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The brisk and bustling person who predominates in the stir and activity, hurry and excitement at the main entrance, is the general manager. Nothing seems to escape his watchful eve and alert ear.
He answers questions innumerable and all-embracing, settles all disputes as to admission, conveys advice, makes suggestions, gives orders, sends lieutenants all over the lot with instructions, sees to it that the crowd gets in safely but without delay, watches ticket-seller and ticket-taker, and is in general active charge of the "door."
His is a very important department of circus life, requiring peculiar natural talents, wide experience, correct knowledge of law and logic, familiarity with affairs, and ability to manipulate men and mayors. The grave responsibilities of the circus are his and they are enough to weaken brain and body.
He is one of the first men off the cars in the morning and his day frequently ends when all his comrades are sleeping with the peace and vigor perfect health and a clear conscience afford. There is no working hour when some one of his multifarious duties does not claim his attention. He is first of all a license and contract specialist. There is nothing about their force or character or price in any part of the country he has not at his finger ends. The pecuniary cost to the show of the privileges it enjoys is entirely in his keeping. His morning is devoted to municipal and county officers and office holders. His long service has made him personally acquainted with many of them in all parts of the country. He belongs to nearly all secret societies and social organizations, which helps his purposes; he distributes admission tickets with lavish freedom where they will "do good;" his instinct tells him how long to entertain and not bore, and his errand over, a favorable impression remains. The result has been the promise of gratuitous official favors and almost invariably a reduced rate for permits.
The policing of the grounds and the protection of the show and of its patrons are in the general manager's charge. In this the circus detective is his ally and adviser, but the burden of results is his. He assures the chief of police of the honest motives of the organization, tells him no thieves or criminals are tolerated, promises that there shall be no disorder or violence on the part of the circus people, and asks in return protection and cooperation. How inadequately the police of many towns can meet the needs of the occasion is told in another chapter of this book.
The circus is subject to a system of plunder, blackmail and robbery en route that is unheard of in any other business. All classes of people seem ready to render a hand in the nefarious game, considering the circus fair prey. It requires the most diplomatic management to extricate the show without financial loss or legal proceedings, and frequently, after all, it must submit to extortion to escape attachments. These are usually levied upon the ticket wagon just before the evening performance or upon a pole wagon as the tents are being pulled down. This sort of legal robbery occurs in many towns. The show may think it is getting off all right when suddenly some accident, some chance injury to property or persons, affords an excuse for a levy.
An amusing incident among the varied pretexts for "hold up" was that we encountered in Biddeford, Maine. The day had progressed without untoward incident and at nine o'clock we thought the chance of legal trouble was past. Then, suddenly, appeared an irate resident, whose home adjoined the lot, with the declaration that our monkey cage cat was his wife's, and with a demand that we return her forthwith. He may have been laboring under a truly mistaken impression, but his subsequent conduct made us believe not, for upon our decided refusal, he made an attachment. The general manager decided then to grant the visitor's claim; the feline wasn't worth legal bother and expenditure. The proceeding cost the circus nine dollars in fees and left the monkeys in mourning. It had been their playful practice to convey struggling tabby to the top of the cage and then hurl her violently to the floor.
I recall the case of a Westerner who insisted that one of our elephants had eaten his pig. Neighbors swarmed to the scene, ready with a tale of having seen the huge beast's trunk encircle the squealing victim and thrust him into a capacious mouth. The owner wanted twenty-five dollars. A canvas-man, sent to investigate, found the porker under an adjacent house.
It is the solution of these and far more serious similar problems, that are a highly important branch of the general manager's work, and upon his management and disposition of them depends much money and annoyance. If the grievance is just and fair, he is ready to make ample financial reimbursement. He expects and receives imposition, but if not carried too far, he settles for cash and gets a full legal release. If the demand made is outrageous in amount, and the claimant stubborn and menacing and uncompromising, then, to his astonished dismay, he is told to carry out his threats as he sees fit. Of course, the delay of a trial or even a hearing would cost the circus thousands of dollars, but the general manager has provided against this contingency. In every town the circus exhibits, there, too, is the representative of the American Surety Company, prepared with surety for any amount. The levy is made, accepted with unconcern, financial pledge is given, and the show moves to the train and away. It is all very perplexing and painful to the man with the exaggerated sense of affliction, and he wishes he had been more moderate in speech and demand and not so hasty in action. If an amicable settlement be not made out of court, he finds that the circus will fight him to the bitter legal end.
The general manager appears like magic when there is an accident or injury in which the circus is involved. These are of almost daily occurrence. The lion or tiger may gleefully claw the too far outstretched hand of the curious boy; a horse perhaps kicks or bites; there are runaways and runovers, and a variety of other mishaps extending from cars to lot and from arrival to departure. The general manager always strives to be at the scene ahead of the artful lawyer, who would fain share in the damages. He is apologetic and regretful, offers cash remuneration and receives a written statement of satisfaction. Not until then does he breathe freely; but rest assured that in the transaction he has given no outward indication of his troubled mind and that in the bargain he has made the circus has not come out second best. The show people who watch him daily grow to look on him as ubiquitous.
Many and marvellous are the tales told him with the design of securing free admission. The street commissioner is a permanent applicant. The general manager knows the story by heart. The heavy pole wagons have damaged the highways; a few tickets will wipe out the injury. He generally gets in. The man whose land has been encroached upon by the tents; the policeman with the small army of eager children; the householder who avers the elephant's prehensile trunk mutilated an inviting tree; the alderman's brother; the clergyman who declares he has always heretofore been a welcome guest, and the long list of others with claim to recognition, get a hearing with varying success. The policeman is the most persistent. The circus is in a measure at his mercy and he is insatiable. He becomes a numerous husband and his relatives are legion. It is for the general manager to get quarter and he must go about it without offending; for there may be need for blue-coated service before the day is done, and the show must not lose official favor.
"Plain-clothes" men, the policemen assigned to duty at circus in ordinary street attire, are usually a nuisance. In the smaller towns they have little or no conception of their duties - to watch out for crooks without exciting suspicion – and they hover about the entrance, proud to be on familiar and confidential terms with the management, "passing in" acquaintances, bothering with questions and generally obstructing the smooth progress of things. Their detective instinct and experience are nil, and their questionable value to the circus is confined to knowing the town drunkard and the tough of local notoriety, whose demeanor is sober and demure enough when opposed to the ready rank and file of the show.
Numerous special officers and sheriff's deputies have been sworn in for the occasion. These throw wide their coats, displaying to the ticket-taker their badges of office fastened to suspender or waistcoat, and are permitted to enter the tents. Their presence is needed, the general manager has been gravely assured, to aid in the police arrangements in the contingency of riot or panic. The circus knows, of course, that they are the friends and relatives of the official heads of the town, who manage, with the immunity from payment the badge conveys, to see the show free. In case of trouble or a call for their services not one of them would respond.
When the general manager is in a facetious mood and has an idle moment, we have a stock joke ready for the "plain clothes" arrayed at the door. I bustle up to the ropes, throw open my coat as if revealing a hidden badge of office; the doortender, who enjoys the diversion immensely, nods assent and I pass in. Then the stolid wits of the detectives operate and they move in a body to the serious-visaged manager and whisper that he has been imposed upon, that I am a stranger and not a special officer as I represented, and therefore not entitled to admission. My friend waxes very indignant, I, agitated and crestfallen, am led back to the entrance, lectured sternly and threatened with arrest as an impostor, and ejected. The detective force, glutted with pride over the masterly accomplishment, receives profuse thanks. Later the manager and I have a hearty laugh together.
