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Circus Editorial

This is a great day for Virginia, boys. It's one of the days of real sport, for the circus is in town. Most Virginia boys have been beside themselves with unalloyed joy since early yesterday morning when the first red wagons of the Yankee Robinson Circus rolled out of Chestnut street to "the lot." No mother need wonder where her wandering boy is to-night; certainly no father will. He's out at the circus grounds, where a fine brass band is playing, Down in dear old New Orleans, where a vagrant wind occasionally loosens a flap of canvas and gives fleeting glimpses of a wonderland beyond. His brain is in a whirl, for it has just been demonstrated to him that there are new wonders in the world. But it isn't fair to cite the boy as the only one who comes under the spell of the circus. As a matter of fact, it gets pretty nearly everybody's goat. One may be perfectly indifferent to circuses until the "Grand, glittering, gorgeous free street parade with open dens of jungle kings and ponderous, prodding pachyderms" takes its splendid course down the village streets. After that there is a new spirit inside him. It fills one with unrest. Things go to the dickens with none to say nay and by the time the band in the big top breaks forth in the strains of some circus tune for the grand entry he is the middle of a frustrated, pushing, jamming, nervous crowd, elbowing, jostling, fighting his way to a space of vantage to see the show. He can't help it he has fallen under the spell of the American circus. He is a boy again and he is vastly better therefor.

The modern circus is a great institution. It is better and more entertaining than ever. It is worth the price. Now as ever they are talking about making the circus man pay more license, talking about barring him from showing in the town at all. They say he takes all the money away. Stay on the outside, listen to the band and the cheers of the people while the circus is going on and you will find yourself rapidly reaching a state of mind where you don't care if the circus takes every dad-busted nickel out of town, you'll be glad its here and you'll be sorry you're on the outside.

For all that we have had circuses with us so long, the greatest part of us don't know much about them. We do not understand or appreciate that they are a bright spot in the life of every country town. They are not to be classed with a carnival. That's another matter. They cost a pretty sum to maintain. And the circus folk are not such a bad lot. When you see the aerialists and the acrobats and the contortionists do their stunts to-night, remember that their acts are a certificate of character. They are possible only to men and women who live the cleanest of lives. Many of them are the grandchildren and the great grandchildren of circus folk. They have a proud ancestry, but they live in a world by themselves And the funny clown never misses an opportunity to visit an orphanage or a children's hospital, where the waifs of the world and the sick are, to amuse them with his funny little stunts and bring a ray of sunshine to a usually cheerless atmosphere. The big "eight-hawss" teamster is a real man with a heart of gold, usually. He is doing his humble part in a mighty enterprise. His sleek, well-groomed, obedient horses are a pride and joy. He must be a man of character or they would never be intrusted to him. The litle lady in the abbreviated skirt, down on the bills as Mlle. Flora, equestrienne, perhaps has babies of her own whom she has taught to say, "Now I lay me down to sleep." Sometimes they say it in the dressing-room of the performers tent just before she goes on in a fluff of chiffon and rouge for her act in the big top. Most circus folk are intensely likable types. Most of them are much misjudged. What would life be without a circus? We are all better for the circus. Who wants to live in a town that never has a circus? What a "Hey Rube" kind of a community such a place must be: Hurrah for the circus! May its shadow never grow less! Let's all go!

The First Elephant in the United States

(Editor's Note: Mr. James W. Shettel, a writer of note, has made an exhaustive survey of this subject to prove once and for all the correct year when the first elephant was brought to America. Mr. Shettel at much expense visited libraries, museums, art galleries and newspaper offices to check up on dates and data, in many States of the Union, so that this account, which he has written exclusively for the Circus Scrap Book should be authentic and correct. We are indeed thankful to Mr. Shettel for the time and effort he has given this research, so that our readers may be properly informed.)

"If it succeeds, I ought to have the whole credit and the honor, too, of course, for it will be a great thing to carry the first elephant to America."

So wrote Jacob Crowninshield, of Salem, Mass., the young captain of the ship America, Nov. 2, 1795, to his brothers, John and George, in confiding his intention to bring a young elephant to the United States.

The elephant was then aboard his ship at Bengal, where it had been purchased for four hundred and fifty dollars. It was described as two years old and almost as large as a big ox. Jacob had suggested to his brother, Benjamin, who was with him on the cruise, that they jointly buy the elephant and take it to America to be disposed of at a good price. But Benjamin was skeptical about the plan, so Jacob ventured alone.

No one up to this time had attempted to transport across the ocean an animal of the bulk of an elephant, although a few showmen had brought lions, tigers, ostriches, and smaller animals to the United States for exhibition purposes. Jacob was a shrewd enough Yankee to figure that, if he succeeded in landing his prize in America, he could get for it a figure far in excess of what he paid for it. And that is just what happened. Crowninshield sold his elephant for $10,000 and the new owner for years exhibited his purchase up and down the United States. Although these circumstances were familiar at the time, today they seem to have been forgotten and the honor of bringing the first elephant to the United States is not given generally to Crowninshield to whom it rightfully belongs.

The journey of Crowninshield's elephant from Bengal to New York City required four months. How interesting would be an account of the voyage. Unfortunately the details are not available. Captain John Crowninshield, Andover, Mass., a nephew of Jacob Crowninshield, had a large trunk filled with sea letters, including those from which the above facts were obtained some years ago. It was suggested then he should place the papers in Essex Institute, Salem, Mass., and it was believed that he would do so. His death occurred April 9, 1896, and an inquiry since has revealed that the papers never reached the Institute.

The father of Nathaniel Hawthorne, the author, was a member of the crew of the America. It is from the log kept by him that the date of the arrival of the elephant in New York after a safe voyage has been fixed as April 13, 1796. The appearance of this ponderous animal doubtless caused a sensation in Manhattan. The newspapers of that day, however, were not equal even in New York City to the elaborate descriptions that one would expect so unusual an event to receive. There were no striking headlines. It was not the custom those days. Greenleaf's New York Journal and Patriotic Register carried this brief item hidden away among its shipping news.

"The America, Captain Crowninshield, from the Isle of France, which he left January 13, 1796, has brought home an ELEPHANT from Bengal in perfect health. It is the first ever seen in America and a great curiosity. It is a female two years old and of the species that grow to an enormous size. The animal is sold for $10,000, being supposed to be the greatest price ever given for an animal in Europe or America."

All of this is correct, with the exception possibly of the statement that the elephant was a female. In writing from Bengal, Crowninshield had spoken of it as a male. Several times in New York City, it was refered to as a female, but after it started on its journey southward, it was always referred to as a male. But the Rev. William Bentley, who saw it in Salem, Mass. a year later said the elephant was a female, but commonly referred to as a male.

One very important fact was overlooked by the Journal and Patriotic Register in its article - it failed to name the purchaser of the elephant. He was said by John Davis, an Englishman, who met the elephant and its owner in the fall of 1798 at Asheepo, S. C., to have been a Welshman named Owen.

Before starting south for Charleston, S. C., which was to be its home, the elephant was exhibited in New York City, at Broadway and Beaver street. The first notice is in the Argus of April 23, 1796. At the conclusion of the exhibitions in New York City, the elephant began its first tour of the United States, which then included only the thirteen original states.

In Philadelphia, which at this time was the largest city in the United States, its arrival was thus announced in the Aurora of July 28, 1796: "There has just arrived from New York, in this city, on his way to Charleston, an elephant. He possesses the adroitness of the beaver, the intelligence of the ape and the fidelity of the dog. He is the largest of the quadrupeds; the earth trembles under his feet. He has the power of tearing up the largest trees and yet is tractable to those who use him well. The elephant now offered for exhibition is about three years old, near six feet high. He is of the largest species growing to the height of sixteen feet. He was purchased in New York for ten thousand dollars."

From other Philadelphia newspapers it is learned that the elephant was shown in High street, between Tenth and Eleventh streets, from six o'clock in the morning to sunset. The price of admission was half a dollar for adults and a quarter for children.

