| Bandwagon Discussion Convention Logos Photos Publications Research History Routes Ads-Titles Humor Search Links |
| I. Circus Memoirs (boyhood) | IX. Personal Recollections |
My father, with my mother, came to this great and wonderful continent in 1842, landing at Quebec, Canada, my eldest brother, William, being born there. The family removed to Boston in 1845, where my father, James Haslam Middleton, was employed in the Charlestown Navy Yard. There we lived in sight of Bunker Hill for ten years. During this time three children were born, George, James Haslam and Charles. My father then succumbed to the western fever and with his little family, started for Indiana. I was a youngster, but well do I recall the boat and its lights, and the excitement of being on the water from Cincinnati, Ohio, to Madison, Indiana, our objective point. As we were leaving the boat I looked back and exclaimed in delight, "Mother, the boat has an upstairs!"
We settled at Madison, Indiana, which in those days was a wide awake, thriving town, located on the Ohio river, surrounded by beautiful and attractive scenery. Madison lies huddled at the foot of beautiful hills overlooking the Ohio, and one can see beautiful trees swaying contentedly, tobacco fields and distilleries. I have traveled this old world a great deal, but it is difficult to find a more charming spot; Nature had indeed been more than kind to that part of the country.
The principal industry at Madison was the pork packing business, and more hogs were killed and packed there at that time than in Chicago. Madison had the first railway in the state, which was built to Indianapolis, the capital city. Up the hill from Madison was the heaviest railway grade in the world at that time. The principal freight that went over the road was brought down the Ohio river from Pittsburg by boats, transferred to rail at Madison and shipped into the interior of the state.
The Reverend James Greenleaf, of Madison, corresponded with my father while he was in Boston and advised his going west. He wrote a glowing account of the possibilities in the quaint little place. On our arrival we stopped with a family by the name of Merens until the necessary arrangements could be made to start housekeeping. This good couple did not have a family, and I often think of how they must have enjoyed four boys as full of life as we were. I fancy they did not regret being childless.
One of the principal characters living in Madison was an old gentleman known by the name of Gundy Lawrence. He had been elected to the Legislature. When the time came to attend he rode to Indianapolis, a distance of eight-five miles, on a dray. This of course gave him great notoriety. In later years he was town crier, announcing public auctions, lost children, strayed or stolen horses and cows. When he was to announce political meetings he would mount his horse about three o'clock in the afternoon and swinging a big brass bell he would start out with his cry that such and such a prominent man would "speak at the Town Hall at early candle lighting." It was seldom he rode past a saloon without making a call, with the result that he would continue the cry of "speech making at early candle lighting," while the candles had been lighted and burning for at least two hours. He surely was a character long to be remembered.
After looking over the ground my father decided there was an opening for a meat shop, as there was not one in the town, all the meat being sold in the market house. On his small capital he opened a meat shop and grocery store. After the business was under way, and housekeeping affairs were adjusted, we youngsters were started off to school, which I am sorry to say I was not fond of attending, and did not do so when it was possible to avoid it. On my return home from school the first day my mother asked me: "George, how do you like school?" I replied: "I don't like that school." "Don't like it! Why?" "Because the room has no cupboard in it." This goes to show that early in life I was more fond of something to eat than of knowledge.
The hills, the river, the surrounding country, all so new, had a great charm for me, so much more attractive than the school room. I loved the river, to fish, swim, to get into a skiff and take a ride, to paddle around on a board. The negro slaves coming over from Kentucky with their masters on trading trips were a new sight to me. The hair of men and women was done in pigtails bound around with string.
If down on the river bank was attractive to me, the surrounding hills, covered with nut-bearing trees of all kinds, grape vines, berries, orchards, May apples and other wonders were more so. How I loved to roam over those hills! What freedom I knew in my youth! I often dream that part of my life over again when seated in a comfortable chair with a good cigar, before a log fire blazing away merrily.
About this time wild pigeons, which are now extinct, would fly in thousands from the hills of Kentucky across the river to the hills on the Indiana side. My father, who was a good shot, along with hundreds of others, would go up on the hills, taking my brother William and me along to gather up the pigeons. In a few hours shooting we would bag hundreds of them. It seems strange that these pigeons should become extinct, when at that time there were millions of them.
From my father and these shoots I first acquired my incentive for shooting and hunting, of which I have grown fonder as the years pass. Well do I remember my first fifteen cents. I spent five cents for gunpowder, five cents for shot and five cents for caps. Then off to the hills! Sometimes I returned with a quail, a squirrel or a rabbit, and as often empty handed.
Coons and opossums were very plentiful in the woods in those days. Some negroes living in the town always owned a few coon hounds. I often wanted to go with them coon hunting, so one night they decided to permit me, the condition being that I was to supply a quart of whiskey (cost ten cents). There was no tax on liquor in those days. I was to carry an ax, and we were to set out about nine o'clock at night through the dark woods. After a time we would hear the hounds on the trail, and the negroes could always tell when the coon was treed. When we would get up to the dogs we would find them at the foot of the tree up which the coon had climbed. The negroes would then set to work chopping the tree down, always knowing which way to throw it. We would stand holding the dogs so as to let them get into the tree tops. They would always get the coon, after a most exciting fight. Thus ended the coon hunts, after tramping the woods all night until daylight next morning.
Fox hunting was another favorite pastime, but after an experience of walking ten miles in the rain, over hills and valleys, I gave it up, and will tell you of my last one. Tom Scholl, whom I thought was a great friend of mine, came for me one day to attend a fox hunt. It was to take place the following day and was to start from his uncle's home, near the forks of Indian and Kentuck Creeks. I asked my father's permission to ride a horse, but he refused, saying: "My son, I do not feed horses to chase foxes." This was an awful blow, but after thinking it over I decided to attend the chase anyhow. I tore down the back fence, saddled the horse and slipped away to the forks of the creek, determined and ready to take part in the chase the next day.
There were two roads to the forks of the creek. Scholl and I took one of them. When we arrived we spied father's horse tied to the rack in front of the store. He had taken the other road and arrived there first. About this time a farmer went to the store and father asked him if he had seen the boys. The farmer replied: "Yes, they are over to Scholl's uncle's." Father followed over, took the horse and returned home, leading my horse, leaving me to chase foxes afoot - not a very pleasant prospect. Besides, there was the thought of what was to follow on my return home. Scholl consoled me by saying that we would ride "turn about" next day in the chase.
In the morning the fox was started. Away went the dogs and the riders, and I, afoot. I did not see my friend, a horse or a fox during the chase. I pulled up at Ike Short's afoot, more dead than alive. He gave me a large slice of bread and butter and I went on my way to the forks of the creek, where we arrived about dark. Then came the question of my getting home, and what I would get on my return. I proposed to ride behind my friend Scholl, but he said his father would not stand for that, but that we would "ride and hitch," which means that he would ride two miles, then hitch the horse and walk on. I would come afoot to where he had hitched the horse, mount and ride past him a mile or two, hitch the horse and walk on. Well, Scholl started out and I followed, expecting to find the horse hitched awaiting me, but to my disgust, my good friend had forgotten to hitch the horse for me, and I walked about ten miles home. This was my last fox hunt.
After a hearty meal at home we boys would often go to the meat shop, help ourselves to sausage, beefsteak and potatoes, then go to the hills, build a fire, cook the meat by holding it over the fire with a forked stick and bake the potatoes in the ashes. A feast fit for the gods, as I thought.
About that time in my life I felt that I wanted the experience of running on the river. Steamboats were then in the height of their prosperity and Polk Cook, a friend, and I decided that we would hire out on one of the boats, to work in the cabin as cabin boy or in the pantry as knife shiner. If we failed in those ambitions we would go as deck sweepers. Anything - but we must work on a boat. I furnished the money to buy two blue and white checked shirts, two leather belts, and two butcher knives in leather cases which we strapped to us.