The canvasmen and teamsters, hearty, brawny fellows, and peaceable unless inflamed with liquor, all respect and esteem the manager and appreciate that, while he is unrelentingly severe when there is an infraction of rules, his discipline is always fair and impartial. He plays no favorites. For profanity and vulgarity he will accept no mitigating excuse. In Johnstown, Pa., we were walking to the lot one beautiful Sunday morning when the loud oaths of a driver attracted our attention. He was directing his foul expressions at a child, who in its curiosity to see the gorgeous wagon, had narrowly escaped being run over. Residents, sitting at windows or on piazzas, were shocked at the vile outpouring. They had never before appreciated the resources of the language.
"Come down off the seat!" sternly commanded the manager, his face grim and hard with anger. "Now, go get your pay. You are discharged."
Then he mounted the red and gilded heights of the vehicle, clucked to the eight horses and drove like a veteran to the show grounds. The staff detective was instructed to see to it that the culprit was not permitted on the lot.
We showed two days in Pittsburg and there was afforded an opportunity to witness the wealth of resource, the courage, the tactful skill and the untiring energy of the man. All went smoothly and serenely the first day. Then came Saturday, when the workmen of the circus received their weekly pay. Across the street from the tents was a combined saloon and hotel, which at once became the focus of dissipation. A wave of inebriety seemed to sweep in upon teamsters and canvasmen. One by one they became extremely drunk and reduced new-found friends to the same condition. By night all order and decency had been abandoned and they stood about the bar or lot shouting and swearing, and making threats with knives or clubs. The season was just beginning and time had been too short for a discovery and weeding out of the tough characters among the help. The owner was making a hurried visit to his home, three hundred miles distant, and the general manager met the critical situation alone. How he managed to conduct the performance, to break camp with the few employees who remained staunch and true, and to load the trains and move out of the city, none of our feeble brains could ever grasp. But he accomplished it without serious delay, without an affray of consequence, and with a finish and skill which veiled from the public the fact that anything out of the usual was happening. Before the start from the railroad yard there was a careful and systematic count of men, stock, wagons, baggage and apparatus, for some of the drivers, continuing the debauch, had deserted their horses and vehicles in front of saloons. All were finally rounded up. The transgression cost seventy-five men their positions, and for the rest of the season other circuses marvelled at our state of grace and piety.
The general manager is rich in worldly possessions and free with cash and credit. When one's supply of money runs short, from " butcher" to man of high rank, he turns for temporary relief to his more fortunate and more provident comrade. His wants are always supplied, except in isolated instances, for not to pay a just debt entails the blight of universal condemnation and loss of confidence and honor. It is in winter, when the general manager is hiding from mankind in a Florida shelter, that the demands come fast and urgent and never pass unheeded. For then it is that the thriftless circus man, who knows no business except that which warm weather provides, is in a pecuniary predicament. The manager's bounty extends to his friends in all parts of the country, but a few weeks of the next season sees it returned to him with grateful appreciation.
The conquest of the Old World by the Barnum & Bailey circus will live forever in the stirring history of tented organizations. It made the enterprise an object of international interest. There is now practically no country in the world that does not know the Barnum & Bailey Show and recognize that it and its ally, the Forepaugh & Sells Brothers Show, enjoy a happy, undisputed monopoly.
As America reaches out for commercial predominance, so the American circus challenged competition abroad, and foreign rivals quivered and shrunk. England found and felt herself laboriously behind hand, and other nations yielded preeminence. For five years crowned heads showed gracious appreciation and vied with one another to express generous sentiments of welcome and appreciation to the American envoy, and that period records uniform success and not a single failure. This profound impression made in other lands is one of the proudest achievements of American sagacity, resolution and ambition, and directly stimulating to the pride of all Americans, whose great good fortune it is now that the Barnum & Bailey circus has returned to contribute to the happiness of humanity here.
Few, probably, appreciate the tremendous undertaking involved in this picturesque invasion, and the difficulties met and overcome. All methods had to be adjusted to new surroundings and new demands. The manner and matter of work bore no resemblance to those here. The extent and nature of changes affected all departments of the organization. Every inch of the territory travelled was unfamiliar. Languages and people were strange. Yet the campaign was instituted without prolonged preparation and with no twinges of misgivings, so accustomed was this great circus to demonstrating possibilities and so perfect was it in planning and directing. It can truly be said that it caters for the world. A volume in itself would be required to tell the story of how the Barnum & Bailey circus, in the stern test of competition, forced all others into insignificance during its travels abroad. Incidents grave and gay, of life, action and adventure, crowd the history of those five years. The then Prince of Wales, now King Edward VII., I recall, after witnessing several performances, sent the personal message: "The circus is justly deserving of the title ' The Greatest Show on Earth', for it not only is certainly the greatest amusement enterprise ever organized, but also the most wonderful example of organization and discipline one can hope to see."
Even more signal an honor was that conferred by Emperor Francis Joseph I., during the visit of the circus to Vienna. Following an afternoon under tents, his delighted imperial majesty sent to Mr. James A. Bailey, managing director, accompanying a letter of thanks for his entertainment, a gold cigar case, relieved on one side by the royal crown and the initials " F. J. I." Twenty-five scattered brilliants enhanced the intrinsic value of the gift. Later the royal household requested a complete set of circus lithographs for the Emperor's library.
The transportation of the show from London to Hamburg is noteworthy from the fact that it was the first time railway cars sixty feet long had ever been loaded on board ship without being taken apart. And they were taken from the vessel and deposited on the tracks in Germany just as they were removed from the tracks in London, wheels and all, and were the first English-made cars ever operated in the Kaiser's domain. The Barnum & Bailey circus was the first tented institution allowed to spread a canvas in Berlin. After a rigid examination of the show in every detail, the officials signed permits with the frank expression that they had no apprehensions of disaster in any form. The city is the headquarters of the German army, and the discipline, precision and business common-sense of the circus civilians so impressed the principal officers that they were in constant attendance. On the evening of departure members of the General Staff witnessed the breaking of the encampment, taking copious notes, while another body put in the night at the scene of embarkation at the railroad yards.
Tributes like these to the enterprise and energy and superior skill of the American circus men covered the almost continuous period of their foreign wanderings. Of difficulties overcome, there was one whose extraordinary character I feel certain would have caused any other than Mr. James A. Bailey, the director of the Barnum & Bailey circus, to have abandoned the project entirely. A few days before the opening of the show in the Olympia in London, the County Council decided that more precautionary fire measures were necessary, and ordered the erection of a giant curtain of iron and asbestos, to cover one entire side of the vast amphitheatre. The required outlay was $90,000, but Mr. Bailey, not a bit dismayed, went at the task with characteristic vigor and without delay, and accomplished it with a celerity which filled the English mind with astonished wonder. Moreover, when it came to hanging the tremendous area and the workmen in the employ,of the firm to whom the contract had been given feared to go aloft, he called his own picked body of employees to the scene and they did the job without friction or flinching.