The elephant remained in Philadelphia until the tenth of September, when it moved onward to Charleston, which it was aimed to reach before cold weather set in. The route taken was practically the same as the present Lincoln Highway, as far west as York, Pa. As there was no bridge at that time across the Susquehanna river, the elephant was taken from the east to the west side of the stream in a ferry boat. A record of a license paid to the constable shows the elephant was exhibited in York before leaving the state of Pennsylvania.

At Baltimore, the commissioners on September 17 granted permission to John Carrier to exhibit the elephant, he paying for the same the sum of sixty dollars. The Baltimore engagement must have been very profitable, for after remaining there nearly a month, the Maryland Journal and Baltimore Daily Advertiser announced October 10:

ELEPHANT

By the request and desire of many of the inhabitants of Baltimore-Town, and to facilitate to everybody the sight of so curious an animal, the Elephant will be seen for a few days only at a quarter of a dollar.

After leaving Baltimore, it is difficult to trace the elephant, sources of information in the South not being available to the extent they are in the North. Charleston was no doubt reached safely and sheltered the elephant during the winter.

Early in the spring of 1797, the arrival of the elephant was announced in Philadelphia. This visit to the city of Brotherly Love proved to be epoch making, for it was the occasion of the first appearance of the huge beast in a theatrical performance. The play was a benefit for Cooper, the famous tragedian. William Dunlap, in his History of the American Theatre tells that the elephant was hired for the night for sixty dollars and filled the house to overflowing.

The elephant's debut on the stage was advertised in these words in the American Daily Advertiser.

New Theater

The last week of performing before the Easter Holidays

Mr. Cooper's Night

This evening, April 3, will be presented (not performed this season) a celebrated Tragedy called Alexander, the Great or the Rival Queens.

In Act I

The Grand Triumphal entry of Alexander into Babylon; in which will be introduced for this night only a Real Elephant, caparisoned as for war.

An occasional Prologue will be spoken by Mr. Cooper.

End of the Tragedy, a new ballet dance, (composed by Mr. Byrne,) called The Drunken Provencal, to which will be added, never performed here, a musical entertainment called The Adopted Child as performed during the two last winters in London, with the most unbounded applause.

Of this incident, William B. Wood, in his "Personal Recollections of the Stage" has left the following account: "During his first season, Cooper's services were not frequently required; and when benefits were arranged, Cooper announced the piece which he had taken as his selection. By the terms of the contract, Mr. Wignell insured to him a certain profit on his night. But the day previous, his box sheet presented so meagre a promise, that he felt his liberal manager must be a considerable loser. This he felt unwilling should be the case; and observing that an elephant was on exhibition, it occured to him that this Asiatic luxury might save the manager and relieve him from the mortification of a beggarly house. He therefore issued an extra bill, adding the great animal attraction; and was gratified in consequence by a large and fashionabe audience."

Dunlap's comment was: "Those that had declined to take seats and support the best tragedian, although not so finished as afterward, that had yet played in America, filled the house to overflowing to see the stage dishonoured by an elephant." But it must be remembered that Dunlap had no love for the circus.

After its appearance in the Cooper benefit, the elephant left Philadelphia and started on its way to Boston. It stopped over for a short time in New York, exhibiting at 110 Front street, where the fact was noted that since the year previous it had grown considerably.

Among the towns in which it was exhibited before reaching Boston was Providence where, according to a broadside, "he will just stay to give the citizens an opportunity to see him." A place was "fitted up for him (suitable to receive genteel Company) in a Store back of the Coffee-House; where he will remain for a few days only, as he is to be at Cambridge at the approaching Commencement." The broadside, which was dated June 27, 1797, states that the elephant "by his intelligence makes as near an Approach to Man, as Matter can approach Spirit. A sufficient Proof that there is not too much said of the Knowledge of this Animal is that the Proprietor having been absent for ten Weeks, the Moment he arrived at the Door of his apartment, and spoke to the Keeper, the Animal's Knowledge was beyond any Doubt confirmed by the Cries he uttered, till his Friend came within Reach of his Trunk, with which he caressed him, to the Astonishment of all those who saw him." The weight of the elephant was given as 3,000 pounds. He measured "from the End of his Trunk to the Tip of his Tail 15 feet 8 inches, round the Body 10 Feet 6 inches, round his Head 7 Feet 2 inches, round his Leg, above the Knee, 3 Feet 3 Inches; round his Ankle 2 Feet."

This "most respectable animal" drank all kinds of spiritous liquors; "some Days he has drank 30 Bottles of Porter, drawing the Corks with his Trunk." The spectators were advised that "The Elephant having destroyed many Papers of Consequence, it is recommended to Visitors not to come near him with such Papers."

On August 2, the Columbian Sentinel, Boston, announced: "The Elephant is just arrived in Town and may be seen at Mr. Valentine's, Market Square, where he will stay but a few weeks."

The elephant was in Salem, Mass., September 1, for several days and among the visitors to the Market House, where it was exhibited was the Rev. William Bentley, who has left this account in his diary:

"The crowd of spectators forbade me any but a general and superficial view of him. He was six feet four inches high. Of large volume, his skin black as though lately oiled. A short hair was on every part, but not sufficient for a covering. His tail hung one third of his height, but without any long hairs at the end of it. His legs were still at command at the joints, but he could not be persuaded to lie down. The keeper repeatedly mounted him, but he persisted in shaking him off. Bread and hay were given him and he took bread out of the pockets of spectators. He also drank porter and drew the cork, conveying the liquor from his trunk into his throat. His tusks were just to be seen beyond the flesh and it was said had been broken. We say this beause [sic] the common language. It is a female and teats appeared just behind the fore legs."

From Salem, the elephant went to Marblehead, where it remained for three days. It was later exhibited in Beverly at "the new house opposite Capt. Goodridges." Other New England towns were visited, before cool weather set in, when the elephant turned its steps toward the home in the South, where the winter was spent.

According to the harbor reports of Philadelphia, the elephant was brought north by boat in April, 1798. It was again exhibited in the Pennsylvania city and other towns of the North during the succeeding months. On June 19, the Commercial Advertiser, New York City, is found advertising the return of the elephant from Boston and on exhibition on Broadway, between Robinson and Murray streets. The citizens were advised that it was on the way to Charleston and would probably not come back to New York for four or five years it had ben [sic] seen in that city three or four times previously. Since landing in this country in 1796, the elephant added two feet to its height.

In September the elephant was in Lancaster, Pa., at Mr. Gross’ hotel on King street, where it was to remain until the following Saturday evening "by the request of a number of respectable families." The price of admission was a quarter for adults and eleven pence for childen [sic].

Some time later, John Davis, the English traveler, came across the elephant and its owner at Asheepo, S. C. Of this meeting, he has furnished the following lively account in his Travels in the United States:

"The place I reached was Asheepo, a hamlet consisting of three or more log houses, and the inhabitants of every sex and age had gathered round a huge elephant, which was journeying with his master to Savannah. Fortune had therefore brought me into unexpected company, and I could not but admire the docility of the elephant, who in solemn majesty received the gifts of the children with his trunk.

"But not so the monkey. This man of Lord Monboddo was inflamed with rage at the boys and girls; nor could the rebuke of his master calm the transports of his fury. I entered the log house which accommodated travelers. An old negro man had squatted himself before the fire.

"Well, old man,' said I, 'why don't you go out to look at the elephant?"

" 'Hie! massa, he calf! '

"In fact the elephant came from Asia, and the negro from Africa, where he had seen the same species of animal, but of much greater magnitude. Traveling, says Shakespeare, acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. And there being only one bed in the log house, I slept with the elephant driver. Mr. Owen was a native of Wales, but he had been a great traveler and carried a map of his travels in his pocket.