We applied to the first boat that landed. Polk got the job as deck sweeper - they drove me ashore. Thus were my ambitions as a river man crushed. Polk had the shirt, the knife and the belt; the bell rang, the boat steamed out, and I stood on the shore and watched the boat float away. Poor Polk afterward went to war and lost his life.
I learned years afterward that my father was acquainted with the stewards on the boats and had told them never to take me. The extent of my boating was limited to when a steamboat coming up the river would coal, taking in tow a barge, from which the coal would be transferred to the boat while on its way up the river, so as not to lose time. The empty barges were then floated back, and in that way I got a ride.
About this time I began to think of making money and would go out and pick wild blackberries and bring them into town, where they sold for ten cents a gallon. At the end of the berry season I became a sheep butcher, going out among the farmers for miles around to buy sheep after shearing time. Costing about a dollar apiece, we would kill them, market them by the quarter at twenty-five cents a quarter, leaving us the sheep pelt as a profit. I was fairly successful at this until I went into the adjoining county and bought eighty head of a Henry Charlton. Driving them home, I met my father riding horseback on his way to look at some cattle. He asked me what price I had paid for the sheep. I told him one dollar a head. He said: "It will be the last, my son, that you will buy, for you will lose your money." This was true, for they were just skin and bone. I will here say that on these trips I bought eggs for five cents a dozen. Since that time I have seen them sell for sixty-five cents.
My father was a strong Republican, so I was one likewise. My only reason at that time was that the campaign of Fremont and Buchanan was opening up, which furnished plenty of excitement for me to take part in; so off I went to the woods to cut a flag pole from which to fly a streamer with the names of Fremont and Dayton.
The meetings and barbecues of both parties were held quite often and I always managed to attend, not to hear the speakers but to see the fights, which never failed to take place. I remember when a man living at Brooksburg up the river six miles from Madison, came down the day before election and was asked, "How are things at Brooksburg?" He replied, "There will be a great time there tomorrow, for when I left they were gathering rocks to fight with."
There were parades. One I remember very well. A forty-ox team was driven to one wagon in which ladies rode representing each state in the Union. There was a great deal of excitement and unrest along the border at this time. Things, however, became quiet until after the election of Lincoln. (Today as I write I find this is Lincoln's birthday, February 12th, 1912.) When the feeling of unrest became evident again, groups of young men formed into home guards, as the temper was strong for "war", which came sooner than was expected. I was anxious to be among them, but was refused because of my youth. But I found pleasure and excitement in going to the steamboat landing to see them off. On one occasion I went aboard and as far as Louisville without a cent of money.
About this time Company E of the Third Indiana Cavalry was formed, in which my brother William enlisted. This made me more anxious than ever to be a soldier, but again I was refused. After they were out six months recruiting officers were sent. I ran away, walked to Lexington, Indiana, and enlisted in the Thirty-eighth Indiana Regiment. The Company was sent to New Albany, camping on the fair grounds, when my father learned of my whereabouts. He came for me, and home he took me. After returning I went to Kentucky and tried to enlist in the Thirty-ninth Indiana, encamped at Nolin Creek. After I was there a few days they learned my age and returned me home. My father said to me: "If you remain at home for six months I will permit you to enlist in the same company with your brother." In a short time the recruiting officers came along. My father gave me a horse. I enlisted and joined the regiment at Budd's Ferry, Maryland, March, 1862. Shortly after my arrival we moved over into Virginia and I was in the war sure enough. We rode back and forth over a large portion of Virginia. The first skirmish was near Fredericksburg. From there I went to Cedar Mountain. The next real service was through Maryland up to South Mountain, Antietam back into Virginia, Battle of Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, then back into Virginia, where on the first day of August, 1863, I with George E. Stanley was taken prisoner and landed in Libby Prison. After being confined there three weeks, we were changed to Belle Isle, where with ten thousand others, I was kept eight long months until the following March. I was detailed to cut the meat in the cook house, as a squad of our men were detailed to cook for the prisoners. It was not long before we had no beef to cut, and our diet was black eyed peas. Not wishing to be put back in the stockade I turned to cooking. We would cook all night for the day following. There was not much of a variety, sometimes only sweet potatoes. About this time they called for bakers. A number went out and baked corn bread, which was nothing more than corn meal and water mixed together. We did a great deal of business for a while with the prison guards. They would have a sack of biscuit or other food for sale. Our boys got to making money (to imitate the greenbacks), buying from the guards any food they had for sale. In the night it was difficult to detect the spurious from the real. To make this money we would grease a piece of writing paper, which made it transparent, lay it on top of a genuine bill and trace the dark lines with ink and the lighter ones with a lead pencil, then wrinkle it up to make it appear as though it had been in circulation. They would not be able to detect it until the next day. However, this only lasted a short time. They would not sell us anything more.
I will say here that Lieutenant Bosseau, who had charge of this island, was a very kind, humane man and was in no way responsible for the suffering, want of food or medicines. On the other hand, Lieutenant Roe was a vile person. The Southern soldiers themselves were very short of food. We could not expect to have any more than they had. The exchange of prisoners was stopped. The Confederate Government did not recognize General Ben. Butler as a gentleman, and would not treat with him. Then again, it was said that our Government would not give up healthy Southern prisoners in exchange for sick, emaciated Northern ones. About this time word came that there would be an exchange of about two hundred sick on each side. All this time I had not been idle. I had made about two hundred dollars selling things to eat to the bounty jumpers' substitutes, so I offered to pay one hundred and fifty dollars to the Southern sergeant if he would let me take away five of my friends along with the sick prisoners that were going North. He took my money and counted us in with the sick, otherwise I would have landed at Andersonville. In a few days we arrived at Annapolis; the first one to salute me was Jasper Jones of my company. He advised us, when we were told to throw away our blankets and draw new ones, not to do so, but on the contrary to grab as many as we could. This we did, getting one dollar a piece for them. Shortly after our arrival we were taken up to the sanitary commission building, where the good ladies in charge gave us supplies of all kinds for our comfort. Looking over six of us, they remarked: "Did you men come from Richmond?" "Yes, madame." "You look very well for sick boys", she replied. "We are not as well as we look, lady, we are bloated."
(Oh the joy of these evenings before the cracking olive wood fire, with Mr. Middleton smoking his favorite cigar, taking the comfort of a king in a Louis XV. chair. I feel, dear and excellent reader, that I want to share this with you. - Mrs. R. K. M.)
After a short stay here we were sent to the dismounted camp at Washington, D. C., where I was detailed as orderly to Colonel William Gamble, with whom I remained until the expiration of my three years enlistment. Then I went on to my company at Winchester, Virginia, where I was mustered out and left for my home in Madison. After reaching home, I was restless and like a fish out of water, notwithstanding my parents had refurnished the home in fine style to welcome my home coming. Not having sisters to be consulted in matters of decorations and selection of furniture, the folks had made everything comfortable and to suit a boy’s taste. The most imposing thing to my mind was the parlor set, consisting of a settee, a rocker, six chairs, all upholstered with black mohair, and a center table.
Kind reader, fancy the change, if you can, after three years of sitting on the ground or logs or hardtack boxes. At times I found it very difficult to keep my seat on the mohair, frequently sliding off on to the floor. When we had callers, to be sure of my seat, I had to hold on.
On the walls were three chromos. Rembrandt or Leonardo de Vinci never painted anything that was as wonderful to me, as I recall them now.
After hand-shaking around for a few months, I began to look for something to do, in which search I did not have much success. I had occasion to go to Cincinnati for a day or two, and it so happened while I was there that the news came of General Lee’s surrender. From that day to this I have never heard such a noise and din as took place on that occasion.
