I
When Huckleberry Finn went to the circus he sneaked in under the tent
when the watchman was absent. He had money in his pocket, but he feared
that he might need this. "I ain't opposed to spending money on
circuses," he confessed, "when there ain't no other way, but there ain't
no use in _wasting_ it on them." In spite of the fact that he had not
paid for his seat, and that he was thereby released from the necessity
of getting his money's worth, he declared cheerfully that "it was a real
bully circus. It was the splendidest sight that ever was, when they all
come riding in, two and two, a gentleman and a lady, side by side, the
men just in their drawers and undershirts, and no shoes nor stirrups,
and resting their hands on their thighs, easy and comfortable ... and
every lady with a lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and
looking like a gang of real sure-enough queens.... And then, one by one,
they got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so gentle and
wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy and straight,
with their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up there under the
tent roof, and every lady's rose-leaf dress flapping soft and silky
around her hips, and she looking like the most loveliest parasol."
However much Huck was impressed by the Grand Entry, he seems to have
been more pleased by the surprising act, traditionally known as 'Pete
Jenkins,' and never better described than by Mark Twain's youthful hero.
"And by and by a drunk man tried to get into the ring--said he wanted to
ride; said he could ride as well as anybody that ever was. They argued
and tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't listen, and the whole show
came to a standstill. Then the people began to holler at him and make
fun of him.... So then the ring-master he made a little speech, and said
he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and if the man would promise
he wouldn't make no more trouble, he would let him ride, if he thought
he could stay on the horse.... The minute he was on the horse he began
to rip and tear and jump and cavort around ... the drunk man hanging
onto his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump.... But pretty
soon he struggled up astraddle and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this
way and that; and the next minute he sprung up and stood! and the horse
a-going like a house afire, too. He just stood there, a-sailing around
as easy and as comfortable as if he warn't ever drunk in his life--and
then he begun to pull off his clothes and sling them. He shed them so
thick they kind of clogged up the air, and altogether he shed seventeen
suits. And then, here he was, slim and handsome, and dressed the
grandiest and prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into that horse and
made him hum--and finally skipped off and made his bow and danced off
to the dressing-room, and everybody just a-howling with pleasure and
astonishment. Then the ring-master, he see how he had been fooled, and
he was the sickest ring-master you ever see, I reckon. Why, it was one
of his own men! He had got up that joke all out of his own head, and
never let on to nobody!"
Yet in this enjoyment of a practical joke, dear to every boy's heart,
Huck did not fail to note that the skilful rider who had pretended to be
intoxicated, stood up at last, "slim and handsome." Even Huck Finn,
neglected son of the town-drunkard, was quick to respond to the appeal
of the supple and well-proportioned figure of the rider after the
superimposed clothing had been discarded, just as he had felt the
attraction of the varied colors and the graceful evolutions of the Grand
Entry. At bottom, it was the beauty of the display that he appreciated
most keenly. By the side of this passage from Mark Twain's masterpiece
may be set a passage from Mr. Hamlin Garland's best story, 'Rose of
Dutcher's Coolly,' in which we find recorded the impressions of a girl
of about the same age, the daughter of a hard-working Wisconsin farmer.
Rose had never seen a circus before, and even the morning street parade
fired her imagination.
"On they came, a band leading the way. Just behind, with glitter of
lance and shine of helmet, came a dozen knights and fair ladies riding
spirited chargers. They all looked strange and haughty, and sneeringly
indifferent to the cheers of the people. The women seemed small and
firm and scornful, and the men rode with lances uplifted, looking down
at the crowd with a haughty droop in their eyelids." Rose "did not laugh
at the clown jigging by in a pony-cart, for there was a face between her
and all that followed--the face of a bare-armed knight, with brown hair
and a curling mustache, whose proud neck had a curve in it as he bent
his head to speak to his rearing horse.... His face was fine, like
pictures she had seen."
In the afternoon Rose attended the performance in the tent and "sat in a
dream of delight as the band began to play.... Then the music struck
into a splendid gallop and out from the curtained mysteries beyond, the
knights and ladies darted, two by two, in glory of crimson and gold, and
green and silver. At their head rode the man with the brown mustache." A
little later "six men dressed in tights of blue and white and orange ran
into the ring, and her hero led them. He wore blue and silver, and on
his breast was a rosette. He looked a god to her. His naked limbs, his
proud neck, the lofty carriage of his head, made her shiver with
emotion. They all came to her, lit by the white radiance; they were not
naked, they were beautiful.... They invested their nakedness with
something which exalted them. They became objects of luminous beauty to
her, tho she knew nothing of art. To see him bow and kiss his fingers to
the audience was a revelation of manly grace and courtesy." When at last
the show was over and Rose went out into the open air, "it seemed
strange to see the same blue sky arching the earth; things seemed
exactly the same, and yet Rose had grown older. She had developed
immeasurably in those few hours." As they looked back at the tents, Rose
knew that "something sweet and splendid and mystical was passing out of
her life after a few hours' stay there. Her feeling of loss was none the
less real because it was indefinable to her."
She never saw this acrobat again, and after a little while she knew that
she did not want to see him. He lingered in her memory, a vision from
another world than any she had ever dreamed--a world of heroic romance
and of lofty idealism. "She began to live for him, her ideal. She set
him on high as a being to be worshiped, as a man fit to be her judge. In
the days and weeks which followed she asked herself: 'Would he like me
to do this?' When the sunset was very beautiful, she thought of him....
Vast ambitions began in her.... She would do something great for his
sake.... In short, she consecrated herself to him as to a king, and
seized upon every chance to educate herself to be worthy of him." And
while her soul was thus expanding under the influence of this poetic
idealization of a manly figure revealed to her only for two or three
hours, all unconsciously she patterned her movements upon his. She
walked with a free stride, and her body came to have the easy carriage
of the athlete. Later, when Rose had matured into a beauty of her own,
she confessed to an elder woman this sentimental awakening in her early
girlhood; and it became evident to her friend that "the beautiful poise
of the head, and supple swing of the girl's body was in part due to the
suggestion of the man's perfect grace."