"Nothing shortens a journey more than good company on the road, so I departed after breakfast from Asheepo with Mr. Owen, his elephant and his monkey. Mr. Owen related to me the wonders of his elephant, which at some future day I may publish in a separate treatise; but they would be irrelative to my present journey, which towards noon I was left to prosecute alone. The elephant, however docile, would not travel without his dinner, and Mr. Owen halted under a pine tree to feed the mute companion of his toils."

What more fitting place to leave the elephant than dining under a pine tree in the South? To trace its further travels is no easy task. The remaining years alloted to it on earth, it may be supposed, followed the same routine as in the years which had gone before. Its itinerary took it to many of the same places and also into new territory. Whether it died a natural death, or fell a victim to the bullet of an assassin, as did some other elephants which came later to this country, is a matter of speculation. And we are similarly in the dark as to the fate of the man, Owen, who guided the tours of the elephant over the United States.

Of Crowninshield, however, it is known that after his retirement from the sea, he became a merchant in Salem, Mass. His fellow citizens honored him by electing him a member of congress from his state. He was appointed secretary of the navy by Thomas Jefferson, but did not serve. His death occured at Washington, D. C., in 1808, at the age of 38. Captain Crowninshield was 26 years old, when he brought the first elephant to the United States.

For assistance in the compilation of the above information, acknowlegment is due: George G. Putnam, of the Evening News, Salem, Mass.; the John Carter Brown Library and the Rhode Island Historical Society, both of Providence, R. I.; the Massachusetts Historical Society, Boston, Mass.; the New York Historical Society, New York City; the Pennsylvania Historical Society, Philadelphia; the Pennsylvania State Library, Harrisburg; the Maryland Historical Society, Baltimore, Md., the Peabody Marine Museum, Salem, Mass., and William F. Worner, Lancaster, Pa.

First Lessons in Clowning

A medley of crashing music, pungently odd and exhilirating smells, the roaring croon of the steam calliope, the sweet lingering savor of snow white grease paint, elephants, sleek barking seals, trained pigs, superb white horses, frolicking dogs, exquisite ladies in tights and spangles, the palid Venuses of the "living statuary," a whole jumble of incongruous and fantastic glimpses, moving in perfect order through its arranged cycles - this is the blurred and ecstatic recollection of an amateur clown at the circus.

It was pay day that afternoon and all the performers were in a cheerful humour. Perhaps that was why the two outsiders, who played a very inconspicuous part in the vast show, were so gently treated. Certainly they had approached the Garden in some secret trepidation. They had visions of dire jests and grievous humiliations; of finding themselves suddenly astride the bare backs of berserk mules, or hoisted by blazing petards, or douched with mysterious cascades of icy water. Pat Valdo had written: "I am glad to hear you are going to clown a bit. I hope you both will enjoy the experience." To our overwrought imaginations this sounded a little bit ominous. What would Pat and his lively confreres do to us?

We need not have feared. Not in the most genial club could we have been treated better than in the dressing room where we found Pat Valdo opening his trunk and getting out the antic costumes he had provided. (The eyes of a certain elephant, to tell the truth, was the only real embarrassment we suffered. We happened to stand by him as he was waiting to go on, and in his shrewd and critical orb we saw a complete disdain. He spotted us at once. He knew us for interlopers. He knew that we were not a real clown, and his eye showed a spark of scorn. We felt shamed and slunk away).

A liberal coating of clown-white, well rubbed into the palms before applying; a rich powdering of talcum; and decorations applied by Pat Valdo with his red and black paint-sticks - these give an effect that startles the amateur when he considers himself in the mirror. Topped with a skull cap of white flannel (on which perches a supreme oddity in the way of a Hooligan hat) and enveloped in a baggy Pierrot garment - one is ready to look about and study the dressing room, where our fellows, in every kind of gorgeous grotesquerie, are preparing for the Grand Introductory Pageant - followed by the "Strange People." (They don't call them Freaks any more). Here is Johanes Joseffson, the Icelandic Gladiator, sitting on his trunk, with his bare feet gingerly placed on his slippers to keep them off the dusty floor while he puts on his wrestling tights. As he bends over with arched back, and raises one leg to insert it into the long pink stocking, one must admire the perfect muscular grace of his thighs and shoulders. Here is the equally muscular dwarf, being massaged by a friend before he dons his pink frills and dashing plumed hat and becomes Mlle. Spangletti, "the marvel equestrienne, darling of the Parisian boulevards." Here is the inevitable Charlie Chaplin, and here is the dean of all clowns, an old gentleman of seventy-four, in his frolicksome costume, as lively as ever.

Here is a trunk inscribed AUSTRALIAN WOODCHOPPERS, and sitting on it one of the woodchoppers himself, a quiet, humorous, cultivated gentleman with a great fund of philosophy. A rumour goes the rounds - as it does behind the scenes in every kind of show. "Do you know who we have with us today? I see one of the boxes is all decorated up." "It's Mrs. Vincent Astor." "Who's she?" interjects the Australian woodchopper, satirically. "It's General Wood." "Did you hear Wood and Pershing are here today?" Charley Chaplin asserts that he has "a good gag" that he's going to try out today and see how it goes. One of the other clowns in the course of dressing comes up to Pat Valdo, and Pat introduces his two pupils. "Newspaper men, hey?" says the latter. "What did you tell me for? I usually double-cross the newspaper men when they come up to so some clowning," he explains to us. We are left wondering in what this double-crossing consists. Suddenly they all troop down the dark narrow stairs for the triumphant entry. The splendour of this parade may not be marred by any clown costumes, so the two novices are left upstairs, peering through the holes in the dressing-room wall. The big arena is all an expanse of eager faces. The band strikes up a stirring ditty. A wave of excitement sweeps through the dingy quarters of the Garden. The show is on, and how delirious it all is!

Downstairs, the space behind the arena is a fascinating jostle of odd sights. The elephants come swaying up the runway from the basement and stand in line waiting their turn. Here is a cage of trained bears. In the background stands the dog catcher's cart, attached to the famous kicking mule. From the ladies' dressing quarters come the aerial human butterflies in their wings and gauzy draperies. On the wall is a list of names, MAIL UNCALLED FOR. One of the names is "Tody Hamilton." That must mean old Tody, but we fear that letter will never be called for now, for Tody Hamilton, the famous old Barnum and Bailey press agent, who cleaned up more "free space" than any man who ever lived, died in 1916. Suddenly appears a person clad in flesh tights and a barrel, carrying a label announcing himself as THE COMMON PEOPLE. Someone thrusts a large sign into the hands of one of the amateur clowns and he is thrust upon the arena, to precede the barralled Common People round the sawdust circuit. He has hardly time to see what the sign says - something about "On Strike Against $100 Suits." The amateur clown is somewhat aghast at the huge display of friendly faces. Is he to try to be funny? Here is the flag hung box, and he tries to see who is in it. He doesn't see either Wood, Pershing or Mrs. Astor, who are not there; but a lot of wounded soldiers, who smile at him encouragingly. He feels better and proceeds, finding himself, with a start, just beneath some flying acrobats who are soaring in the air hanging by their teeth. Common People shouts to him to keep the sign facing the audience. The tour is made without palpable dishonour.

Things are now moving so fast it is hard to keep up with them. Pat Valdo is dressed as a prudish old lady with an enormous bustle. Escorted by the clown policeman and the two amateurs, Pat sets out, fanning himself demurely. Hullo! the bustle has detached itself from the old lady, but she proceeds, unconscious. The audience shouts with glee. Finally the cop sees what has happened and screams. The amateur clowns scream, too, and one of them, in a burst of inspiration, takes off his absurd hat to the bustle, which is now left yards behind. But Pat is undismayed, turns and beckons with his hand. The bustle immediately runs forward of its own accord and reattaches itself to the rear of the skirt. You see, there is a dwarf inside it. The two amateur clowns are getting excited by this time and execute some impromptu tumbling. One tackles the other and they roll over and over desperately. In the scuffle one loses both his hat and skull-cap and flees shamefacedly from the scene. It is asserted by our partner that "this went big." He swears it got a laugh. Pat Valdo hurries off to prepare for his boomerang throwing. Pat is a busy man, for he is not only a clown but he and Mrs. Valdo also do wonderful stunts of their own in ring number one.