Returning to Madison, I decided to go to school a while to a French school master - Monsieur Pierforke - who had lost one arm in his native country in a battle. Having spent three years in the army, when I returned to school reduced in class rank, I felt discouraged, and becoming discontented I soon stopped. After a time I got a position on the wharf boat, Vevay, Indiana, where I remained one year. While here I decided I needed a wife. As the available ones seemed to be going very fast I had a fear that there would not be enough to go around, so I took one unto myself, a Miss Kate Rea. After about eighteen years of wedded life we agreed to disagree.
Returning to Madison I opened a cigar store. After a few months, during which time I was my own best customer, along came an agent for the Grover & Baker Sewing Machine company, of Cincinnati. He gave me the agency of the machine and furnished me a wagon. I sold my cigar store to take up this business and set off through the country to peddle sewing machines. My territory was Southern Indiana and Northern Kentucky. I was fairly successful, but grew weary of it. An opportunity came along to go to Edinburg, Indiana, to manage a hotel. While there in that capacity I met a gentleman living in town, a Mr. John Fulton, who was a circus man. As we got acquainted sitting around the office stove evenings, I made inquiries about the circus business, its opportunities for money-making, etc. His answers struck me favorably; in fact, very favorably. After listening to him a few times, I was so favorably impressed that I informed him I wanted to be a circus man and inquired as to what amount of capital would be necessary for me to take an interest with him. He asked me if I had five hundred dollars. I told him no, but I would try to borrow it, which I did, becoming a half partner in the side show with Hemmings, Cooper & Whitby's Circus and Menagerie, which had already started out for the season from Louisville, Kentucky, April, 1870.
Mr. Fulton took my five hundred dollars and bought the outfit of H. Norman, who was to have gone with the show, but who changed his mind, associating himself with the James Robinson Circus.
We joined the circus at Paris, Kentucky. I drove on to the show lot and proceeded to put up the tent for the side show and unloaded the wagons. I had never been to a circus or side show in my life, so you can readily understand that these things were new to me. Attending to horses, cooking for the people, putting up and taking down the tent, was much like army life, so I was at home in a way. The first man to come to me on the show lot was Mr. James A. Bailey, who proffered his advice and good will, insisting on my calling on him for any information or assistance that I might need. This acquaintance ripened into an association and friendship that lasted through his life.
The outfit that we got from Mr. Norman looked anything but prosperous. When I say that the four horses had one eye, I speak the truth. One eye in four horses, think of it! The wagons and harness were in a dilapidated condition, the tent full of patches and ropes full of knots. The only thing in this outfit for my five hundred dollars was the opportunity to make money.
The tents were up, I had food for the horses, and back of the side show I was cooking breakfast for the side show people, when I was approached by a gentleman who informed me that he was Mr. Cooper. I introduced myself, stating that I had bought Mr. Norman out. He in return said that Mr. Norman had no right to sell to us. We discussed the matter and left each other with the understanding that we would settle it another time. On leaving he said: "I do not want you to keep your horses on the show lot; they don't look well and you might get the habit of giving them our feed."
I could appreciate the remark fully, as to the show our horses would make, but I would hardly have slipped them his hay. So here in Paris, Kentucky, (Paris is in Bourbon County, Kentucky, where the Bourbon whiskey gets its name. The excuse I once heard made why the town remained small was that the ground was too valuable to build on), was my first introduction to the show business, as well as my first dollar in this business. We were routed through Kentucky in every county, showing each day, usually at the county seats.
I found this business congenial and the opportunities for making money looked good to me in my new field.
My army life had a great deal to do with my being able to adapt myself so readily to the inconveniences and emergencies to overcome in this life. I took to it like a young duck to a pond.
I was so well contented for the forty-two years that I followed this business that I did not look for another. This is surprising, considering that up to the time I bought into this side show I had never visited one. Some of my friends had misgivings as to my venture remarking that I would not find the people in it to my liking. On the contrary, I found them honorable men in all transactions, their word being as good as a bond, and first class, reliable business men.
Leaving Kentucky we crossed the Ohio river, and our route took us through Indiana, Illinois and into Missouri, showing in St. Louis the first week of July. I remember this very well, as the great race of the steamboats Robert E. Lee and Natchez was finished at St. Louis at this time, the Robert E. Lee winning. The crowd was so great at the levee to see the finish that our tents were deserted that day. We moved on up into Iowa and Minnesota, then down through Arkansas and Louisiana. Unfortunately, while at Rayville, Louisiana, Mr. Whitby, while taking tickets at the door, was shot, getting into a dispute with a desperado, who insisted on passing without a ticket. It was a most wilful murder. This was a very sad affair and cast a gloom over the party, or circus family.
The show moved on, crossing the Mississippi river to Vicksburg, Mississippi. We made a few more stands, closing at Okalona, Mississippi, for the season, shipping the outfit to Louisville, Kentucky, where it wintered. Madame Lake, of Cincinnati, was starting a show and I made arrangements to take the concert and side show with her. We put in the winter showing in the South, getting as far as Florida, closing a fairly successful season.
With arrangements for the next season, we routed through the West, around Denver, Colorado, taking in the gold and silver mining towns; then into Utah, where we were the first circus to show, the price being one dollar, with side show and concert fifty cents. While here Brigham Young attended the circus. We had a very pleasant chat together and I found him a highly intelligent old gentleman who had come into this desert and accomplished wonders.
We left our railroad cars at Salt Lake City, putting the outfit on hired wagons, and toured the small towns around to a very satisfactory business. Working back toward home we closed the season at Cincinnati.
Mr. Bailey, Mr. Cooper and Mr. Hemmings were anxious to have me with them again, so I arranged to go with them. I was very glad to return, as it seemed more like home to me. Mr. Bailey took an interest with me in the concert side show and candy stands. We started from Hillsboro, Ohio, by wagon. It rained incessantly for weeks. We were discouraged and in financial difficulties. The roads were so muddy and heavy that we lost a great many stands, which meant paying out money without taking in a cent.
A funny incident occurred here. I always kept my wagons ahead of me, driving in the rear alone. Arriving at a toll gate in charge of a German who could speak a very little English, he informed me that he had a "ledder bolise". We could not make this out, but after a while he showed us that he had a leather valise that one of the men had left in pawn for the toll. I hustled for some small change to pay the toll, taking the "ledder bolise" out of pawn.
It looked as if the rainy season would never be over, it lasting about six weeks. We traveled through the West and got through Indiana into Illinois, when business began picking up. We had good business through Iowa, Kansas and Nebraska, when we decided to go south again. Everything was going on very nicely when the epizootic broke out among our horses, as it did among the stock all over the country. We crossed the Mississippi at Natchez and closed the season. I went to New Orleans and arranged with Captain Neil to take us on his steamboat, the Indiana, up to Louisville, where we wintered.
We started the next season, opening in the Exposition building in Louisville, where the post office now stands. This season, besides running the side show and concert and candy stands, I contracted with the company to feed their men in camp and got along pretty well. Sometimes it was quite a wait between meals, but it was a case of the whole outfit being late and no one to blame.
Mr. Cooper said to me one day, "Middleton, it looks as if you would run out of soup for the men." I replied, "There is no danger of that." He said, "What will you do?" I answered, "We will put a little more salt in it, then they won't eat so much as they won't like it so well."
We took the Kentucky country first, as the tobacco crop selling at about this time of the year always made money quite plentiful in the tobacco country. One of the features with the show this year was the Cardiff Giant, the discovery of whom about this time caused great excitement. While there was only one genuine Cardiff Giant, three or four different circuses claimed to have one, which will give you an idea of how enterprising the managements were. We also had a whale stuffed and mounted, which gave us much trouble, as it required a long, coupled wagon, and the roads being poor, it was a pretty hard proposition to get over them.
