and paraphernalia of the circus were destroyed.

The elder Cooke and nearly all of his company forthwith returned to England, where they became famous in circus history.

Mr. Cole's mother, who was a high school rider and wire walker of renown, gave her boy careful training, early instructing him in the business end of the work and cultivating his self-reliance.

He was at one time clerk in a little dry goods store at Independence, Ia. In 1866 he became a ticket seller in Miles Orton's circus. He was also made useful as a side show "spieler," layer out, ring master, bill poster and advance agent, thus acquiring an intimate personal knowledge of all the details of the great business of which he was afterwards to become the master.

Presently he became proprietor of a side show with the Orton circus. His outfit was conveyed from town to town on a hired wagon. His force consisted of a boy, who helped him put up the tent and grind the organ. By taking his own tickets and looking after all the details he so prospered, however, that in 1871 "W. W. Cole's Colossal Circus" was launched at Quincy, Ill., where, as I have already stated, I had the honor of meeting him for the first time.

My own life is so intimately interwoven with his subsequent career that that career need not be followed further now. Mr. Cole will bulk large in these reminiscences as they progress.

He was a showman with the blood of showmen In his veins, but the most modest, retiring of gentlemen. His aversion to personal publicity was unconquerable. At the time of his death, last March, the only photograph of him to be found was one taken in New Orleans almost forty years ago.

I took the liberty once of inserting his portrait in one of our advance couriers. He said nothing to me, for he was kindliness itself, but he immediately wrote to the printers over my head, ordering that the portrait should be cut out and replaced by the date of the show.

He was a gentleman of wise foresight and mature conclusion, a fellow of infinite wisdom and most kindly discernment, a man always cool and calculating under the most trying circumstances and to whom the accumulation of a vast fortune made no difference in his manly character.

His Remarkable Nerve.

Having known him intimately for nearly forty years, I cannot recall an instance in which I have seen him angry or excited, and even though his patience was taxed to the verge of distraction, he would remain as stoical as the sphinx and as positive as the Pole itself.

A single incident will reveal the iron nerve of the man. We were showing in a frontier Texas town and Mr. Cole was taking tickets, when a big, drunken cowboy swaggered up, pressed the muzzle of a murderous six-shooter against the showman's breast and growled:

"Here's my ticket, Mister. I reckon it goes alright, don’t it?”

Cole looked him In the eye without flinching as he pushed the gun aside and answered in the evenest of tones.

"You'll have to be careful with that gun, my friend. It might go off an hurt somebody."

The bully gasped, weakened, slunk away and - bought a ticket.

Mr. Cole was a man of few words, but endless thought. He was cradled in hardship, but never spoiled by luxuries, which he was later amply able to enjoy. He always turned a deaf ear to evil reports and weighed every proposition like a philosopher. He worked hard and died worth $5,000,000, every penny of which was honestly earned.

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