And there are moments of sheer poetry, too. Into the darkened arena, crossed by dazzling shafts of light, speeds a big white motor car. Bird Millman descends, tossing aside her cloak. "A fairy on a cobweb" the press agents call her, and as two humble clowns watch entranced through the peepholes in the big doors the phrase seems none too extravagant. See her, in a foam of short, fluffy green skirts, twirl and tiptoe on the glittering wire, all grace and slenderness and agile enchantment. She bows in the dazzle of light and kisses her hands to the crowd. Then she hops into the big car and is borne back behind the scenes. Once behind the doors her gay vivacity ceases. She sits, wearily, several minutes, before getting out of the car. And then, later, comes Mlle. Leitzel. She, like all the other stars, is said to have "amazed all Europe." We don't know whether Europe is harder to amaze than America. Certainly no one could be more admiringly astounded than the amateur clowns gazing entranced through the crack of the doorway. To that nerve-tightening roll of the drums she spins deliriously high up in giddy air, floating, a tiny human pinwheel, in a shining cone of light. One can hear the crowd catch its breath. She walks back all smiles, while her maid trots ahead saying something unintelligible. Her tall husband is waiting for her at the doorway. He catches her up like a child and carries her off, limp and exhausted. One of the clowns (irreverant creature) makes a piteous squawk and begs us to carry him to his dressing room.

A trained pig, trotting cheerfully round in search of tidbits, is retrieved from under the hooves of Mrs. Curtis's horse, which is about to go out and dance. The dogcatcher's wagon is drawn up ready to rush forth, and the trained terrier which accompanies it is leaping with excitement. He regards it as a huge lark and knows his cue perfectly. When the right time comes he makes a dash for a clown dressed as an elderly lady and tears off her skirt.

One of the amateurs was allowed to ride behind the kicking mule, but to his chagrin the mule did not kick as well as usual. Here was Charley Chaplin and some others throwing dice from a barrel. No matter how the dice are thrown they turn up seven. Into this animated gamble the amateur clown enters with enjoyment. All round him the wildest capers are proceeding. The double-ended flivver is prancing about. John Barleycorn's funeral procession is going its way. "Give me plenty of space," says Charley Chaplin to us, "so the people can watch me." We do so, reverently, for Charley's antics are worth watching. We make a wild dash, and plan to do a tumble in imitation of Charley's. To our disappointment we find that instead of sliding our feet dig into the soft sawdust, and the projected collapse does not arrive. Intoxicated by the spice of circus odours, the steaming calliope, the galloping horses, we hardly know what we are doing half of the time. We hear Miss May Wirth, the Wonder Rider of the World, complaining bitterly that someone got in front of her when she was doing her particularly special stunt. We wonder dubiously whether we were the guilty one. Alas, it is all over but the washing up. Pat Valdo, gentlest of hosts, is taking off his trick hat with the water cistern concealed in it. He has a clean towel ready for his gratful [sic] pupils.

The band is playing "The Star Spangled Banner," and all the clowns in various stages of undress, stand at attention. Our little peep into the gay, good-hearted, courageous and extraordinary world of the circus is over. Pat and his fellows will go on, twice a day for the next six months. It takes patience and endurance, but it must be some consolation to know that nothing else in the whole world gives half as much pleasure to so many people.

A Reminiscence of Miles Orton

At Gallatin, Missouri, in 1864, the "Glorious Fourth" was ushered in with the usual noise of cannon firing and the shooting of small caliber firecrackers. The national family row had not been settled, yet the spirit of "76" was duly remembered.

To make the occasion still interesting, this was "Circus Day." C. C. Orton's great hippodrome which had for several years been touring Europe had returned to the United States. Learning that the war was rapidly drawing to a close, Orton had planned a trip through the middle west returning through the central north.

For many days bills on the barns, out-houses and old store houses had been studied by the "kids" and their pioneer progenitors. Everybody knew about the wonderful things which would be seen under the coming "big top." Before daylight pilgrims from every corner of the county, and from the surrounding counties began to assemble. They came a-foot, horse-back, in wagons and great lumbering "linch-pin" ox-drawn wagons whose spindles groaned and wailed like a pig under a gate. However they came, they all got there on time jubilant in anticipation of a great day.

The hour for the street-parade came, and with open-mouthed wonder we convoyed the procession composed of animal cages, uncaged animals, gaudily tinsled equestrians and equestriennes, all preceded by a most wonderfully gilded band-wagon drawn by forty gaily caparisoned, but worn out horses. With all possible auguries for a favorable day the procession arrived at the show-grounds.

But Mr. Orton had failed to see, one 'Sim' Miller, the august proprietor of the worst dive in North West Missouri. "Sim" felt slighted and determined to make Old Man Orton painfully conscious of the fact. So, with fifteen or twenty of his associates, he met the procession at its journey's end and staged a riot that would have put Donny Brook to the blush. Sim, with a tent stake, opened the ball by cracking the bean of the "Strong Man." Immediately the cry "Hey Rube," came from all parts of the ground. Then for about fifteen minutes it was anybody's fight. Then a truce was declared and Sim's valiant force adjourned to the bar for reenforcements [sic].

My father was county clerk, and I, a boy of 11 years was idling in his office when Mr. Orton accompanied by the sheriff of the county entered. Orton paid his license then in a voice strong with indignation, exclaimed:

"I have now paid my license, Mr. Sheriff, and I expect you to give me ample protection. If you do not, your county will pay all damages!"

The Result of Orton's Ultimatum

When the show opened at 2 P. M. there was 25 deputy sheriffs on the ground. The air was intense with excitement. Altho a riot was expected, no one staid away from the show, because, at that day and in that country, everybody went to a fight.

Contrary to the expectation of the officers - and a good many of the people - there was no disturbance. However, as Sim, like a wise general, had called in all his reserves and was liberally fortifying his force at his bar, the sheriff, being discrete as well as nervous, increased his force for the evening's entertainment.

At night everything seemed to be going smoothly. The program had been almost finished when a drunken tough slipped by the guard at the main entrance and attempted to enter the ring. My uncle who was on guard at that point seized him, and with the assistance of the manager of the show, was in the act of ejecting him when he informed them that the ring-master was an old boyhood friend from back east, and if they would permit him to greet his old friend he would leave the tent without further trouble. The manager, anxious to avoid another mixup advised the officer to grant his request.

Sure enough the ring-master knew him and greeted him cordially, but aside, seemed anxious to get rid of him. But getting a tip from the manager, and noting, that the audience was on toes to see how the controversy would terminate, delayed the intruder's ejectment.

The stranger declared he was a good bare-back rider, and wanted to join the circus. He said he could ride anything that wore hair.

"Well" said the man with the whip, "I'm going to try you, and if you fall off you are to leave the tent."

"All right," replied the drunk, "Bring on your horse, and if I don't ride him I'll leave."

A magnificent dark iron gray horse, the most supurb animal I have ever seen, was brought in. It took two attendants to hold him while the ring-master assisted the drunken man to mount. The horse broke away from the attendants before the rider could straighten up, and ran two or three times around the circle with the rider grabbing frantically at his main. The horse was then caught and the man assisted to his feet. Then the race began again. How that man staid on his feet on the bare back of that runaway horse the audience could not decipher. After nearly falling off several times he kicked off his two heavy cow-hide boots. Then off came his old worn frock coat. Then followed his trousers which caused the ladies to place their fans over one eye. This left nothing to come off but his shirt which was no longer than it should have been. With desperate attempts he tried to make it longer, but finally becoming exasperated he jerked it off over his head, which made the ladies cover the other eye; but when they looked again there was Miles Orton, the old man's noted son, upon whom the crowned-heads of Europe had showered honors and medals, - the most fearless bare-back rider I have ever seen - turning forward and back somersaults and riding that speeding horse from his ears to his tail.