I had a long, covered passenger wagon in which I carried curiosities that belonged to the side show. As the horses went trotting along one morning, one of the front wheels struck a root and over the wagon went, the bows of the top splintered and the hair on the fat woman's head tangled in the splintered bows. We also had a basket of eggs which we intended to cook when we reached town, but by the time we got the fat woman untangled and out there was quite a mess of eggs, splinters and hair.
We also had a snake case, in which we carried several large boa constrictors, which we used also for a seat. That toppled over, the glass was broken and the snakes were in a mix-up.
I remember on the show grounds one day when we first drove in (I think it was in Bairdstown, Kentucky), we ran across a grass snake which must have had thirty or forty young ones, not more than an inch or an inch and a half long. On our appearance the mother snake opened her mouth and every one of the little ones ran down her throat.
It was always a curious thing to me that in taking the curiosities, the fat woman, the Albinos, the midgets and the Circassians, from the wagons, when they would have to walk two hundred yards over to the tent, exposed to the view of hundreds of people, these same people would go right up to the ticket seller, pay their money and go in to see the same curiosities that had just passed before them.
It was now about the Fourth of July and in Mattoon, Illinois, there was to be a fireworks display given by the citizens. The time set for setting them off would interfere very much with the time for giving our show, so we arranged by giving them fifty dollars with which to buy more fireworks, and set them off after the circus was over at night. This made it agreeable all around and I was delegated to attend to the display. The most fireworks I had ever fired off before was a simple fire cracker, but I undertook the job. As was often the case, we had some temporary lemonade stands on the grounds with just loose boards spread over the top for shade. I had all the fireworks placed on top of one of these roofs and started the display. I took up a large sky rocket, leaned it up against a pole I had placed and set the fire to it. It commenced to sputter fire and flames among the fireworks on the roof, and the first thing I knew everything was ablaze - the rockets, Roman candles and all the different articles they had in those days, were shooting off into the audience in every direction. Down below some of the men were selling lemonade and to protect themselves they gathered up some wet gunny sacks which they had to cover the ice, and put them over their heads to keep from burning to death. On the whole, the display was a failure, or at least, I was in taking charge of it.
We used to have lots of amusement in those days. We had a large elephant called "Babe". In travelling over the road Babe got wise to the fact that the people in these dead ox wagons going to the circus carried their lunches with them, so she would invariably overtake the wagons, and with her trunk reach over the rear end and investigate the baskets and their contents. Frequently she would have the bread and pie and everything of that kind eaten before she would be noticed by those sitting in the front seat. Even if she were noticed they would always scramble forward and offer no opposition to her taking full possession of everything in the wagon, they being frightened nearly out of their wits. The colored boy who had charge of her and drove her over the road was nicknamed "Shoo Fly". When traveling he would often meet some adventurous fellow, or some one half tipsy who would want a ride on the elephant going toward town. After a little bartering, if he couldn't get half a dollar he would take a quarter for the fare. As a rule the elephant was very nice and quiet about it and would carry his passenger along safely, but just as soon as she would come to an open woods where there was no fence, she would dart under the trees and very soon come across a limb strong enough to brush him off. She would then return to the road and the rider was generally well satisfied as far as he had gone, and without desire for any more of it.
I never got familiar with an elephant, as I always was in fear of them. I remember in Valparaiso, South America, where we were showing, I sent a boy for a bucket of water and cautioned him to go around the elephants. In coming back with a bucketful he made one trip successfully, and it struck me that one of the elephants said, "Now, when he comes through again, you grab the bucket and I'll smash him and we'll get the bucket of water." The boy felt encouraged at getting through the first time without any trouble, but when he came along the next time one elephant reached over and took the bucket, while another elephant struck him in the face with his trunk. Of course, he left them in possession of the bucket of water.
Going south we encountered some very bad roads as well as very bad weather. We lightened up our loads by throwing away a great deal of our stuff, and missed lots of our shows. We had a monkey by the name of "Jeff", a great big fine fellow, not trained at all. After the afternoon show we would hitch up and go as far as we could before dark, then stop, build a fire and sit around it a while. Jeff would be cold, so we would bring him out of his cage and put him on a box or barrel, where he would sit looking as wise as if he could speak. He was as gentle and docile as one could wish. We would have him put both hands on his head, or put both hands on his neck, or sit with his face in his hands. No matter what position we placed him in, he would remain there as long as we would let him sit by the fire with us. But take him away from the fire, and we could do nothing with him.
I remember a trained monkey we had called "Pete." We used to put him on quite a high pedestal so the audience could see him, but always confined with a chain. We would put a pipe in his mouth, a pair of spectacles over his eyes and give him a tin fiddle and a bow. On some days he was very docile, on other days he would fight, and he would fight hard. I remember a boy we had by the name of "Jake" Reilly. We were showing at Allentown, Pennsylvania, on the Fourth of July. Before we opened Reilly had celebrated a little by taking a few drinks. He was dressed in a white linen suit. We had pitched our tents right next to a coal dump, from which the rain had washed down like ink. Pete must have known that Reilly was half full, for about the second trick that Reilly wanted him to do Pete made a jump for him and they had it out right there; first one on top and then the other. When they got through Reilly looked as though he had been rolled in an ink barrel.
Prof. James Howell, who was quite a trainer of animals, was with me for several seasons. This particular season he had an educated pig. I always insisted on his having a small pig, because every pound of weight we could save going over the road meant a great deal, and we utilized the pig's box for a seat. Naturally, he had to have some bars in it so the pig could get plenty of air. A Mrs. Berriman, the mother of two nice Albino boys that I had in the side show, was always playing tricks on Howell. On one occasion while riding over the road they were eating some lunch as they went along and at every opportunity Mrs. Berriman would slip the pig some lunch. The consequence was that when we reached town and Howell had made his grand speech about the wonderful pig, his intelligence, how he could tell the time of day, how he could multiply, subtract and divide, doing all these wonderful things by card, and commenced by asking him the time of day, the pig just looked at him and grunted "Ooff!" And when Howell would throw down a card of course the pig would not notice it but would only repeat his "Ooff!" So the performance wound up by being a great failure. The reason the pig was a failure that day was that Mrs. Berriman had stuffed him so full that he wouldn't work, and Howell had to rack his brain to find out what was the matter by rehearsing him again and again. The truth is that pigs nor any other animals will not work unless they are hungry. I sometimes think this is the case with a great many people, too.
I often look back and laugh at my first experience with snakes. We wanted a snake charmer, so Fulton sent up to Indiana and brought a little girl on to the show to charm the snakes. We got hold of a few garter snakes about three feet long, sent off to Tucker Brothers, the painters in New York, and had them get up a painting representing a lady handling these monster reptiles, which on the canvas looked as though they were fifteen or twenty feet long. Fulton would do what we called "talking" in those days; they call them "spellers" or "barkers" now. But he would stand and harangue the crowd, informing them that they were "just in time to see this brave little woman risk her life by entering the iron-bound den containing these monster reptiles." All the iron-bound den there was consisted of nothing more nor less than an ordinary soap box. She would swing the lid around, dip down into the box, pick up two or three of these gentle snakes, let them wiggle around, and that ended the snake performance.
After a while we sent to New York and brought out some South American and Brazilian snakes, which were not dangerous, but which were generally a good show. There is an old expression, "I guess so and so is living on the fat of his stomach", and I think that is the case with snakes. I have had them live a year without a mouthful to eat. Snakes go blind once a month, at which time they will shed their skin, starting at the nose, blow it off the head and crawl out of it. I never knew a snake to eat anything that it did not kill itself. A snake can eat animals much larger than its own body. Their jaws seem to unlock until they are as large as the body. They first catch the prey, a chicken, guinea pig or a rabbit, then as it works down through the jaws it is covered with saliva. After the food gets beyond the jaws the snake throws a knot between the food and its jaws, then crawls through the knot until it locates what it has eaten in the stomach.