I can truly say that no one is more honored in circus history than Mr. Bailey, the presiding head of this remarkable institution. It would be a grateful duty to the world to rescue from self-imposed oblivion the events connected with his life, but the unusual modesty of the man forbids. While others boast and glorify themselves, the admitted "king of circus men" chooses personal obscurity. All publicity attaching to his movements is strangely distasteful; he wants the world to know and approve only the enterprise to which his life has been devoted, and which his sagacious efforts have solely borne to supremacy. No imagination save his was once bold and radical enough to grasp the future, and no other prophet could foretell the rapid and enormous development of the American circus.
Only his old-time intimate associates know how visionary were once accounted the broad methods which have won him success, and the rebuffs and hindrances of no common sort which were his experiences. Through them all he worked ceaselessly, patiently, resolutely, with the courage and confidence of personal conviction, resigning personal convenience, ease, social enjoyment and other valued privileges, and the result has marked him as the one dazzling genius of the profession. To his employees he is like a father who sympathizes with his children in their varied circumstances of joy and sorrow. His benevolences are large-hearted but judicious, and his integrity of the rugged, old-fashioned type. He has shed a lustre upon the profession which has won universal recognition and admiration, and little wonder that his return to his native land, his rightful circus heritage, has been hailed with a burst of cordial welcome and enthusiasm.
"The size of the tent was rather staggering at first, as the greatest length of the oval is nearly two hundred feet, and standing at one end it is impossible to distinguish with the naked eye the features of those on the crowded seats at the other end."
I quote the foregoing paragraph, taken from a newspaper of 1877, as illustrating by comparison the physical magnitude of the circus of to-day. Our "big tent" could stow away in its capacious depths half a dozen of the canvas arenas of twenty-five years ago, and our "menagerie top" covers more area. The scanty side-show cloth, an insignificant detail of the encampment, is not much smaller.
Is the modern circus, with its bewildering array of man and beast marvels, an improvement from the public standpoint over the old-fashioned show wherein the clown predominated and one ring sufficed ? Has there come with the expansion more skill and hazard of performance? Do patrons relish the relegation to oblivion of some time-honored circus accomplishments, and the interpolation of vaudeville? The circus performer of former days will invariably answer these interrogations in the negative; the circus owner and manager makes no hesitation in disagreeing on all points, and his conviction is that backed by the weight of ticket wagon receipts. Whatever the artistic merits and the drifting away from things traditionary, certainly the opportunities for profit have multiplied with the years. Every thing favorable, there is no more wonderful a money-maker than the modern circus. Despite frequently expressed longing, it is not likely that the public would receive with favor the return of the old-fashioned circus, no matter how alluring the performance in its meagerness. The case of the small circus of to-day bears this out. It is ignored if a "big show" is headed its way.
After retrospective talks with many old performers I cannot discover that the modern generation of athletes has kept pace with the progress of the business department of the circus. There are few legitimate circus feats executed nowadays, so far as I have been able to learn, which were not equalled in years gone by, and there are instances where supremacy is yielded to the men now retired; many of their accomplishments have not been duplicated. I cite the case of George Bachelor, who was accustomed to single somersault over ten elephants, and of "Bob" Stickney, who without apparent exertion turned two somersaults in his flight over twenty-three horses. Oscar Lowanda has been the only person to improve materially upon former equestrian acts. He succeeds in doing a back somersault from the haunch of one moving horse to that of another. In aerial performances few new individual feats are in evidence. The strides forward seem solely in the employment of more persons in a single act. The Potters perform ten in number, an unheard-of achievement a few years ago. The strain of planning and successfully carrying out the act, however, is so intense that the head of the troupe had decided to partially disband it when I talked with him.
The life of the circus man of to-day is a continual round of ease and luxury as compared with the strenuous, haphazard existence of his brother of a few decades ago. The memory of this generation can shed no light on the origin of the circus in this country, and there is no literature definitely disclosing when the first travelling organization reared its canvas. Seth B. Howe was the first circus owner of note. "Bob" Stickney, still a vigorous reminder of former days, remembers the stories told of that time by his father, Samuel Peck Stickney, who was a member of the company. The advance agent made his lonely journey on horseback. His saddle-bags bulged with circus "paper," which he tacked wherever his judgment suggested, for it comprised a welcome addition to the community's supply of reading matter. He was a smooth-tongued, polished man of the times and full of wonderful tales of the approaching circus. Curiosity and excitement were at high pitch when the caravan put in its appearance a fortnight later. The line halted on the outskirts of the town, uniforms were donned and a parade made to the scene of exhibition. This was frequently in the spacious yard of the local tavern. The centre pole of the tent was cut daily in the abounding woods, trimmed and dragged into place. The tavern provided chairs and the church was drawn upon for benches. An extra charge was imposed for the use of these resting places. Admission to the circus carried with it only the privilege of viewing the performance standing. At night, candles furnished illumination.
Trained horses and ponies composed much of the show. The feats of the equestrian were amazing in their daring, to the onlookers of that period. The ringmaster made a preliminary announcement. The rider, he proclaimed, would stand erect on a horse in full motion! This accomplished, amid wild enthusiasm, the hero of the hour balanced himself on one foot and concluded by playing a violin as the horse cantered around the ring. This was before the broad saddle pad had gone out of circus use. The rider who first jumped over banners was given a fabulous salary, and he who dared plunge through the familiar paper balloon became rich in a year.
The night overland journeys of these old-time circuses were full of dire peril. Highways were dark and dreary and places of pitfalls. Each circus wagon bore a nickering candle torch, showing the route to the driver behind. Soon menageries were added, and then an elephant. Hannibal, the "war elephant," was one of the first. There were few nights when his services were not required to extricate a wagon from mud or gully, or to urge it up some steep incline. The old Van Amburg circus transported a giraffe, a mournful beast which few modern circuses are possessed of. Wood choppers went ahead to clear the road with their axes and permit the passage of the high cage. Then came, in order of time, the side-show, with the free exhibition in front - wire-walking, a balloon ascension, a high-diving performance, or feats on the "flying" trapeze.
Probably the most noted knight of the sawdust ring was Dan Rice, who died in Long Branch, N. J., on February 22, 1900, at the age of seventy-seven years. His history was practically that of the circus - the real old-fashioned circus - in America. Daniel McLaren, his father, nicknamed him Dan Rice, after a famous clown he had known in Ireland, and the name clung to him. He touched the heights and depths of circus luck, making in his life three independent fortunes and losing one after another. He died comparatively poor. As acrobat and later clown, he travelled every portion of the United States and extensively in Europe. He first appeared as a clown in Galena, Ill., the home of U. S. Grant, in 1844, and from that time his popularity as a circus clown increased amazingly. He retired in 1882, a hale old man of sturdy frame and resonant voice, whose hearty handshake it was a pleasure to feel.
Bobby Williams, Sam Lathrop, Sam Long, Joe Pentland, Billy Kennedy, Jimmy Reynolds, William Wallett, Frank Brown, Nat Austin, Herbert Williams, Dan Gardiner, Bill Worrell and Tony Pastor were other noted clowns and "Shakespearian jesters" of his day, and most of them are hale and hearty to this day. A press agent of their time, not behind his lavish-languaged modern brother, called attention to this group as "jolly, jovial representatives of Momus, whose fund of wit and humor has given them the proud titles of America's greatest wits and punsters; scholarly, refined and every one fit to grace the proudest court as its greatest jester. Merrier men within the limits becoming mirth live not upon man's footstool - this greatest earth."