I have seen the best that every big circus from that day to this has offered, but none, in my humble opinion, have compared to Miles Orton on that memorable evening.

Something like twenty years ago, I drove into Plant City, Florida, where I now live, and saw a dog and pony show which was being operated under the name of Miles Orton. I met the old man - then about seventy - and talked with him about the pioneer days of the "big top." He had nothing to say of his past greatness, but the brightest of smiles chased each other across his wrinkled face when I mentioned the wonderful iron-gray horse. How well he remembered him! He said that altho the show was paying handsomely it would be his last trip. It was: He died a few days later at Key West.

Punch and Judy History

A Boston special says "Samuel Murdoch, who died last week, in New York City, was the originator of the Punch and Judy shows in the United States, and as such is entitled to more of immobality than falls to the lot of the ordinary showman. Murdoch was 58 years old, and half of that time conducted a Punch and Judy show inside the west gate of Boston Commons. He first saw his little friends thirty years ago, when the Beck Brothers, London acrobats, introduced them to Americans. They employed Murdock to assist in the manipulation of the dolls. The reed trick, which is employed to make the figures apparently speak, was sedulouisly concealed from him, but he mastered it, and when the Becks departed, he set up in business for himself."

Our reporter, knowing that our townsman, Mr. E. Beck, 4520 Main street, had a reputation of being a Punch and Judy operator, interviewed Mr. Beck in regard to the above account, and the following is what was elicited:

"In the Fall of 1865, the Beck Brothers, known as the London acrobats, sailed from England to this country, and first introduced the Punch and Judy to the American people, in the streets of Brooklyn, in the Spring of 1866, where Charles Dickens first saw them. His remarks in the New Jersey Independent will show that he, as well as the general public, was surprised that it had not been shown in this country before. He declared that 'the American Eagle would shelter, with its wings, many more such shows, which would prove a screaming delight to thousands of children and a hearty laugh to the aged, which equals ten dollars worth of doctors' medicine.'

"The late Samuel Murdoch was first employed by Beck Brothers as a musician in Boston, where they played for three years on the Boston Commons. While there, I taught him how to manipulate the figures. He did not master it himself, as the above article states."

Mr. Beck thinks the Punch and Judy exhibitions should be encouraged.

Circus Carnage

Chicago Times, December 3, 1882. Reprinted in Circus Scrap Book, Vol. 1, No. 3 (Jul), 1929, pp. 31-36. The information should be checked with additional sources.

"There has been many a man shot just as Longmire was. I know fifty cases like it. Every summer someone gets killed that way."

The remark was made in a restaurant last evening. There were three at the table - a reporter for the Times, the speaker and his friend. The reporter listened quietly and soon learned enough to convince him that the man possessed a good deal of information about circus fights. Introducing himself, the reporter desired to learn the man's story. He was communicative.

"I was just reading," said he, "a letter from Billy Cole and it set me thinking about men being killed with circuses. I have been with shows many a year; used to travel with Old Dan Rice and Uncle John Robinson and Forepaugh. I have seen many a tough battle between the people and the showmen. When I joined they used to hire canvasmen as much for their ability to fight as to work. They had more trouble then than they do now - kind of quieted down of late years. Shows were small and men with them few, and the people used to get the best of them, but that is all gone. They carry too many men for them nowadays.

"These rows generally took place in small towns and there were places where a fight was expected. Cohoes, N. Y., Oldtown, Me., Paterson, N. J., Pawtucket, R. I., Youngstown, O., Fall River, Mass., Steubenville, O., Champion, Ill., Mexico, Mo., Birmingham, Ala., and Scranton, Pa., and in fact every coal-mining or iron-working town in the country. In these places there were gangs of ruffians who started out in search of a fight when a show came that way. Down South the rows always start from one or two men having trouble and others taking sides. The disturbance comes in two ways, so to speak - there's either a row between the door-keeper or some other man with the show and one or two citizens, or else a gang goes down to clean the show out. Now the men with the show are just like a family all together from the owner down and the tent is home to them, as it were. When thousands of people come every day it is not strange that some quarrelsome ones come among them. Men will get drunk and bring up at the door and then there is trouble. A canvasman watching a tent is just like a man watching his home. He will fight in a minute if the outsider cuts the canvas and if a crowd comes to quarrel he will yell "Hey, Rube!" which is the circus rallying cry and look out for war when you hear it. Almost every man about the show, no matter what he is doing, will start and rush to the place that cry comes from; and he will take any weapon he can lay his hands on, too. Sometimes the parties that cause the trouble are knocked down and the matter ends; sometimes others take their part and the fight lasts a long time. I have heard them yell "Hey, Rube!" many a time, and seen as bad fighting as I did in the war.

I was with Old Van Ambergh's show when they did tough work I tell you. There was the fight at Steubenville, Ohio, in 1857, when they killed three of the outsiders and lost a man in Murfreesboro, Tenn., when John Lins got killed. In 1858, at Toledo, a boy tried to get under the canvas and a showman struck him. Some one raised the cry "Murder!" and there was a fight, and finally they arrested the whole show.

In 1865 we had it hot at Rockland, Maine. A party passed themselves into the side-show and tried the same game at the circus door. They were drunk. Billy Simpson, the boss canvasman, had men at the big show door ready for them and the mayor read the riot act and said he would deputize the showmen to keep order. The gang thought they could get in anyway and at last someone was hit and the cotillion commenced. It was a fine party to tackle and the way that gang was done up was a caution. Seven corpses, I think, and only one of them belonging to the show. When we got to Cohoes, N. Y., we had another just like it. There were tough men with shows then - the Townsend boys and the Bakers. Quiet fellows that never looked for a row, but did terrible work when they got in one.

As a general thing, in the Middle and New England States sticks, stones and fists were the weapons and few men were killed, but down South, where its a knife or a gun, things were different. There has been many a man buried in a ring bank, I can tell you. Why, a ring bank is a ridge of dirt around a circus ring. They got drunk and went to the show, raised a row and got done up.

In Paterson, N. J., about 1853, Dick Sands was told the gang were going to tear his show to pieces, so he goes over to New York and got Tom Hyer, the fighter, who then kept the Bench House in the Bowery. Tom got a gang and when the fight began it was a stunner. Hyer had about twenty men from the Bowery, and some friends in Paterson besides, and they went at it with a will. There has never been a big fight there since.

What was the worst fight? Why, that one in Jacksonville, Tex., with the Robinson show in 1873. Noyes' show had a fight there once and four were killed, and the Orton show got cut to pieces there. A bad town and bad men and circuses don't show at night there. One drunken fellow goes into the Robinson Show and sits himself on the ring bank and they threw him out bodily. He went uptown and got a gang. They were going to run the show out of town. The town marshall told the men to protect their property and they did. The gang waited around until evening and when they were loading the show on the cars they commenced. Gil Robinson asked Uncle John what to do and the old man says "Let 'em swear all they want to, but if they shoot, give 'em the best you've got." A shot was fired and they went at it. The show had about fifty carbines and they were in good hands. The fight began about half past three in the afternoon and lasted until eleven at night. They charged and fought in the streets and about the cars. Twenty three were killed and more than fifty wounded. It was a regular battle. The show lost seven men. They finally got the train away, but the people undertook to saw down a railroad bridge just out of town. As the train passed it a volley was fired and one man killed. The next day they were at Crockett (then Huntsville) Houston and Galveston. The authorities took the show-bills and sent out warrants for all the men whose names were on them, but they were lost by the sheriff and that night Robinson got his people and the most valuable part of the show on board a boat and went to New Orleans, leaving a good deal of property behind him and giving up a dozen towns he was billed to appear in. The show has not been in Texas since.