In moving a show the very heavy wagons would leave first, then the animal wagons and the performers, the proprietors leaving last, the lighter teams enabling them to get over the ground faster, sometimes overtaking the heavy wagons. I remember Mr. Cooper was very indignant when he landed in town one morning and a young lady stopped him as he was going along the road with his family, and informed him that her friend owned the show and that there had been some mistake, as she had been left behind. Mr. Cooper asked her what her friend's name was and she replied, "Mr. Cooper." Mr. Cooper was quite angry but he could never find out who it was had given out his name.
It is strange how men will drift into different kinds of business. Mr. Cooper was a horse man, and made a contract with Gardner and Hemming to haul their show through the country, which marked his entry into the circus business.
Mr. Forepaugh's was a similar experience. By the way, Mr. Forepaugh was the first man to place the animals and circus in separate tents. Mr. Wallace, of Wallace Circus of the present time, was a livery stable man. Sells Brothers had a "Yankee Notion" wagon and traveled from town to town with Hemming and Cooper's circus, opening up their wagon in the town square and selling their goods. After two years they started a show of their own, which passed out of existence at their death.
Ringling Brothers, owning the largest show of the present day, started in a modest way and have been very successful, owning the Ringling show, the Barnum and Bailey show and a large interest in the Buffalo Bill show and Sells and Forepaugh show. Mr. Kohl always told John Ringling that they did not advertise their best feature; that be considered any five brothers that could get along without quarrelling was the greatest feature about the show; which is surely true.
Of all the old time circus men that I once knew, all have passed away except W. W, Cole, who is living in retirement in New York with plenty of this world's goods to keep him comfortable.
I think the greatest rider that the world has ever produced was James Robinson. When he walked in the ring to begin his act, with whip in hand, and jumped on the back of his bare-backed horse one was impressed at that minute that he was "it". He had that style and grace and finish to his act that no one else ever had that I have seen or heard of.
It was the same with Blondin, the tight rope walker who crossed Niagara Falls on a tight rope years ago. I have seen nearly all the tight rope walkers, but there was only one great artist - he was Blondin.
James A. Bailey was a remarkable man, the greatest tent showman that ever lived. His proper name was McGinnis. He was a bell boy in a small hotel in Detroit at the beginning of the war. Colonel Fred Bailey was the General Agent of William Lake's circus at that time. Their route took them through Detroit. In those days the agent traveled with a horse and buggy, and one wagon followed carrying the pictorial papers to be posted as they went along. (Now-a-days it requires three separate cars.) Their route took them through Detroit, when young McGinnis made application to Colonel Bailey to take him along. Fred Bailey was accompanied by an assistant by the name of Stephens. The only place they had where young McGinnis could ride was on the water bucket between their legs in the buggy, and away they went. Stephens did not like the idea of bothering with young McGinnis, or Bailey as we shall now call him, and wished Colonel Bailey to send him back to Detroit, but he would not listen to it, and said: "I am going to make an agent of this boy." After the season was over they wintered in Zanesville, Ohio, and Colonel Bailey lived down at Cincinnati. Having business up at Zanesville where the show was in winter quarters, he went up there and found Jimmie, as he called him, learning to be a circus rider. He immediately took him to Cincinnati, as he did not wish him to be a circus performer. In the whirligig of time young Bailey became a regular agent. He told me his ambition was to receive more salary than any other agent ever did, which ambition was realized. Then he had an ambition to become a proprietor and bought an interest in the Cooper and Bailey show. In 1876 he started the show for the West, and along in the middle of the summer decided to take the show to Australia, something never heard of before. He made arrangements to ship the circus and menagerie to Australia and on the 3rd of November, 1876, we sailed for Australia on the steamer "City of Sydney," from San Francisco. We landed at Sydney, went to Melbourne, Adelaide, Brisbane, and from there back to Sydney. Bailey left for America and the show started for India by the way of Java, with me in charge. While I was in Batavia Bailey cabled me to return to Australia with the show, which I did. We showed there again, in Tasmania and in New Zealand. Chartering a sailing vessel there, we sailed for Peru, South America, landing at Callao. From there we went up to Lima, then back down to Valparaiso, Santiago, Montevideo, Buenos Ayres, and around through the Straits up the east coast of South America to New York, having been gone two years. We all landed back home broke.
I wish to mention here our experience in shipping stock. On leaving San Francisco we had very strong iron-bound boxes built for our horses, strong enough to lower into the hold of the vessel, and each horse was kept in his box until we arrived in Australia. Afterward, instead of carrying these large separate boxes, we built stalls on board the vessel; later we only lashed poles between them, and finally, coming from Buenos Ayres to New York, we only covered the ballast in the hold with dirt and turned the stock loose down there, just the same as if they were in pasture, and they all came out without a scratch.
One day when we were sailing along quietly, every one taking his ease, a darkey came running up from the hold saying: "Master, is it all right; those varmints running loose down there?" They couldn't understand what he meant, but come to find out, one of the tigers had gotten out. The darkey had turned pretty nearly white, he was so frightened. After landing in America, James Reiley, the printer in New York, since dead, offered to sell Bailey what was then called the "Howe's London Show", but an agreement was made whereby they consolidated that show with the few wagons, horses and traps that we had left from our South American season, and they started out upon a very successful season. I did not go with them that season. Friends of Bailey saw an opportunity for a greater consolidation, and they consolidated Barnum's shows with these shows, which venture proved a great success. Fortunately, an event occurred that only happens once in a lifetime - the birth of a baby elephant, which was a great feature. Previous to this, Bailey had told me that if he ever got hold of Barnum's name there would never be a tent made large enough to hold the people, and when he did his words were made true.
He was the most untiring man I ever knew, and as honest as the day was long. I often thought he would retire, and his health at one time did compel him to do so for one season, but he became restless and soon decided to go back into the business again. He often told me he would never try to retire again, but would die in the harness, which he did at too early an age.
I cannot make a better comparison than to say that anything Bailey put out in the way of wardrobes was of silks and satins, while other men used turkey red and calico. He engaged the best men that the country offered at the heads of every department. He bought Jumbo, and while Jumbo was a great elephant and a great card, he was made so by accident, which shows how some men are fortunate. It was only the excitement worked up in England when they were taking him from the country which made him such a famous animal. After they brought him to this country Bailey, of course, took advantage of the incident and made the most of it. It is a pity that such a man died so young. He had just finished a beautiful home, on forty acres, at Mount Vernon, New York, and had everything the heart could desire.
Dan. Rice was a circus character that I knew. Everybody in those days knew of Dan. Rice and his one horse show. He played ring master and clown, performed, trained horses, and was as well able to protect himself in a personal encounter as any man I ever knew. I remember Mr. Cooper sending him a telegram one year, offering him five hundred dollars a week to go with his show and play clown. His answer was that the amount would not keep him in whiskey. His great country was up and down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, with what they called "Steamboat shows".
John O'Brien was a queer character and owned a very large show at one time. Some seasons he had two or three different shows on the road. I remember one Sunday when we were in Philadelphia, we went up to Frankford where Mr. O'Brien lived, and his first salutation to Mr. Cooper was, "How is that 'round the corner grocery circus of yours?" He had a very attractive daughter and to his great disappointment she married Walter Stuart, who was in the side show, having neither arms nor legs. One season he had three different shows out with names unknown in the show business. I asked him where he found the names. He replied they were copied off of tombstones, so he would not be bothered by the people he named them after.