In the old days of the clown, when one ring furnished satisfying enjoyment, his was a very important and conspicuous part of the performance. His efforts of entertainment occupied the sole attention of the audience at times, as with voice or action he provided fun and folly. It was as a songster that he was at his best. Perched on a stool in the centre of the ring - thrown up of soil and not the portable wooden, forty-two foot diametered affair of to-day - his vocal enlivenments were a source of much laughter and merriment. Here is a type of the old-time clown song, which none who ever witnessed one of the shows will fail to recall:
I don't mind telling you,
I took my girl to Kew,
And Emma was the darling creature's name.
While standing on the pier,
Some folks did at her leer,
And one and all around her did exclaim:
Whoa, Emma! Whoa, Emma!
Emma, yon put me in quite a dilemma.
Oh, Emma! Whoa, Emma!
That's what I hear from Putney to Kew.
I asked them "what they meant?"
When some one at me sent
An egg, which nearly struck me in the eye.
The girl began to scream,
Saying, "Fred, what does this mean?"
I asked again, and this was their reply:
Whoa, Emma! etc.
I thought they'd never cease,
So shouted out "Police!"
And when he came he looked at me to sly
The crowd they then me chaffed,
And said "I must be daft,"
And once again they all commenced to cry:
Whoa, Emma! etc.
An old man said to me,
"Why, young man, can't you see
The joke?" And I looked at him with surprise.
He said, "Don't be put out,
It's a saying got about,"
And then their voices seemed to rend the skies:
Whoa, Emma! etc.
After a round of jokes and other buffoonery at the expense of the ringmaster, who retorted with threatening crackings of whip, he was ready with more melody. Sometimes he appealed to the tender emotions. "Baby Mine" was a favorite. It ran thus:
I've a letter from thy sire,
Baby mine, Baby mine;
I could read and never tire,
Baby mine;
He is sailing o'er the sea,
He is coming back to me,
He is coming back to me,
Baby mine, baby mine;
He is coming back to me,
Baby mine.
Oh, I long to see his face,
Baby mine, Baby mine;
In his old accustomed place,
Baby mine;
Like the rose of May in bloom,
Like a star amid the gloom,
Like the sunshine in the room,
Baby mine, Baby mine;
Like the sunshine in the room,
Baby mine.
I'm so glad I cannot sleep,
Baby mine, Baby mine;
I'm so happy I could weep,
Baby mine;
He is sailing o'er the sea,
He is coming back to me,
He is coming back to thee,
Baby mine, Baby mine;
He is coming back to thee,
Baby mine.
The clowns of the modern circus must needs possess, they confidently assert, more vivacity, wit and observation than their predecessors. The magnitude of the spread of canvas almost entirely precludes the possibility of effective oral utterance, and their drollery is confined to gesture, movement and posturing. This dumb acting places the funmaker at a decided disadvantage, and the problem of creations that will meet public favor is one requiring unusual natural aptitude. Frank Oakley ("Slivers"), fitted by nature for the part, sprang into wonderful public favor in a season.
In the grateful shade of the "big top," during the period between the two performances, I sat one afternoon with an old-time performer whose age keeps him from the ring, but the memory of whose famous feats retains him in the employ of the circus. The seductive fascination and charm of the life has never dulled within him, and until accumulated years finally forbid, he declares he will be a member of the organization. He was in a reminiscent mood and began:
"In the old days I remember a feature of our circus was Nettie Collins's lilt 'Dance me on Your Knee.' The band played the flowing melody, and she bowed and waved as she sang on a little platform in the ring. It made a great hit for several seasons. Here's how its lines went, and many an old-time circus goer will call them to mind:
When I was a little girl and full of childish joys
I used to play with all the girls, but oftener with the boys;
And with them climb the apple trees, and races, too, we'd run,
I'll tell you, oh, 'twas then, my boys, we had such jolly fun;
But now those days are past and gone, no more them I will see,
If I could only call them back, how happy I would be.
You may dance me, darling, dance me,
You may dance me on your knee.
If there's such a man among you
As can recommend himself to me,
Be sure he's brave and strong enough
To dance me on his knee.
"Then 'Dick' Turner, comedian, in bucolic attire, would stand up in a conspicuous place in the reserved seats, gesticulate emphatically and shout: 'I'll dance you on my knee, girl.' Most of the audience would be deceived as to his identity, supposing him to be a rural visitor to the show, and there was great hilarity. 'Come down here, then,' the ringmaster would respond, and amid shrieks of laughter 'Dick' would make his way to the ring, where the fun continued. Oh, it was easy to entertain in those simple old days!
"'Al' Meaco was a favorite with his songs and jokes, He was one of the first general clowns, and did a drunken act on stilts that convulsed the house, but was a hazardous performance, withal. One of his idiotic stories which afforded great amusement in the country districts was: ' I've got a beautiful girl. Went to see her the other night. Met her on the woodshed. Oh, the tears I would shed for her and the tears she would shed for me would be shed more than the wood shed would shed for me.' Then he did some fancy steps, the band played and everybody laughed. What a ghastly proceeding with the modern circus!
"'Al' did an act with his brother 'Tom' which was considered a marvel then. 'Al' swung head down from a trapeze, attached his teeth to a strap which belted his brother and whirled him in circles. The act is an old one now and vastly improved upon. I remember once 'Al' forgot himself, opened his mouth to speak to 'Tom' and the latter revolved forty feet through the air to the earth below. He broke four ribs and a collar bone.
"Here's another joke which one of our clowns got off with success. Nowadays it would be received with grief and shame. ' I had a girl named Salf Skinner. I called at her house one Sunday. She wasn't home. Her mother said she'd gone to church, I started out looking for her. Went into the church and walked down the aisle, but didn't see her. The minister spotted me.' Are you looking for salvation?' he says. 'No,' I says, 'but I'm looking for Sal Skinner.' The audience howled with mirth.
"Sam Lathrop used to make mock political speeches, with flings at the politicians in the town we were playing. The best received of his assortment of jests was this one, given as the ring horse halted: ' Well, you stop, the horse stops, the music stops, I stop, but there's one thing nobody can stop.'
'"What is the one thing nobody can stop?' followed the ringmaster.
'"Why, a woman's tongue!'
"The ringmaster, in apparent retaliatory discomfiture, would crack his whip at the legs of the clown, who uttered 'Ouch!' as if in pain, and the onlookers thought it all very funny.
"Trained animals formed an important feature of our programme, and we gave exhibitions which have not been repeated since. One of our men drove a troupe of buffaloes in tandem line around the ring. ' Grizzly' Adams had performing bears, a dozen of them, and never was greater courage required. Dick Sands put a herd of camels through tricks and raced with a hippopotamus. Dan Costello showed the full-blooded Spanish bull, Don Juan; and John Hagenbeck taught a company of zebras difficult paces. George Arstinstahl, I think, was the first to group different animals. He bunched elephants, bears, lions, tigers and dogs before astonished audiences without ever a suspicion of fight." Three noted old-time circus riders, whose fame was world-wide a few years ago, are members of our organization this season, assisting the management. They are "Bob" Stickney, whose equestrian and acrobatic feats are still fresh in the minds of all circus goers, and Frank J. Melville and William E. Gorman, who were comfortable on any part of a horse's body, barring, perhaps, the ears. They will live forever in the annals of the circus. Timothy Turner was the first to somersault on a horse's back. The thing was done in the old Bowery Theatre in New York City in the '50's. Levi J. North, who was performing in an opposition theatre, heard of the accomplishment and successfully imitated it the same night. John Glenroy followed with a somersault - performed without the presence of the pad then in general use and which his predecessors had alighted upon. Then James Robinson, creator of many bareback tricks, duplicated the act. Charles Fish, Frank Pastor, Romeo Sebastian and David Richards were other celebrated circus horsemen of that period. Billy Morgan inaugurated the now common mule riding act.