At Somerset, Ohio, in 1854, Barnum and Howes Circus had it with railroad laborers, twenty being killed, among them several women. It all started from a drunken woman trying to take ten children in to the show without tickets. Seth B. Howes Show had a fight at Toronto in that same year and they threw the cages Into the lake and burned the canvas. The riot act was read. There was no death, but plenty of blood.

In 1857 at Noonan, Ga., a young fellow shot at an elephant. They yelled "Hey, Rube!" and seven men and one canvasman died with their boots on.

The reason the show loses so few men is because they are prepared for fight. As soon as it commences they seize first weapon that they can find and fight as bull-dogs fight. No run there. They have to stay. If they run they are simply going away from home and assistance. Then, you say, practice makes perfect and they are generally cool and sober and know what to do.

Forepaugh got into a row in Kentucky and had a running fight for three days and they finally sent a regiment from Louisville to protect and get the show out of the state.

John O'Brien used to have what was called the Irish Brigade and woe it was to those that battled with it.

There have been several cases where the militia have been called out and the whole show arrested.

Cooper and Bailey's Circus had a fight at Quincy, Ill., in 1872, and a negro policeman was killed. The fire bells were rung, the militia came and every man belonging to the show was arrested and held until the following day when it was shown that the policeman was in the wrong and the circus man right. Harry Gize, the boss canvasman, was fined $400, however, for hitting the policeman.

DeMott and Hilyard's Circus was surrounded after a fight in Iowa a few years ago and all arrested.

There have been a hundred rows like these, but I cannot remember, them all. Whiskey is the cause of most of them and in ninety cases out of a hundred the fight is forced upon the shows. They have either got to see their property destroyed, or do battle to protect it.

Places where colleges are located were usually bad, or used to be if the students have been taught to behave themselves. The Yale boys have been thrashed time and again at New Haven, and Ann Arbor used to be bad until Forepaugh's men taught them a lesson in 1880. A party of students who thought it smart, seated themselves all together and relying on their numbers for protection interrupted the performance. Any attempt to make them keep quiet usually leads to a row the young men find it easier to study than to whip a crowd of circus canvasmen. They got it at Ann Arbor from the Forepaugh Show, but the students followed to the next town and burned the canvas with vitriol. As I said before, these things are going out of fashion, though there were some terrible fights last year.

The Nathans' show had one at Amsterdam, N. Y., that was caused by a drunken party endeavoring to force its way into a side-show.

Murphy, the Irish Giant, who came to this country, with Hague's Minstrels, was with a show and in the fight he proved himself a good one, his size and strength serving him well. The gang was badly handled and one of them killed. At Indiana, John O'Brien's show had a row last summer and the doctors were busy for a few days. One of the showmen was beaten to death on the grounds. In this case, as in many others, the police were to blame. The circus pays a heavy license and is entitled to protection the same as any other establishment, but the officers sent to preserve order, usually go taking in all the friends they can, and while they are looking at the performance instead of doing duty outside, trouble arises between the eighteen-year-old boys and the canvasmen. When they do appear, a battle which could have been prevented by their mere presence is in progress and life is in danger. Sometimes the police themselves cause the trouble by the assumption of too much authority and even intoxication. A drunken officer at Dubuque shot an attachee of Forepaugh's dead in 1881 and was tried for his life for doing it, but was acquitted.

Besides these general rows I have told you about, there have been a great many cases in which a revolver has been drawn, usually by a drunken man, and the showman has dropped dead or was mortally wounded. Many an owner of a show has died at its door, some drunken brute who wanted to force his way in firing the fatal shot. John May, a clown with Mabie's show, was shot in Missouri in 1855 by a party that did not like his jokes. James McFarland, of the Spaulding & Rogers show, was killed at Liberty, Mo., in 1858. J. Leonard, a door-keeper for Buckley's exhibition had his head cut off in Georgia by a man to whom he had refused admission because he was drunk. In 1866 Jack Ratz was killed at the door of Robinson's Circus in Crittenden, Ky., and a fight followed In which five other lives were taken. Gil Eldred and Jack Robinson were killed in the same way at Lincoln, Ill., in 1869. That was a bad year for door-keepers and proprietors. Bill Lake, proprietor, was shot down at his door in Granby, Mo., Den Orton, of the Orton Show, was killed at the door while showing at Boston, Tex. Harry Whitby, of the Whitby and Cooper shown was killed at the door in Louisianna. Col. C. F. Ames was fatally wounded at Dawson, Ga. These all occurred in 1869. Billy Lake's widow married Wild Bill Hickok and he used to stand at the door, gun in hand, but they never bothered him any. It takes a man of nerve to attend a circus door, especially in the South. It's all right in large cities, but when you come to the small towns where the wild boys come in filled up with red liquor and then go to the show its different. In Texas its not unusual for a desperado to present a revolver when asked for a ticket exclaiming "There's my ticket." Sometimes they allow him to pass, but oftener a row ensues, and the man kills or is killed. It is one of the dark sides of the show life but an interesting one."

And the Old Show Man began his meal.

Cardiff Giant

Certainly no fake is entitled to take precedence over the celebrated Cardiff Giant. This was the invention of a certain George Hull. He lived at Binghamton, New York, and manufactured the Giant in a rude shop on the small farm which he worked. Hull was shrewd, energetic and very persistent, as may be seen by the fact that the elaboration of the idea of his fake and its execution occupied him more than four years. He thought the matter out even to the minutest details, before beginning work on it. Without any knowledge of the art of sculpture or the science of anatomy, he set himself resolutely at work to remedy these defects of education. He had considerable aptitude with the chisel, and gradually developed the skill necessary to hew out a figure that was to be put before the public as a relic of an age so remote that no person would be likely closely to criticize its proportions. Hull also knew that no matter what the age in which his giant was supposed to have lived, the "remains" must show pores in the skin to pass the scrutiny of even the unlearned. The making of these pores required more time and labor than all the other work of making the Cardiff Giant. The work occupied many months, and was all performed in the "studio" or shop where it was at last finished to Hull's satisfaction.

Preparations were then made for the Giant's burial in order that when brought to public view it might show the proper evidence of antiquity. It was buried in the side of a hill only a few rods from the outbuilding, where it had been chiselled from a huge block of stone taken from that very hill. In all this work, huge and heavy as the uncut stone and the giant hewn out of it were, Hull had only the assistance of one man, a sled and a yoke of oxen in moving them. This helper was a green and stolid German immigrant, utterly devoid of curiosity, and the man who helped to bury the giant was another of the same description.

The statue was allowed to remain more than two years in the ground before its maker considered it to be in proper condition for "accidental" discovery. Hull then promptly "discovered" and dug out the "petrification" and placed it on public view to amaze and perplex people generally and to delight the antiquarians, who found it an argument to uphold some of their most cherished theories. It took its name from the fact that near the spot where it was buried and resurrected was a small hamlet called Cardiff. The public career of the Cardiff Giant was not of long continuance, however, but was sufficiently lengthy to enable Mr. Hull to make considerable money out of his clever conception. He declared, however, that he might have made much more money if he had accepted Mr. Barnum's offer made at the time of the Giant's first appearance in public. Mr. Hull knew, too, that exposure was bound to come in the end, but that mattered not to him. For many years thereafter the Cardiff Giant reposed neglected in the very shop in which it was made; but its owner and inventor averred that he was entirely content with the financial result of his ingenuity.

Juggling Tales

A juggler nowadays must, among other qualifications, be a man with ideas; if he can only perform a few feats, no matter how wonderful and clever they may be, he will never win a great reputation.