Adam Forepaugh was a fine man who had been in the butchering business. He got the circus fever and started the finest show of that day, became very successful and accumulated a fortune. I will never forget a funny incident that happened in the cook tent. Clarence Farrell was his treasurer. Mrs. Brown had a daughter named Molly, who was the star rider with the Forepaugh circus. The old lady not wishing to lose her meal ticket, noticed that she and Farrell were getting very much in love with each other, and one day while at dinner, in the cook tent, the old lady and Farrell began cross firing at each other, or, to use a slang expression, getting back at each other with hot words, with Mr. Forepaugh sitting there enjoying it very much. Finally, they began throwing plates at each other, when Mr. Forepaugh thought it was time for him to say something, so he called out, "Here, this thing has gone far enough, by -----, these dishes cost money." When they commenced destroying his property he did not see so much fun in it.
Mr. Forepaugh could never forget that he was a butcher. Whenever he arrived in a town he would get into a buggy and make for the meat market, where his meat was contracted for, and get it up on the ground. Then, instead of paying any attention to the tents with the wagons or animals, he would get his knife and saw and go to cutting up the meat. It gave him more pleasure than anything else. He would say some very funny things. In Syracuse one day when the business was very dull, the dead head tickets seemed to come in very fast, and he would take them in and tear them up savagely. Dan Taylor, the boss canvas man said: "Mr. Forepaugh, don't we want some sawdust?" Mr. Forepaugh said: "By -----! No! We will use these torn tickets for sawdust."
I remember one afternoon down at Texarkana when the circus let out, two darkeys passing along the billboard looking at the circus posters, one remarked "I did not see that", naming several pictures he did not see, when his companion said how could he expect to see it all in one afternoon. That he would have to go along a week to see it all.
Getting out of Louisville one spring we were very short of funds and considerably worried how to meet our bills, hotel accounts, also for feed, tents and lots of odds and ends. I told my partner we would have to appoint ourselves a Committee of Ways and Means. So we started around. The first we got to was the stable man and we began making excuses, paying out money all winter, none coming in, and would he be kind enough to wait for his money until we were out a couple of weeks? He said, yes, etc. Then on to the next creditor and it was all right. From this on we got brave and went to others and told them we would not pay them for two weeks, never asking them if it was agreeable. So in a few weeks we were all paid up and out of debt.
While traveling through Kentucky about my second season, I found it was considered good business to have a bank roll in case of emergency, as I had quite a number of people on my hands, and the horses and outfit to take care of, so I decided to put away four hundred dollars. I had small money changed for four one hundred dollar bills, put them in a manilla envelope, sealed it and decided to carry it between my under shirt and my person. I did not think there would be any danger of losing it because in those days nearly every one wore high top boots. Going about I would feel to see if the money was still there and secure. One night when we were on our way to Carrollton, Kentucky, we had to ferry over to the town, which kept us so late it was not worth while to go to a hotel, so I put the stock in the livery stable, shook down a little clean straw, pulled my boots off and slept for about two hours until daylight. After getting up I missed the envelope, and from that day until this I have no idea whether it was stolen or if it worked out of my boots. I know I didn't get over the loss for quite a long while, as it was the most money I ever had possessed and the greatest loss I had ever sustained.
That same season, out in Kansas, some men came to me one night and told me they had a great curiosity. Some well known desperate character, who had lived in that neighborhood, had been killed, and they offered me his head, which they had cut off and put in a jar of alcohol. I took a look at it, but that was as much as I wanted to do with it.
We would often see some very strange sights and occurrences. Going down through Arkansas we reached the county where there was great excitement and contention over moving the county seat from Dover to Russellville. United States troops were still stationed down in that country in those days, and the feeling was so intense that serious trouble was liable to break out in the circus. Troops were stationed at the entrance and they searched every man that attended the circus for pistols and knives, making a stack of them out in front of the show as large as a hogshead. On coming out each one was handed his weapon, and thus the trouble was avoided.
At one time in Kansas, when they were extending the railroad out west, we showed in the tent city, and Fulton happened to meet a friend there, running a billiard hall. He surely dressed funny. He was wearing a suit of clothes made out of green billiard cloth. That was the only suit I have ever seen made of this material.
The circus boys were always a study to me. As soon as they are in a position that will justify it, they are taken with the diamond fever, and they are never satisfied until they get a diamond or two. In the spring of the year previous to starting out, they would sometimes arrive weeks ahead, the ones that were broke always arriving early. They were sure of a meal ticket, and it was probable their welcome had worn out where they had spent the winter. On their arrival it was never necessary to ask them how they were fixed. If any diamonds were on their persons - necktie, shirtbosom or fingers - they were all right, and had passed through the winter in good shape, but if no diamonds adorned them it was a dead sure thing they were flat broke; because if they had ten dollars they would have a diamond.
We had many strange experiences when we traveled by wagon. On long routes we would have to start early. We often had breakdowns, or some other accident. On Sunday we would have a long journey, sometimes as much as fifty miles. No provision was made for meals, and we had to eat the best we could on the road.
I remember one time when we were in Missouri, it was too late for regular meals. We stopped at a little old hotel and asked the proprietor if we could get some dinner. There were about ten or twelve of us, but he said, "No, I cannot take care of you." We pleaded as well as we could; we told him we were nice people and would be no trouble to take care of, that he would find us all right, etc. He listened to our talk, and in answer to our saying that we were all right, he replied that he had often heard of entertaining angels unawares, but he had never heard of any angels being with a circus. So we drove on, hoping to do better at the next place.
In traveling through the country we had many funny experiences. Often when we wished things for the table, such as eggs, butter, milk, etc., we would go to a house and plead for these things for the people to eat, and nine times out of ten it would be impossible to get them. But I never knew it to fail if we went to a house and asked for something for a sick monkey, he would surely get it, if they had it. That was one thing I never could understand.
I remember one day at Indianapolis, I was sitting behind the candy stand in the menagerie, when a lady came up with a child and asked if we had any drinking water. She was told that we had not. She remarked that the little boy could not drink lemonade. She was assured that he could drink what we had as there was not a particle of lemon in it. The circus boys did not waste lemons by making lemonade out of them.
Colonel Goshen, the Arabian Giant, was a side show curiosity who amused me a great deal with the awful lies he used to tell. He said he had been in the Mexican war and was wounded and taken prisoner in one of the battles. He claimed to be a great shot, and that the Mexicans agreed to release him on condition that he would show them some of his great marksmanship. With nothing to lose and all to gain, he said, they asked him to hit the dial of the town clock about a mile away. He threw the gun to his shoulder, and with just one shot tore the hands off the clock. He used to amuse Kohl and me a great deal when we would ask him how he was feeling, by replying, "Not very well; the lead in me is very heavy today, and I feel it." So it became a by-word between Kohl and me. Often we would say, if we did not feel very well, " The lead is pretty heavy in me today."
Col. Goshen often told us that he could make a salve that would be a great thing in case of another war. That for wounds, etc., it was simply great. Amputate a soldier's leg or arm, apply some of this salve and the part was healed the next day. He said he spoke to Gen. Grant and Sherman about selling it to the government but they said we would never have another war and could not use it.
Colonel always reminded me of Jack Lawton who was not careful of the truth of his statements and at times would believe his own lies. He was down at the steamship docks one day and started up town. Meeting some friends they inquired where he had been. He told them "down on the pier looking at some fishermen landing a whale". They hurriedly left him to see it. He proceeded on up town, meeting more friends and telling them about the whale. The story got ahead of him and the people began to pass him on their way down to see the whale. Crowds passing him all talking about the whale. He stopped, looked back as if in doubt, saying, "I am going back myself by -----. Maybe they have caught one".