Mrs. Walter Howard was the first circus equestrienne of public prominence. Sixty years ago, her simple performance fairly dazed spectators. She gave lessons in her art to many of the later woman riders and made a sensation by being the only woman at that time to cast herself through paper balloons. Alice Lake was a remarkably skilful horsewoman. Of the foreigners who came here, Madame Tounaire was easily the best performer. Her daughter, Molly Brown, was the first woman in this country to somersault on a horse, and few women since have accomplished the trick. Mrs. William Roland, Madame Dockrill, Adelaide Cordona, Louise Rentz, and Pauline Lee attained prominence. Linda Jeal was famous for several years and taught her niece, Dallie Julian, seventeen years old, the somersault.
The wily press agent's method of gaining publicity for his show varies with the size and moral disposition of the cities in which he finds himself. In executing his publicity-provoking designs in populous centres there is in him no serious purpose to avoid an arrest. In the smaller cities he must heeds exercise his ingenuity to prevent the action of the law. The notion that showmen are moral delinquents is firmly settled in rural communities, especially in the East, and if in the excess of his enthusiasm to bring to wide attention the presence of the circus the press agent commits what an obdurate policeman considers a public wrong, and there follows an appearance before a magistrate, resentful townspeople look on him and his companions as lawbreaking intruders, rudely defying the local government, disturbing the peace, and ready, perhaps, to commit some more flagrant offence. A clergyman may make the incident a text of protest. It is bound anyway to arouse animosity and have a calamitous effect.
But in New York, Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia and cities approaching them in character and size, the standing of the circus is affected neither one way nor the other by an ingenuously-explained legal interruption, and the notice it attracts if it has unusual features shows gratifyingly at the box office. It isn't always easy to accomplish the thing. "Splash" Austin, whose first name, Paul, was a boyhood memory, was the high diver with one of the big circuses. He performed for the free edification of the crowd which gathered on the lot after the parade, which is the side-show harvest time. Later he was one of the features of the show itself. "Splash" was always at the press agent's service. The circus arrived in Chicago on Sunday for a week stand, and the press agent was ready with an elaborately planned venture. He and his aquatic accomplice drove to Lincoln Park bridge, where, by a coincidence which is not remarkable, a band of newspaper men were in waiting. The performer shed a few garments and plunged headforemost from the railing's height into the water. The feat was a simple one to the skilled acrobat, but its appearance was hazardous and spectacular, and the reporters marvelled and interviewed at length. The beaming press agent's ingenuity had not been exhausted. Two frowning policemen intervened. Their pockets, the press agent alone knew, bulged with circus tickets. They were accommodatingly indignant; the law had been violated. "Splash" was put under arrest, and the party started in a body for the station house. On the way, the delighted author of the proceeding secured permission from "Splash's" captors to stop at a drink dispensary. The bluecoats waited outside while the circus man entertained. All were thirsty and happy, and the newspaper guests, in their innocence, cheerful over the unexpectedly "good" story which had developed. They have never known they tarried so long that one of the policemen called their host outside and whispered that there must be haste, two posts had been left vacant too long already, and they were half inclined to throw up the whole thing.
The day was eminently successful from the circus standpoint. The newspapers told at great length of the accomplishment of the daring dive and its tragic ending, and the public curiosity to see the performer added materially to receipts. And best of all none of the reporters was so wanting in human charity as to reveal that, at the police station, the captain had refused to hold the prisoner, remarking grimly that no offence had been committed; and that the press agent, searching frantically through the book of ordinances that his scheme not miscarry at the end, had found that a penalty attached to the crime of disturbing the fish in the lake, and patient "Splash" was locked up on that charge. A small fine was promptly paid next day.
Read one press agent's circus literature and begin to understand that the resources of the language are less limited than you suppose. He is the world-renowned alliterator of the show business. He is better known in the profession than Shakespeare, although Shakespeare never did much for circuses. He has no acknowledged rival in the successive use of the initial letter. The advance matter which he sends abroad for his "moral" enterprises where presumably only moral people are admitted, forms an extraordinary narrative.
During each winter he writes, writes, writes, writes, whether he feels right or not, but the annual incessant drain does not subtract from his elaborate eloquence. He tells of "real and royal races for reward, huge heroic hippodromes, genuine contests of strength, skill and speed, superb struggles for success and supremacy between the short and the stout, the tall and the tiny, the fat and the frail, the mammoth and the midget, the adipose and the attenuate, the large and the little, the massive and the minute, the swift and the slow; elephants in ponderous, pachydermic progress, camels in cross and comical cantering, horses in hurricane hustling for home, donkeys in deliberate, dragging, droning pace, monkeys in merry meanderings on meek and mild mules, whippets in whirlwind dashes swifter than a horse, runners in record reducing running in rivairy, ponies in carts with clowns for conductors, and the celebrated charioteer contestants of the Coliseum."
Proceeding in his product, after this gaudy prologue, this adjective-millionaire is impressed with the "astral array of aerial artists. The very air is filled with their flying forms, describing the most intricate figures, far flights, swallow-like sweeps, gymnic gyrations, castings and catches, revolutions and returns, swings and somersaults, leapings and lightnings, soarings and sailings, altitudinous ascensions, diving descensions, keeping the dizzy heights of the lofty canvas dome alive with activity. Never before have the satiated public seen a spectacle to so surely stir their sluggish blood, arouse their admiration, excite their enthusiasm and command their applause."
The clowns appeal to him. As phrased by him they are "a phenomenal phalanx of phantastical, phuriously phunny phellows; silly and sedate, short and stout, smile securers set scot free; loyal legion of long and lean laugh liberators let loose. These extraordinary experts in the creation of laughter have invented this year a new, novel, unique, irresistibly comic, excruciatingly funny and simply surprising series of skits, scenes, screaming sallies and silly situations."
Danger is "defiantly defied by one audacious aerial athlete, whose deed is daring, desperate and death deriding, a fearless, fearful, fascinating feat, the veritable pinnacle of perillous performances."
"Whirling Wonders of the World on Wheels" are "cycling champions in clubs and coteries, in single, double and tandem teams, in wheeling fads, fancy and freakish, in pictorial and picturesque peripatetic posturings."
Proceeding, he describes the elephants as "mountains in motion, ponderous and perspicacious pachyderms, in marvellous, military manoeuvres."
