Barnum on the Tented Field

With every spring commences a vigorous campaign in the tented field. In this instance the invading army is on a mission of peace and is heartily welcomed everywhere by the people who pay tribute to the stranger without a murmur. The march of a circus company through the land with its host [of people] and the moving of baggage vans from town to town is similar to the progress of an army. No conqueror ever entered a city half so welcome or [was] greeted by so many smiling faces as the glittering pageant threads its way to the inspiring strains of martial music.

Adam Forepaugh made an innovation when he exhibited his aggregation under two tents for one price of admission, where those who had been brought up in a straightlace school could contemplate the wonders of the animal kingdom without contaminating themselves with the tights and spangles of the arena. (38)

When P. T. Barnum and manager Coup placed their Mastodon on the road, the jovial Dan Castello and his circus were given the principal tent, a second being used for the menagerie, and a third for a museum of living and inanimate curiosities. (39) The success of the great showman’s latest venture was without parallel. The seating capacity of the tents was again increased and still found to be inadequate. Wherever they went, the populace turned out en masse and every train and by-road running into the cities added their contributions by the thousands. A greater portion of the season, three performances were given daily, causing the fat woman and the giant to lose flesh and the living skeleton, if possible, to grow thinner than ever.

Phineas was ubiquitous, “here, there and everywhere,” now ahead of the company, giving gratuitous lectures on “How to Make Money,” not forgetting to always say a good word for the “greatest show on earth,” to which he would hasten back to publicly present some faithful employee with a gold badge, medal, or other valuable gift as a token of his regard and esteem, an extra attraction that would cram the three canvases to overflowing.

While “way down east,” it is reported that a bit of sharp practice was put up on the great showman. A party in Barnum’s employ groomed with extra care a pair of P. T.’s own noble blacks, drove them up to where Barnum and Coup were overseeing the erection of the triple tents, and exhibited them as a bargain which he could buy at a reasonable figure. Barnum and Coup examined them critically and instructed their employee to make the purchase at the stated sum, while Genin, the treasurer, counted out the money; after which, the horses were returned to the stable [with] Barnum little aware that he had been duped worse than he ever humbugged the public, by buying at a good price a pair of his own horses. May the hale old fellow be spared these many days. And when the man of enterprise again seeks rest, I hope he will add a few chapters to his autobiography and, besides telling us how he bought the horses, enlighten us as to how he carried the news of the coming of his show upon the rostrum and in the Sunday school.

In Barnum’s museum tent, I saw nothing of the club with which Captain Cook was killed. Probably George Wood could not spare it. But there was the sleeping beauty that would have made an elegant sign for a hair dresser, the automaton bell ringers that caused Ned Kendall to burn with jealousy when an attempt was made to persuade him that they were superior to the Berger family. In front of the Cardiff giant at every performance there gathered a group of the curious believers and unbelievers. While some saw in its huge proportions a quaint work of art, others pronounced it the figure of a giant turned from flesh to stone. A tiller of the soil, who had left the field and the plow to see Barnum’s last “tarnal humbug,” one day expressed an opinion. For half an hour he stood driven to the spot, regardless of the attraction of the happy family or the wart hog. At last, turning to the crowd who pressed closely about, he expressed his views:

“No man ever sculpted that thing out of stone in the world. It couldn’t be done. That figure is a putrefied man.”

Evidently the old gentleman knew more about farming than he did about Webster’s unabridged.

A feature in the museum department was “The Last Supper.” The figures were wax-faced and ghastly to contemplate, awakening in the beholder anything but feelings solemn or respectful. When the show reached Providence, Rhode Island, “The Last Supper” was left behind, the management probably arriving at the conclusion that it was rather sacrilegious than otherwise. The members of the company, noticing the absence after leaving Providence, were conjecturing the reasons among themselves, when Gus Lee, the clown, exclaimed:

“They’ve never heard of the twelve apostles east of Providence and they wouldn’t draw a cent, so Barnum told Coup to leave them here.” [This was] an explanation which was eminently satisfactory.

Wherever celebrities go in the show world there are many who seek to interview them and wherever Barnum and the “greatest show on earth in three tents” went he was bored by the intrusive, who wished to shake by the hand or have a conversation with the veritable man who had given us Jenny Lind and the “What Is It?” and [who] so many years directed the wonderful temple of amusement, the American Museum. P. T. Barnum is a genial man, easy to approach and happy when meeting the people but at times, being absent from the company, the curiosity of the admirers of Barnum was not satisfied.

In a down east town one day, while members of the company were enjoying a few moments’ leisure sitting about the hotel, there entered a venerable old fellow who inquired of the clerk for Mr. Barnum. And [he] was referred to Billy Dutton, the equestrian, who sat near by [and] who in turn pointed to Gus Lee, the clown, deep in reading of the morning paper. (Gus is a blonde that never dyes. In fact, his hair is so light that it is nearer white than any color.)

“Good morning, Mr. Barnum,” said the antiquarian, pre-senting himself to the clown; who, peering over his paper, saw the twinkling eyes of Billy Dutton dancing in suppressed mirth, while Miaco, the gymnast, or the “Boy with the Giant Head,” was passing the cue to the rest of the boys.

The stranger had read the life of Barnum and was very much pleased thereat and enthusiastically declared that if he was to begin life again he would embark in the show business, as he always had had a sort of hankering for the life of an exhibitor ever since one of his cows gave birth to a three-legged calf. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the old gentleman was spared from being a showman.

The clown was pressed with numerous inquiries by the ardent admirer of Barnum for a full hour, to his discomfiture and the great amusement of the professionals. At length, Lee excused himself and the old gentleman reluctantly retired to visit the show, remarking to Billy Dutton as he passed out:

“Well, my young friend, I am very much pleased with my talk with Barnum. He’s as chipper as a youngster yet. But one thing kind of surprised me; I didn’t think he’d show his years quite so much as he does. Why he’s as gray as a rat.”

A hearty laugh from all the circus folks greeted the old gentleman; the reason whereof, he was entirely ignorant. And he went away delighted with his interview with P. T. Barnum.

Footnotes

38. Forepaugh is said to have been the first circus manager to exhibit the menagerie under a separate tent. There are conflicting stories about the event. Joel E. Warner claimed to have contributed the idea to Forepaugh with the two tent exhibition being introduced in St. Louis in 1868. Forepaugh has it occurring in Louisville a year later.
39. The Barnum and Coup circus was organized as a wagon show for the 1870 season. The following year, P. T. Barnum’s Museum, Menagerie, Caravan, and Hippodrome went out by rail. Coup left the arrangement in 1875.


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William L. Slout and Circus Historical Society, Inc.