Isaac Sprague was a skeleton. He and Kohl did not always get along very well together. Oftentimes after a little tilt between them Kohl would be giving a description of him, his ailments, etc., and right in the midst of it Sprague would speak out and say, "It is not true, the only trouble is they do not give me enough to eat."
At the time I had a museum on the Bowery he was with me and roomed on Houston Street. That was not the finest neighborhood in New York at that time. I should have said before this that Sprague was married and had a wife and three children. On arriving at the Museum one morning he told me that he had been robbed, that some one had climbed over the roof of an adjoining shed, opened the window into his room and stolen his pocket book. He knew nothing of this until he awoke in the morning, very cold and with his wife lying up close to him to keep warm. It developed that, being in the winter, and the thief leaving the window up, both of them no doubt woke up very cold; but how his wife could expect heat or warmth by lying up against him I cannot see, as it would be like lying up against a pair of iron tongs.
One night at Grand Rapids, Michigan, the weather looked very threatening. Show people have a great dread of packing up a wet tent, the rain making it so heavy to handle, as well as very muddy under foot. That night they were working very fast. Kohl picked up Sprague and leaned him up in a fence corner, while they hustled to get the tent down and packed. It was raining, with thunder and lightning, and there stood Sprague over in the fence corner, swearing and calling, but no one paid any attention to him until the tent was put away, when they took him down and put him away in the car.
Jimmy Quigley came to me one day and told me that he had a positive novelty in the way of a performance - a troop of trained chickens. That sounded good to me, so Jimmy brought them down in the morning and they gave a very interesting performance. When night came the chickens went on a strike, as we called it. They wanted to go to roost, and to roost they did go. They never would work at night. Quigley did not know this because he had been training them for months during the day time. So the chicken performers were a failure.
Our stay in Australia was marked with financial success as well as very pleasant business acquaintances with Australian people. They always extended us a hearty welcome. I never was in a country where they were as fond of athletic sports, horse racing, rowing, cricket, etc.
The bathing beaches of Australia had to be guarded by driving piles around them to keep the bathers out of the jaws of the sharks. On going up the coast of Australia on our way to Java we had some strange experiences. At one point, which was the land end of the cable, was a small settlement where people in the employ of the cable company lived, and at the time we were there, living out about half a mile, were quite a number of aborigines. The climate being very warm, they did not require much clothing, but when any of them had occasion to come into the station, they would take a coffee sack, cut a hole in the centre to push their head through, and holes in either corner for their arms, and with this for clothing they were permitted to come in. On their return they would loan it to another native, which usually kept it in use.
At a place called McKay, I remember one black chap coming down to our steamer wearing a brass plate about the size of half the head of a barrel, on the plate being engraved and inlaid with black letters: "Jimmie Strongstink, King of Patrick's Plains". It was hung around his neck by a chain, and was presented to him by some of the boys about town as a joke. But he would call attention to it and point to it with great pride.
There was a Mr. Robinson, a cannon ball performer, whom we heard of in Australia. They used to tell about his wonderful strength, etc. One of his tricks he used to do when he took offence at the people of the music halls where he was working. All the music they had was a piano, so when he was offended in any way, in the course of his act he would use one of the cannon balls to smash the piano, putting it out of business, he claiming it to be an accident.
At one time on our trip along the coast of Australia we had to wait for the tide to come in to get us over a bar. I asked if I could go ashore in the wilds to shoot a kangaroo and the captain consented, saying he would have the whistle blow every little while so I would not lose my direction. After being ashore awhile I shot a kangaroo and dragged it down to the steamer, where it was taken aboard. Everybody had a look at it. The captain finally ordered the men to take it back to the cook. Some of the women folks asked what was to be done with it, and he answered, "Cook it and eat it." They all exclaimed that they wouldn't eat it. He told them that it was very nice. The next night after dinner the captain and everybody were on deck and feeling very happy, when he asked them how they liked the dinner. They said very well. "How did you like the soup?" "Fine!" Then he told them it was kangaroo soup. So they had eaten kangaroo soup without knowing it.
On this trip we stopped at Cookstown, and the only ground we found large enough on which to erect our tent was down at the edge of the water. Our tent extended on the beach and before the performance was finished the tide had come in, and there were our seats standing in the water. It was my second experience of that kind. The other was at Shreveport, Louisiana, when the river was very low, and we erected our tents on the river bottom.
We gave a circus performance at Cookstown. Our troupe was made up of first class artists, but the only music we had was an old fashioned hand organ. It was really comical to see it, but everybody seemed to enjoy it.
In Melbourne, Australia, while we were showing on the banks of the river Yarra Yarra, something happened to the eels in the river, and thousands of them were seen dead, floating on the river. That night, while the people who came in carriages and hacks were in looking at the show, some of the town boys on the outside thought they would have some fun, and I think they put dead eels on the seats of every carriage that was waiting around the show. They had no lights for the carriages and hacks, and when the people came to sit down they found themselves sitting on these slimy, dead eels. I can assure you that things were very lively around there for a while, between the screaming of the women, the swearing of the men and the laughing of the onlookers. The papers in Melbourne said they thought the death of the eels was caused by the noise our steam calliope made.
It was in Australia that I first met Harry Keller, the great magician, who has retired and is now living in Los Angeles.
I also met Will J. Davis in Australia, and I am pleased to say the three of us have been good friends ever since.
We had a funny experience in Australia. In America circus men have no hour for meals. If the outfit is delayed its just hustle until the doors are open. In Australia we were late one day getting in to one of the interior towns and had to hire a lot of extra men to unload and get up the tents. Imagine one day when they all sat down to smoke for half an hour. I thought Mr. Bailey would go crazy. The idea of them taking a smoke when we were so late was a new thing for him.
Before the present plan of cook tents the management and performers stopped in the hotels, the proprietor generally in the best, the performers in the next best, etc. When Bailey & Cooper engaged James Robinson, the rider, to go to Australia he was the only one available so he dictated his own terms regarding price, etc. He got $500.00 per week, work or play, and all his expenses for horses and family. Robinson also insisted on inserting in the contract that he was to be put up in the same hotel with Mr. Bailey at which Mr. Bailey was annoyed. So Bailey to get even with Robinson, stopped at boarding houses all the time. He said he was sure to have the contract framed.
While in Australia we were told about sand storms but never saw one until we were showing up the country from Adelaide when one came rolling along in our direction. When it reached us you could not see two feet and when it passed on then came a cloud burst and soon the streams were out of their banks. Our tents were washed away. Some of the people in the town did not seem alarmed for the saloons kept on doing business though the water was two feet deep in the saloons and the folks standing in the water up to the bar drinking away. We did not get our stuff together for several days.
Jos. K. Emmet was playing in Australia while we were there and he, like many others, once in a great while got too much aboard. It was announced that the Governor-General Sir Hercules Robinson was to attend his performance this night and Emmet was not in condition to appear, and to the surprise of many Emmet's business was capacity afterwards; the curiosity to see the American actor who had the nerve to disappoint when the Governor-General was to attend filled the house as long as he stayed.
We were much amused while in one of the interior towns by a black woman who was carrying her baby in her arms. Our curiosity to see the black baby was great, and looking at it very closely, we discovered that she had mixed some grease and charcoal and given the baby a coating of it. It was a very warm day and the heat of the sun had caused the black grease to run off the baby, which showed the child to be half white. It struck us that the mother was ashamed of having a mulatto baby.
Mr. Cunningham, whom I knew over there, had occasion to bring some aborigines over to the Barnum show the year I was with it. He told me in crossing from San Francisco to Omaha they encountered a snow storm. These natives had never seen snow and of course, were much surprised, and in trying to make Cunningham see that they knew what it was, they gave a motion of the hand as though they were turning a crank. In a short time Cunningham figured out they had experienced turning an ice cream freezer and likened the snow to ice cream.