The districts remote from New York are assured that "every element and entity that enthused, excited and enthralled in the enormous Madison Square Garden will be a part and parcel of the prodigious performance." And as a "super-splendid spectacular suggestion of greater, grander glories yet to come, early in the forenoon of the day of exhibition there will pass through the principal streets of the city the most mammoth, monster mass of moving magnificence that ever fell athwart the delighted, gratified, entranced vision of the human eye, the nearly all new free street parade, including an interesting and instructive illustration of the progress of our glorious Republic, showing in correct uniform the soldiers of all American wars; gorgeous tableaux, many massive, open dens, glittering cavalcades of knights and ladies, representatives of the regiment of Roosevelt's Rough Riders, comic clowns and grotesque grimaldis, rollicking rubes and jolly jays, herds of ponderous elephants, droves of camels, floods of music from military bands, etc., etc."
"Some circus owners never appreciate the valuable services we render them," lamented a veteran press agent who has toured two continents under a tent." The ignominious end of my graveyard specialty is an example of the palpable lack of sentiment and business astuteness sometimes disclosed when one least expects it. I observed that almost every town has turned upon the public a circus man of high or low degree, who finally returns to his native spot to pass his last days and be put away in the local cemetery. With the arrival of the circus his career becomes a topic of conversation among the townsfolk and invariably newspaper reporter, hotel keeper or some other resident engaged me in talk about the man. I always unblushingly remembered him vividly and was able, after a few leading questions, to shed much entertaining light upon his circus life, to express well-feigned surprise that the body of so well-known a character was buried there and to express a deep feeling of sorrow over the loss the profession had sustained in his death. Sometimes I would urge the erection of a more suitable monument and reproach townspeople for their neglect.
"Not infrequently the subject of my solicitude had been a four-horse driver, a trombone player or a stake driver. But his professional insignificance was not appreciated by the friends of his life time, my tender expressions made good feelings toward the show, and I let no opportunity pass ungrasped. Sometimes the newspapers quoted my sentiments, and it helped business.
"If I had only been content with my own perfidious eloquence I wouldn't have got disgusted and quit. But I was ambitious and wanted to throw away no chance to boom the show. So, soon, in every town in which I could locate an appropriate headstone, I put on black clothes, a countenance of becoming sadness and marched the band to the graveyard. They played dirges all the way. Frank Morris, the orator of the circus, accompanied us and I had him make an address at the grave. I wrote out three non-committal speeches and there was no dead man whose life didn't fit one or judiciously selected parts of the three. They were all very affecting, and made the women cry. On the way back to the lot we always got a loving ovation. The newspapers spoke approvingly of the proceedings and the residents thought it a great compliment. I was very proud of myself.
"The thing went along swimmingly for several weeks and my motives were never openly assailed, although I think once or twice there lurked a suspicion in the minds of shrewd townspeople that their departed brother wasn't all in life that we represented him. Anyway, I know it brought money to the circus, and I could never understand the boss's secret disapproval. He never offered any sensible, legitimate objection, but I could tell by his manner that he was afraid of some kind of a boomerang finish some day. I persevered aggressively, nevertheless, and was confident he would never get a valid excuse for forbidding us to continue. I knew the experienced old man of affairs was waiting warily for a chance.
"The success or failure of the concert depended in a great measure upon Morris's oratory. When in good voice and spirits, he could fairly glue his auditors to their seats. They wouldn't budge until they had seen all the concert attractions about which he had so insinuatingly roared. So it was through him that the boss found opportunity to base a complaint, put an end to my practices and lower my estimate of his business intelligence. One unlucky day Morris caught a bad cold. He was hoarse and depressed, and his announcement was received with little favor. The concert attendance was small and the head of the show was quick to seize his advantage - and strike at my burying-ground plot.
"'Morris got that cold in one of your graveyards,' he addressed me, reproachfully, 'and we'll have to give him a rest from this double duty. Let those fellows rest in peace in their graves after this!"
"I left the show a month later, disgusted and discouraged, and found a place where my fine art received support and confidence and gratitude."
In the Southern States several years ago a circus now disorganized was in high popular favor, and it was with great difficulty and at heavy expense that the "big shows" of to-day succeeded in convincing the population that its confidence had been misplaced. Finally, however, they were welcomed and accepted. The colored public was the last to forsake its cherished tradition.
An advance press agent strolling past the flaring billboards announcing the approach to an Alabama town of the metropolitan organization he represented, observed an aged, tottering darkey, supported by a small boy of his race. They were scrutinizing the posters.
"Read it to me, son," directed the old man. "What dey say about dis new circus?"
The lad stared ruefully at the polysyllabic collection and began slowly: "Of all magnificent and master consolidations of rare, varied and illustrious menageries, circus and hippodrome possessions and possibilities this is greatest. Sept. I, ---."
"Dat's enough, my boy, dat's enough," interrupted the attentive old listener, shaking his head grimly and chuckling, "'cept one, eh, 'cept one. I know dat one. It's de circus I's been seein' for years. Dis false show don't git none ob my money."
A free ticket, produced on the spot, helped to shake his faith, but history does not record whether the performance made him a thorough convert.
Adam Forepaugh was as ready a man in an emergency as circus life ever developed, and was noted in the business for his skill in avoiding legal entanglements. A resident of Auburn, N. Y., does not know to this day how neatly the showman escaped a claim for damages at his expense. The man had been drinking heavily, and in the menagerie tent before the performance had begun offered Bolivar, an elephant noted for his size, a bottle filled with whiskey. The smell of the liquid always infuriates the beasts. In the spring of 1902, Tops, a usually good-natured elephant, stamped the life out of a man who offended her with whiskey, in Brooklyn, N. Y. The Auburn man was chased away unharmed by the watchful keepers, but Bolivar's small eyes gleamed vindictively and he did not forget. The performance was well under way, and the menagerie tent was being rapidly emptied of its collection of animals and cages, when the man returned. The elephants and camels were lined up preparatory to the march to the cars. The scene was one of confusion and excitement, and the man was not observed by the attendants. Bolivar, however, had his eyes fixed on his persecutor and as the luckless stranger came within reach the big beast trumpeted, struck with his trunk and prepared to stamp upon the victim. Keepers rushed to the spot with pitchforks, subdued the angry elephant and dragged the unconscious form away. An examination showed no serious injury.
Visions of a sheriff, attachment and suit for heavy damages oppressed Mr. Forepaugh at once, but his quick wit suggested a way out of the trouble.
"Take this fellow to the cars," he shouted to "Dan" Taylor, boss canvasman, "and keep him locked there. Don't let him out when he gets his senses again, but bring him to me in the morning in Syracuse."
The bruised and wondering man was taken like a prisoner, according to instructions, before the owner of the show next day. Mr. Forepaugh's attitude was that of a judge on the police court bench. A withering frown was on his face.
"You're a nice specimen to hire out as a driver," he observed severely, "you were so drunk you fell off the wagon. You are discharged. I can't tolerate intoxication with my circus. It's fortunate you were not killed and the horses didn't run away."
The effects of drink and the blow he received had driven memory from the unfortunate man's brain, and as Mr. Forepaugh perceived it a load was lifted from him. He talked kindly but firmly to the penitent before him, dwelt on the evils of intemperance and finally offered him a day's pay if he would promise not to drink liquor for a year. The pledge was solemnly given and, I have been told, the man was ever after consecrated to sobriety.
