The people who were patrons of the circus in early days were very
"gullible." Every showman of ripe years has in his memory incidents
from his own experience which fully corroborate this statement. The
old-time show was an "event" of large importance in the life of the
small village, no matter whether that village were hid among the hills
or were a landmark upon the open plains--in either instance it was as
effectually separated from the rest of mankind as if it had been an
isle at sea. The circus, to the villagers and the farmers, was an
unending cause of wonder and curiosity.
Strange reports floated ahead and behind the circus--and, for the most
part, were believed. The exact size of the coming wonder was a subject
for animated discussion. Of course the people did not believe all that
the billboards said; but they believed enough to credit the coming show
with being two or three times as large as it really was in fact. When a
circus proved to be smaller than the popular estimate, it was said to
have split or divided, one section going to some other "small" place.
As these rumors were never contradicted by the showmen they spread
rapidly and the circus became near kin to some fabulous, hydra-headed
sea serpent--a creature which has a habit of taking on more heads and
bristling manes every time it is seen. As a matter of fact it would
have been exceedingly impracticable to have divided a show and, so far
as my knowledge goes this was never done. Showmen did not deny these
reports for the simple reason that they had no time to answer
questions. Many inquiries had hardened them, and, if they ever relented
in this particular it was only to fill their auditors' ears with bigger
yarns because that course was the easiest way to get rid of the
questioners. In explanation of this I may say that the questions which
are "fired" at showmen in every town would go a long way toward filling
a volume. Showmen in the early days had a habit of agreeing, without
hesitation, to every story advanced by patrons. For example, I remember
that, on coming into a certain town we selected our lot and began to
pitch our tent. During the process of the work one of our men--a
strong, burly Irishman--was approached by an angry countryman who
demanded to know what had become of his calf which, it appeared, had
been stolen from him during the run of the last circus which had
stopped at the town. Of course the countryman had laid the blame at the
door of the circus men and, although ours was an entirely different
show, it was evident that all circuses looked alike to him, and that he
believed them all to belong to a strongly knit brotherhood whose
mission was for the accumulation of dollars and, incidentally, the
promotion of general deviltry. He threatened our men with many things
if they did not disclose the whereabouts of his lost calf. "Well," said
big Pat, when the countryman had ceased his tirade; "now you spake av
it, Oi balave Oi do remember thot calf. We took her down here to
Jonesville and--domn me--she's a foine big cow now."