In going up the coast of Australia the natives would pull out into the ocean in little log dug-outs, come as near to the ship as they felt was safe, and cry out to us to throw them tobacco. The captain always threw them food, such as a leg of mutton or meat of some sort, but they never seemed to care for anything except tobacco.
It was very interesting to see them throw the boomerang. I left that country under the impression that they were the only people who could do it, but I have since seen people employed by me stand on the stage, throw them over the audience and have them return to them with more precision than shown by the Australians.
We get our eucalyptus tree, which is so plentiful in California, from Australia. It is surely a great asset to that country, as it is a fast grower, a hard wood, and of many varieties. The tree sheds its bark instead of its leaves.
While there are many birds with beautiful plumage in Australia, there are very few, if any, song birds.
While in Australia I never heard of or saw a snake.
We found Van Deeman's Land, now called Tasmania, a very fine island. Its name was changed in order to lose its former identity as a penal colony.
New Zealand is a very beautiful land. It has beautiful harbors and attractive cities, with a fine climate.
When in Lima, Peru, on Sunday afternoon Mr. Bailey and I attended the bull fight, never having attended one. After the matador had killed several I remarked to Bailey that I would like to see the bull get the best of it one time and I had scarcely finished saying the words until the bull had the people's idol down on the ground horning him in good shape. The audience in turn applauded the bull.
We chartered a sailing ship named the "Golden Sea" and sailed from Auckland, New Zealand, to Peru, South America, and were for fifty-four days out of sight of land. We were surely glad when we reached Callao.
After being out for about a week on this voyage, the elephant, which I have already mentioned, ate a box of sulphur matches which one of the men had left carelessly near him, and died the next day. We threw the carcass overboard. We learned afterwards that the tides carried it back to Auckland, where the people concluded that we had been shipwrecked. We certainly experienced some very severe weather. We were in one storm in which fourteen ships were lost along the coast, but, luckily, we pulled through.
I remember we had a couple of sea lions on board, and after our fish were consumed we had nothing to feed them. We thought they would only eat fresh fish, but soon found that by running the thread off of a linen spool, which was used to sew on spangles, and letting that fly from the rear of the ship for a couple of hundred yards, the gulls and Cape pigeons and albatross would get tangled up in it, when we would pull them on board and feed them to the sea lions. As the birds had a fishy flavor the sea lions would eat them, and by this means we kept the sea lions alive until we reached port.
The hotels in South America seemed very strange to us. Of course, on account of giving night performances, we were always late in returning to the hotel. We found that the doors opened outward. The hotels were generally located on the second floor, with large steps leading up to them. The porter would sleep at the head of the stairs in a cot, with a strong cord, one end of which was attached to the door knob and the other end to his big toe. Upon any one opening the door the cord pulling on his toe would awaken him.
I have spoken of James Robinson being a great rider in his day, but I must not lose sight of the fact that no man can be a grand rider without a grand horse. Then, when he has a grand horse, he must also have a person who understands it, to follow the horse around with a whip in his hand, "Keeping the horse up ", as it is termed. He must start with the right foot first, as the rider cannot ride him if he is running what is termed "False". Often it is necessary to put rosin on the back of the horse, which sometimes makes the horse's back sore. Naturally, when the rider attempts to throw a summersault, or do some other trick, the horse flinches, which tends to throw the rider off.
I have nothing but good words for circus people. They are kind hearted and always willing to aid each other when in distress or trouble. It is surprising how little drinking is done in the circus.
It is strange how easily a person can get into extravagant habits. I have seen some of the performers go along with the show, earning, I will say to illustrate, one hundred dollars per week, and with no one to provide for, and I have seen those same people go to a man who was earning, perhaps, only forty dollars a month, and borrow money from him; then stay in his debt the whole season.
It is strange how men's lines fall. In the army I was where the military bands and bugles and fifes were always playing. From the army I went into the circus business, where we were always with music. Then I got into a line of business where the principal thing was to make people laugh, to entertain them and amuse them, as well as to instruct them. I don't feel that I ever got a dollar by making people feel badly, and as I look back now, I am much pleased to know it. Sometimes, perhaps, they may not have thought they had the worth of their money, but I think that was because we are all of different minds.
Sometimes we would do things and say things which would make us laugh among ourselves. I remember one time when Kohl and I, and a man by the name of Morton, talked of leasing the Columbia Theatre in Chicago. Morton was managing it at that time with other parties. We began figuring up what the probable expense would be to run it. The three of us agreed along pretty well until we reached the treasurer, who was to be in the box office. Morton told us that a man to fill that position should get a salary of about thirty-five or fifty dollars per week. We didn't think it was worth so much. Morton then began to tell us about the way a man would have to dress; how it would be necessary for him to have a full dress suit, etc., so as to make a nice appearance in the box office. Kohl, in a half joking way and half in earnest, replied that it would not be necessary for the man to have a full dress suit; that, standing up there with his breast to the window, it would only be necessary for him to wear one of those fronts they put on a corpse. I thought Morton would drop dead, and when Kohl and I were alone I think we laughed for full ten minutes at Morton's appearance when he heard Kohl's remark.
Belle Boyd was a Confederate spy during the war, and her name was on the lips of every one in the army. Imagine my surprise one day, twenty years after the war, when she came along and made application to lecture in the museum, which she did in a Confederate uniform.
In Java I had a native brass band of about thirty-five pieces. They could only play one tune, so the music was the same all through the performance; whether we wanted a march, a gallop or a waltz, it had to do for all the acts. The Javanese all look alike, and I couldn't tell one from another when they came to the show, but their instrument was the pass that let them in. For the first few performances it was really amusing to watch them. They would become so interested in watching the act that out of the thirty-five there would sometimes be only about four or five tooting on the horns, and then, when they realized they were not playing, all would commence to blow a blast together.
Our show included Madame De Atalie, a strong woman. When the brass cannon was placed on her shoulders and a man standing on it would fire it off, the Javanese band quit playing altogether, forgetting all about the music. After a time some of them would become tired, having seen enough of the show, when they would hand over their instruments to their friends in the town, so there would remain out of a supposed thirty-five musicians, not more than six or eight of them who could play at all. They had just used the horns to get into the show.
The watering of streets in Java was done by hand. The policemen were armed only with pitchforks. When arresting a person they would simply shove him along by the back of the neck wherever they wanted him to go.
Java is a very interesting country. On arriving at the hotel the manager calls a boy, who is engaged to wait on the guest during his stay. To one's surprise, when the boy appears, he is seen to be a man of about fifty years of age. This waiter attends you at the table and takes care of your room.
The hotels are run on the American plan and all the food is served on larger platters. The waiter will not ask whether or not one wishes any of the different dishes, but takes one after the other and scrapes some of it on the diner's plate. When the meal is finished the plate is heaped up like a derby hat. One will understand why he has served so liberally when it is learned that the food left upon the plate belongs to him. He takes the dishes to the guest's room and scrapes them into a bucket which he has standing behind the door. On returning to his family at night he takes this along for them to eat.
Java belongs to Holland. Gin is free in the hotels. There were no ice-making plants when I was there. Ice was brought around from Boston in sailing vessels, and we paid ten cents a glass for ice water. Smoking was a cheap luxury; one could buy about fifteen cigars for five cents, and they were not real bad either.
At first we were greatly annoyed while lying in bed to see lizards crawling around on the walls and ceilings. Often times they would fall on the bed. This was a sure enough sight, not an imaginary one caused by drinking.
We gave our matinees there at seven o'clock in the morning while it was cool. Funerals take place there at that time of day also. Labor saving devices were not employed on the Island.
CHS webmaster J. Griffin, last modified June 2006.