A good story is told by a former press agent of one of the big circuses of how Samuel D. Clemens (Mark Twain) was out-humored at his home in Hartford, Conn., by an untutored savage. The enterprising agent decided it would be a good advertisement to get an interview between Mr. Clemens and one of the Indians who were then a feature of the show. He called on the humorist and laid the matter before him. Mr. Clemens said that he didn't care for the Indians, he was very busy, and didn't see what Indians had to do with him, anyway.
"Why, the fact is," replied the circus man, "they have heard of you in the far West and want to see you."
Still Mr. Clemens was indisposed to grant the request until the press agent swore solemnly that a big Sioux Chief had said that he would never die happy, if compelled to return to his reservation without seeing and speaking with the man whose fame was world-wide.
"All right," finally assented the humorist. "Have him here at six o'clock this evening, but make it short."
Mr. Clemens sat on the broad porch of his home in Farmington avenue at the appointed time. The house was a fine, long, rambling red brick structure standing near the top of a green breezy hill. To the astonishment of the man he perceived an immense cavalcade of mounted warriors, more than half a hundred of them, tearing along the broad, airy boulevard in a mad exhibition of horsemanship. They swept in on the lawn, breaking down the shrubbery, wearing off the grass and devastating the whole place like a destroying army. A crowd of boys were at their heels, trampling flower beds and shrubs. The spokesman of the party was a mighty hunter who had been previously told that Mark Twain was famous for his slaughter of wild beasts.
The Indian laid himself out for a game of brag. The interpreter, who was in the deal, instead of repeating what the chief said, made a speech of his own, extolling Twain's literary achievements.
"For Heaven's sake, choke him off!" ejaculated the sad funny-man, with blanched face. The cracking of boughs in the choice trees in which the small boys had ensconced themselves were punctuating the Indian's remarks.
The interpreter turned to the red man and soberly remarked that the White Hunter wanted more talk, and on he went. Every time Twain cried for quarter the chief was told to give another hunting story. Finally his Indian vocabulary was exhausted and he quit.
Twain made a brief reply which the interpreter translated into a marvellous hunting yarn. The Chief listened stolidly, and when he got away grunted contemptuously and muttered:
"White man heap big liar."
Adam Forepaugh, in the latter years of his circus life, carried with his show a "Wild West" department. He had Indians, cowboys, Mexicans, Cossacks, Arabs, scouts, guides, detachments of regular soldiers from the armies of several nations and all the others that go to make a spectacular rough-riding production. I remember an amusing incident which illustrates that the veteran tented-amusement purveyor did not allow sentiment to interfere with the ticket wagon end of the business. One of the features of the exhibition was a representation of Custer's disastrous battle with the Sioux Indians under Sitting Bull. The mise ensiene was correct in most particulars, and carried out with fidelity to the subject. It was a graphic illustration of the Indian mode of warfare. The cowboys who participated were true children of the plains who had faced danger in many of its deadliest forms. They were very proud of their records as scouts, plainsmen and warriors.
Along about the middle of the season Mr. Forepaugh picked up a famous addition to the show in Mt. Vernon, O. He was Sergeant George C. Wagner, "representative frontiersman of the past." He came unannounced, looking for a job in the Wild West department, hopping on to the lot like a clumsy bird. A wooden prop replaced the flesh and bone of his right leg below the knee. He explained to Mr. Forepaugh that he was the sole survivor of Custer's immediate command; he had escaped death in the last rally, because at the time of the fight he was riding the plains with a message to Major Reno, seventy-two miles away. During his lonely journey he had encountered Indians, and a poisoned arrow received in the running conflict had necessitated amputation of his leg. He looked the figure of romance and adventure, impressed the circus owner as sincere and was hired on the spot.
As the days went by the sergeant became more and more a conspicuous part of the show. He was a skilful horseman, despite his abbreviated limb, although we all wondered how he was able to hold his seat. His name appeared in black type on the programme, and he always got a tremendous ovation when he scurried on a big bay horse around the hippodrome amid the blare of trumpets, after a highly complimentary introduction by the announcer. After the show, Grand Army posts frequently gave him informal receptions, at which he regaled the veterans with thrilling stories of life on the trail and of incidents of the excitement and turmoil of the unsettled West. He drank whiskey with great freedom and frequency, but it seemed to affect only his tongue. His encounters with red men then became innumerable and his life history was written all over with blood. His knowledge of Custer's campaigns was comprehensive to a detail.
Mr. Forepaugh was mightily pleased with the acquisition, but not so the cowboys, the true sons of the frontier. All the honors of the show were Wagner's and they were jealous. One day one of them suggested a systematic review of their gallant comrade's past in the hope of uncovering an act of cowardice or crime, and the proposition met general favor. They hired a lawyer to investigate and his report was received in a surprisingly short time. The man who had represented himself as cradled amid pioneer surroundings had never been out of the Ohio county in which he revealed himself until the circus adopted him, and he had lost his leg by a premature anvil explosion at a Fourth of July celebration.
It was at this juncture that Adam Forepaugh lost, in a great measure, the respect and admiration of the cowboy fraternity, and proved, as I have observed, that noble emotions and lofty ideals cannot always rise supreme in the circus business. The cowboys, with many strange oaths and threats, presented their damning narrative, confident that the hour of retribution was at hand and that the owner of the show would express sympathy and gratitude for the disclosure. Wagner, they thought, would be clubbed off the lot.
Mr. Forepaugh listened intently to the story of the imposition. He, too, I know, had been as thoroughly deceived as the rest of us, but he wasn't willing the show should suffer.
"What do I care," he remarked quickly, and the expectant faces of the cowboys blanched, "whether the fellow's a fakir or not? He looks the part better than any of you, he's got a wooden leg to confirm it, he's the finest liar under the tent and he's made a big hit. He stays with the troupe."
"Sergeant" Wagner continued as hero, guide, and scout until the season's close, when he disappeared and the Wild West department heard of him no more. The memory of his daredevil appearance, long golden locks floating in the wind, wide sombrero buckskin breeches and protruding guns will not be effaced for many years.
The gnawing fear of attachments is never absent from the circus owner's mind, and with all his mental wealth of resource, acquired by hard experience, he cannot always escape imposition. The sheriff becomes an object of hate and dread. His appearance with a levy, the showman knows, is a portend of extortion. So it is that sometimes he submits to injustice rather than bring about a conflict with the law. Unscrupulous people appreciate this, with its fine opportunity for blackmail, but sometimes the instigator comes as a shock and a surprise to the circus owner and helps to shake his faith in the general honest impulses accredited to human nature.
We were playing the Ohio towns. Business was big, weather fine and everybody was happy. One day a negro preacher, hat in hand and apologetic in manner, approached the owner and explained a grievance. His church edifice, eight miles outside the town, had been posted with our glaring show bills, the congregation was angry and mortified and threatening to go over in a body to another parish, and the church receipts had fallen to nothing. One hundred dollars would set things right. A lawyer who fingered a bunch of legal papers ominously was with the outraged clergyman. The circus compromised for fifty dollars and got a release.
We showed next day in a town fourteen miles distant. Before the parade had formed, the colored minister of the day before again confronted us. He was humble and devout enough in appearance, but the same lawyer was his companion, and a man whom we knew was the sheriff hovered on the outskirts of the lot. The man of religion lamented his complaint of the preceding day without a variation, and concluded the narrative again with a demand for pecuniary balm.
"Why, I settled with you yesterday," the astonished owner retorted. "I gave you fifty dollars, and hold your paper of satisfaction. You have no further claim."