I have never been troubled with a lack of ideas for new feats; but many of them have taken a tremendous time to master completely. Ideas for feats come to me in all sorts of ways. For example, when I was balancing a large wooden ball on top of a stick one day just for practice, the ball slipped and fell on the back of my neck without hurting me in the least. It then at once occurred to me that if I could catch a ball by accident on the back of my neck without hurting myself, I ought to be able to do the same thing any time I wanted to. So I threw the ball up in the air tried to catch it on the same place, did not quite succeed, and was knocked senseless on the floor. This determined me to master the art of catching a ball on my neck without hurting myself. The difficulty to overcome was to catch the ball on the right place; an eighth of an inch to the right or left, if a heavy ball is used, means instant death. So I began to practise with a fairly light one, and, as I grew more perfect, used a heavier ball, until I was able to catch a sixty-pound cannonball on my neck on the right place with as much certainty as I can place a hat on my head. It took me about a year to master this feat. Though by no means the most difficult feat in my repertoire, it is certainly the most popular, probably because it looks such a dangerous thing to do.

Another feat came into my head one day when I was at dinner. It struck me as I was cutting a potato that it would be rather a nice notion to cut the potato in two in the air and catch the two portions on the knife and fork. I made a note of the idea, and a little afterward began to practise it. I was able to do it fairly accurately after a month; but it took two years' work before I felt justified in doing the feat in public.

There are some feats that I venture to perform in public only in the winter. One of them is balancing the thin end of a billiard cue on my nose; then I let the cue slide down my nose and bring it up again balanced on the heavy end. This is extremely difficult, and if the cue should become in the least bit sticky, as it is likely to do in hot weather, it would not slide with sufficient smoothness or rapidity to enable me to succeed. I often practise this a hundred times before breakfast, as it is splendid for keeping the eye in training.

A popular feat is balancing a top hat on an umbrella. On the hat is placed a halfcrown and a cigar. I toss the lot in the air and catch the cigar in my mouth, the halfcrown in my eye, and the hat on my head.

A rather funny incident occurred in connection with this feat some years ago, when I was playing in pantomime at Manchester. In the third scene I came on as a waiter and performed all sorts of antics with cups, plates and saucers; then a "funny man" came on, who challenged me to perform the trick with the hat, cigar and halfcrown. "I'll give you the halfcrown," the man would say, "if you catch it in your right eye.”

I performed the feat but caught the coin in my left eye. "You cannot have the halfcrown," the man would exclaim. "You have caught it in your left instead of your right eye.."

Then I would say, "That is easily altered," and would just jerk the coin - without, of course, touching it - across my face, and catch it in the right eye and then walk off with it. This always raised great laughter, and was quite a successful little "business."

But one night it unfortunately failed to work. I should mention that I never put on grease paint, and in consequence my face looked rather white and pallid beside those of the other performers in the pantomime. One night the manager called my attention to this fact, and to oblige him I brightened up my countenance with a lathering of grease paint - with most untoward results; for when I came to the critical part of my performance, where I had to jerk the halfcrown from my left to right eye, the coin refused to stir, - it was stuck to the paint, - and, much to the amusement of the audience and to those on the stage as well, I had to take it out of my eye with my hand.

I have performed in all parts of the world and in some rather curious places; but I think the most awkward place I ever worked in was at a street corner in Boulder City when I was doing a tour of the world some years ago. The performance was an impromptu affair. I happened to be at Coolgarlie, and some one suggested that I should go to Boulder for the benefit of the miners. I had a platform put up at the corner of the street outside the hotel where I stopped, round which the seats were ranged. Unluckily for me, a terrific gale was blowing at the time of the performance, and one fearful blast sent a quantity of my belongings in the way of hats, sticks, and various juggling implements into the street, which the miners kindly gathered up and returned to me. The gale made it impossible for me to perform a number of feats; but I am always ready for emergencies, and managed to give an exhibition that satisfied my audience.

A very little thing may interfere with some feats. I remember some years ago - it was at Chicago, I think - I was in my room at the hotel practising balancing two billiard balls on each other on top of a cue. To my horror I found I was unable to perform this feat. Now, it is extremely difficult, and it took over eight years' practice before I had mastered it; indeed, when I was learning to do it, I was told by several people that I was simply wasting my time trying to do a thing scientifically impossible of accomplishment. My feelings, therefore, when I found myself unable to balance the balls on the cue, can be better imagined than described. I should not attempt to do any feat in public if I found myself unable to do it with perfect certainty in private, and yet it was absolutely essential that I should give this as usual that evening. For over an hour I tried to balance the balls on the cue; but failed every time to do so, and I sat down in despair. What had happened to me I could not say; but the fact remained that I was unable any longer to perform the finest feat I had learned after years of practice.

As I was sitting by the table in my room wondering what I should do, I fancied I heard a faint throbbing noise. After listening for a little while, I suddenly jumped up and rang the bell violently.

"Tell me quick!" I cried to the servant. "What is that noise? Listen!"

"Oh," replied the man, "that is the gas engine in the basement."

"Stop it at once!" I cried. "Stop it if it costs a hundred pounds! Quick!"

The man fled from the room, and by his look I am afraid he thought I had gone crazy; but he had the engine stopped, and in a few minutes the throbbing noise ceased.

Then I once more tried balancing the billiard balls on the cue, and succeeded in performing the feat without the least difficulty. It was as I had thought; the vibration of the gas engine had upset the balance of the balls and had made it impossible for me to perform the feat.

I will conclude these little reminiscences of my career with an incident that still remains fresh in my mind, though it happened many years ago, when I was a little boy of nine years old. I was then apprenticed to a showman, who conceived the notion of disguising me as a baboon and making me go through all sorts of strange antics and perform many clever feats - clever, that is, for a baboon. The showman exhibited me as a genuine baboon, and used to tell his audience the most wonderful stories about my capture and subsequent training.

All went well until I reached Lissa, my native town, where my parents lived. Neither of them had seen me for three years, and under vow of the strictest secrecy they were told the true story of the wonderful boy baboon, and came to see his performance.

Now it so happened that the manager had arranged a specially dangerous feat for me that night, which consisted in jumping through a hoop studded with large sharp knives, so that if I did not jump perfectly straight I should probably be severely injured. Just as I was about to take the jump, my mother shrieked out, "Don't do it, Paul, don't do it! You will be killed!"

This interruption made me forget myself, and I shouted out, "It is all right, mother! I can do it easily."

A howl of derision came from the audience, and early the next day the show hastily left Lissa; but I remained behind.

Girls in Pink Tights

It is always fine to see a man in pink tights sailing around a ring on a galloping horse at a speed that forces both rider and animal to lean toward the ring at an impossible angle. It looks so easy. The spangled man does not seem to have a bit of trouble. He walks about the horse's back almost from tail to neck in the most ordinary fashion. He faces to the rear as often as to the front. Why, so easy does it look and so many of them do it that the audience does not even applaud. Even when the spangled man - or it may be a short-skirted fairy - plumps through a balloon or a hoop of fire or keeps his place while a horse leaps over hurdles, the plaudits are only scattering. It takes a somersault or a grand and rapid combination of two or three neck-jeopardizing tricks to win anything by adequate recognition from those who try to watch two bewildering rings, a specialty platform and a couple of trapeze outfits alive with twisting, swinging men and women, all at the same time.

There's a whole lot to the business of bare back riding that you do not see in the ring.

Back in the dressing room, beyond the gorgeous flag-draped canopy through which they all came, they tell you more about it in ten minutes than you could learn in a whole year of industrious circus going's.

It was in order to let some of the dressing-room information get to the public that William Showles and William Dutton, of Sells Brothers Circus, who can do anything on a horse's back that anyone else can do, gave a performance at which the only spectators were members of the Examiner staff and an Examiner photogragher [sic]. In order to further illustrate what the riders said about their business, Miss Pauline Lee and Miss Daisy Belmont donned their prettiest Suisseskirts and pinkest tights, and showed that a woman can do a whole lot of things on a horse besides hanging on to the saddle horn and getting her bangs mussed.