"You see, Mr. Circus man," was the ready answer, "my church is on the county line. Yesterday you paid for desecrating the house of God in Lorain county. But you also profaned our sacred worshipping place in Cuyahoga county. I want damages now for the actual and religious injury done there."
If we hadn't been so prosperous, I know the owner wouldn't have yielded. As it was, the unblushing effrontery of the thing appealed to his sense of humor, and he gave the man another fifty dollars. He told of the proceeding at dinner as a good joke at his expense, and remarked that, after all, he was not sorry to have had the chance to contribute to the finances of the struggling congregation. It might bring him good luck.
About three o'clock in the afternoon he told me to ascertain the whereabouts of the church - he had become curious about the shrewd preacher's affairs - and we would drive out there. The church was about six miles away, through a lonely country district. We lost our way once and the circus owner was not in the best of humor when we arrived. The sight that greeted him knocked out all the exalted sentiment that had stirred him. The steeple of the building was on a level with the eaves, two cows browsed off the pulpit, there was evidence of the nocturnal presence of hens in the amen corner, and the whole edifice was in a state of dilapidation and decay. Along the entire front was an inch and a half accumulation of circus bills. Ours were the outside strata. The minister couldn't be found, fortunately for his physical welfare. He was probably spending his booty. His wife told us the congregation had dissolved months ago, and our adroit questioning disclosed that the couple's income consisted in a great measure of the money extracted from the circuses who, innocently, utilized the inviting stretch of ecclesiastical boards. The memory of the colored clergyman is still green with the circus man, and religion is at a discount with the show.
P. T. Barnum, in the early years of his life, had no modern press agent, but it is doubtful if the interesting person could have aided the showman in advertising his enterprises. No one knew better than he the value of printer's ink, and of the men who made printer's ink the vehicle of news and information. Old circus men recall an illustration of his unique but impressive way of attracting public attention in 1849, which would have done credit to this enlightened generation. He sent an expedition to Ceylon, a formidable undertaking then, to capture elephants. They returned to New York with ten of the animals, harnessed them in pairs to a chariot and drove up Broadway. Not content with this advertisement, he sent one of the elephants to his Connecticut farm and engaged the beast in agricultural pursuits. A keeper, clad in oriental costume, was the companion. They were stationed on a six-acre lot which lay close beside the tracks of the New York and New Haven railroad. The keeper was furnished with a timetable of the road with special instructions to be busily engaged in plowing, with the animal dragging the implement, whenever passenger trains passed. The proceeding made a sensation and the showman gravely announced that he intended to introduce a herd of elephants to do all his plowing and heavy draft work. After the six acres had been plowed over at least a hundred times, he quietly returned the animal to his museum.
It is related in the circus world that the " Feejee Mermaid" was the stepping-stone to Barnum's road to wealth and circus renown. The thing was made in Japan with an ingenuity and mechanical perfection well calculated to deceive. Barnum bought it in 1842, when he was unknown, modified by printer's ink the general incredulity as to the possibility of the existence of mermaids, and aroused great curiosity to see and examine his specimen. Then, too, he persuaded some naturalist to endorse it as genuine. The fame of his museum and its preserved curiosity was wafted from one end of the land to the other. Money flowed in rapidly and the notoriety he attained he never permitted to fade. In the museum, the ladder by which he rose to fortune, Mr. Barnum a few months later perpetrated another humbug which arrested public attention. He purchased in Cincinnati, O., a well-formed, small-sized horse, with no mane and not a particle of hair on his tail, while his body and legs were covered with thick, fine hair or wool, which curled tight to his skin. The animal had been foaled in Ohio and was a remarkable freak of nature. The astute showman immediately advertised the beast as "The Woolly Horse." The news had just come that Colonel John C. Fremont, who was supposed to have been lost in the snows of the Rocky Mountains, was in safety. Mr. Barnum grasped the opportunity and asserted that his horse had been captured by the explorer's party. The curiosity was a great attraction for many months, and no definite exposure of the imposition was ever made. It added immeasurably to the reputation and pecuniary success of the establishment.
The circus press agent is a welcome visitor to the country newspaper office. In his gratitude over the influx of tickets and advertising, the editor generally devotes space to a eulogy of the social and professional merits of the visitor. Here are some truthfully reproduced specimens, taken at random from a collection:
"The bustling press agent of the vast concourse is the most popular man with the circus."
"The press agent is built for a gentleman from the ground up, and he acts it with the ease and dignity of a Chesterfield."
"The management is fortunate in having for its press representative ---, who is a entleman in every way, and who understands his business thoroughly."
"The press agent is one of the most genial gentlemen in the profession, and he is much liked by the newspapers wherever he goes, not only because he is liberal with the pasteboards, but because he is a hale fellow well met."
" --- leaves nothing undone on his part to make the grand show popular."
" --- is a mighty clever gentleman. He called at our office to-day and made himself agreeable."
"The press agent of the circus is undoubtedly an element of strength in that big institution. He is a mighty pleasant gentleman and knows exactly how to make himself popular with the newspaper men."
"He is the right man in the right place."
"The show has four aces in ---, the press representative, who is such a thorough gentleman that his kindness to the press boys issues his own patent to nobility."
"The press agent treated us nicely yesterday. Several little attentions he gave us made us feel more than kind to him."
"The circus is lucky in having him for press agent. He is a refined and courteous gentleman to whom much is due for the success and popularity of this great show."
"The press of this section will always welcome the coming of this genial gentleman."
"But probably the most versatile artist of this great aggregation was --- , the press agent of this enormous aggregation. He deserves special mention."
"On last Thursday evening of the circus, the editor of the ---, upon invitation of the pleasing and wide awake press agent, went 'behind the scenes' on a tour of the dressing-rooms of the great institution. We were first introduced to the great and only ---, just preparing to mount the twenty-three bareback horses, which he rides to the consternation of all who see him. Going to the left, the curtain was raised and Trunktown was seen, that is, about one hundred and fifty people sitting upon, diving into, standing or beside their trunks, in various stages of deshabille, preparing for their various acts. Taking off his plug, the press agent announced the presence of the editor, and everybody came forward and shook us by the hand - for a little while we thought we were running for President of the United States. A chair was brought for us and a little chat indulged in with those near, among whom was the great bareback rider. We had a chat with the gladiators, also, who were making up for their act, one of the most pleasing and artistic of the show. In shaking hands with those chaps we got some white powder on our left shoulder, which they use to powder their faces. After returning to our wife in the circus auditorium, we had great difficulty in explaining the powder away. But the press agent bore testimony that we had not visited the ladies' dressing-rooms, not being the right gender."
An old-time press agent, writing a brief list of a few men met with in the circus's transitory career and who will continue to exist when showmen of this generation have passed on, mentions:
The man who travelled with Dan Rice.
The man who when a boy carried water for the elephant.
The man who knew the man who sold his cook stove to secure the price of a circus ticket.
The man who knows how many thousands of dollars the circus takes out of town.
The man who is anxious to know when "show folks" sleep.
The man who sympathizes with us because of our "hard life."
The man who asks: "Where do you go from here?"
The man who knows the show is "split up" in the smaller towns.
The man who is sure "this is the best show town of its size in the United States."
CHS webmaster J. Griffin, last modified June 2006.