"You see," said Mr. Showles, as he kicked off his slippers, "the people all watch the man as he goes around the ring. Their applause is for him as their uncomfortable silence when a trick is bungled as a matter of fact it is, nine times out of 10, the horse that deserves the applause and men the censure. The best rider that ever jumped over a banner could no more do his work on an ordinary animal than the fat lady in the side show could.

"The failure of a trick is very seldem [sic] the fault of the man. He never attempts a trick in public that he has not learned perfectly. He would simply be inviting a broken neck if he did. He goes about his business as mechanically as a brick-layer goes about laying bricks. He knows exactly what he wants to do and does it. If the horse neither tumbles or swerves, nor breaks, goes neither faster nor slower while the man is in the air the trick will succeed. If he does any of these things it nearly always means a bad fall for the bareback rider."

Mr. Showles stopped talking and prepared to mount.

The photographer planted his camera and got ready.

"Why don't you come closer?" asked Mr. Dutton.

"I'm afraid of making the horse shy," answered the picture man.

"Shy! well if you can make that horse shy you can have him. I'd have no further use for him. You could fire a blast right in front of him and start up a combined windmill and steam-calliope by the ringside, and he'd keep right on with his lope. That's about the most important part of a circus horse's training. When they are being broken for the ring, men jump up at the ring-side, shoot, shout and wave things; balloons and poles are dropped across the track, and everything else is done that would terrify a horse. But a horse is a pretty sensible beast, and pretty soon he gets used to the surprises and understands that nothing can harm him. Why, once I was doing my bareback act with that horse, and one of the big elephants broke loose in a tantrum and rushed right through the ring, tramping and smashing things. Fortunately he went so quickly that there was no collision, but that horse never broke his lope. Lucky thing, too. The people seeing me go right ahead with my act, got a half notion that the roaring elephant was part of the performance and kept their seats while the big beast rushed on out the front door. So there was no panic.

"I guess you can bring up your camera."

By this time the horse was galloping swiftly around the ring.

"All ready," shouted Showles. "Now!" and he ran swiftly beside the horse, rose in the air and came down fair in the middle of the animal's back.

"That looked simple enough, didn't it?" said Showles, as he lightly sprang to the ground, "but, just the same, it's one of the hardest things we do. I must catch the time of the horse, and calculate how far he will have gone when I alight. You can see how necessary it is to have a perfectly even-gaited horse. It is a question of a fraction of a second whether I keep my foothold or fall. If that horse made the least jump as my foot touched him, he would go right out from under me. It is considerable of a shock, as you may guess, the impact of one hundred and sixty pounds with no saddle or pad to protect the horse. It takes a whole lot of training to get them used to it, and many horses cannot be broken to it at all. When making the jump I must have my balance perfectly. If I land at all unsteadily, my jump must fail. It is almost impossible to recover one's equilibrium when it is once lost.

"How did I learn it? Why by practicing with a mechanic, of course. A mechanic is an apparatus to keep a performer from falling. It consists of a pulley arrangement that runs to an arm that runs out from the center-pole and it's free to revolve with the horse around the ring. At one end of the rope the performer is hooked on; at the other end is a man to take up the slack. If the rider slips, or the horse jumps from under him, it simply leaves him swinging in the air."

"What is the first thing to learn about bareback riding?" was asked Mr. Dutton.

"To stand properly upon the horse," he answered. "Your with the right shoulder turned towards the horse's head. The springiness must all come from the ball of the foot, not from the knees. That is why the toes must bear so much of the weight. The tendency to ride on the heels is the first thing a beginner must overcome.

"When I learned to ride bareback, thirty odd years ago, we had no mechanics. When I had got so that I could hang a saddle like a cowboy from Texas they gave me a pad. That made a regular flat platform of the horse's back. On this I learned to stand up. Then from a regular dancing teacher I learned to step gracefully and gradually I got so I could do all these steps on the pad. When I had thoroughly learned how to hold my balance I went ahead with the fancy tricks. Of course I got lots of falls before I learned, but the practice ring was covered with soft tan bark and I was not hurt.

"Now when I practice I use the mechanic. During a performance I have to take chances on getting my neck broken. That's what I am paid for, but no rider cares to take anymore chances than he has to."

Miss Lee next consented to show something of her art. "I suppose," said she, as she started the horse around the ring, "that you know all about the technical part of riding. But there is some difference between a woman's work on horseback and a man's. In the first place we have to be graceful. That bars us from many of the more effective twists and contortions that the men do. A remarkably clever woman can do a somersault on horseback without shocking folks, but that is about as far as she can go, and the woman who can do it is a woman, and no mistake. As far as mere muscular activity is concerned a woman can succeed nearly if not quite as well as a man. Being, however, thus prevented from doing the daring things, we have to make up for it by riding in different positions, etc. Did you ever notice closely a woman on a barebacked horse as he makes his leap over a hurdle? She has got to look as if she were as safe and comfortable as she would be in an arm-chair. As a matter of fact she is not a bit comfortable. The only hold she has on the horse is the grip of one knee and her heel. It would disgrace her forever if she touched her hands to anything. I'll show you what I mean."

A quick vault and she was on the horse's back. Away went horse and she on him. First on one foot, then on the other, she balanced. When the horse approached the hurdle she dropped on one knee, letting the other pink-clad limb slide down the horse's side. One hoof touched the top rail and made a great clatter, but the horse never lost his gait and the rider kept her position and the shock of alighting did not budge her an inch.

Then came the balloon act. That was a wonderful thing years and years ago.

A sylph launching herself full into a paper-covered hoop and landing exactly where she wanted to used to set a whole audience to clapping. That was in the good old days of single rings. Now there can be a sylph in each of the three rings, going through a balloon at every quarter of the circle and not a murmur from the benches. Still, it is an act that cannot be omitted. It would not be a circus if the spangled divinities did not plump through the rings. "The main trouble in this trick," as Daisy Belmont explained, "is that the hoop hides the horse and leaves the success or failure entirely to him. If the horse did falter or swerve and the rider could see it, there would be a possibility of the performer's changing his direction and still landing safely. Fortunately circus horses are too well trained to deviate from their gait and accidents in doing this particular trick have seldom occurred.

Mr. Showles then showed some of his fancy work - standing on his hands on the back of a galloping horse, riding on the flank of the horse and all the other things that have made him a famous rider. Then Mr. Dutton showed how to turn a somersault on the back of a horse. He knows all about somersaults, does Mr. Dutton. He can do a double turn and twist in the air as easily as the rest of us can walk. Then he is one of the two or three men in the world who have turned somersaults and have lived to tell about it. He does not do this often. As a matter of fact, he has not tried it since he did it successfully. He says that it was only an accident that he landed on his feet. After a man has turned twice he loses all control of his motion. Nearly every man who has tried the triple somersault has landed on his head or neck and been buried by his fellows of the ring. So Mr. Dutton is an authority on somersaults.

He waited as the horse loped around the ring, moving his body with every leap the horse made, until he had gotten the animal's motion perfectly timed.

"No," he shouted.

The horse went under a banner, there was a confused gleam of pink tights above the banner, and the expert was again on his horse's back perfectly firm.

The camera got him, however, just before his feet touched the horse. It was a forward somersault. He turns one backward just as easily.

"The man who aims to turn a somersault on a horse's back," said Mr. Dutton, "first practices turning them on the ground. He marks out a spot hardly a foot square and practices until he lands directly on it every time. Ordinarily, of course, he lands several feet behind it, or an equal distance before it, according to the sort of somersault he makes. Then he has to practice gaining. Usually a couple of feet must be gained to insure the rider's landing in the right spot after a somersault. A horse, however, learns to know from the force with which you jump whether it is a simple jump or a somersault you are making. He knows you are coming down hard after turning in the air, and many horses will give a sudden start as you leave them. Then you have to gain three or even four feet."

It was 1 o'clock in the afternoon, and a shout proclaimed that the canvas doors were open for the regular performance. In five minutes the circus riders were doing their tricks again.

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