I saw him when he first came out of the Sisters’ hospital. He had been
with the Sells Brothers’ Circus, but was taken with mountain fever while
the show was in Grand Junction, Colorado. His wife was a tight rope
dancer and trapeze performer, and went on with the show. She may have
regretted to go, and she may not have cared at all. She had never written
to him after she went away. He told me confidentially that he suspected
her of being infatuated with one of the acrobats, but hoped to win her
back when he got on his feet again.
Somehow or other, every man with a pain at his heart came to me in that
faraway town. Was it because I was homesick and kept longing, longing for
the valleys of old Pennsylvania, and the unfortunate could read something
in my face that encouraged them to unburden their souls to me? Even my
wife was drawn into some of the unfortunate love affairs of the young men
and women, and we listened to the tales of woe, like martyrs, and gave
advice which we knew would never be followed; for who can advise a young
man or woman in love?
One poor fellow had been jilted by a young woman who visited at our home
very often, and he came around almost every evening to try and have a
last interview with her. But she never came back after treating the young
man so badly, for she knew our feelings in the matter. The man she jilted
was a handsome boy—a young French Canadian, and the man she intended to
marry was a boasting Yankee from Michigan.
Finally we persuaded George to go over into Wyoming, as he intended to do
if the girl married him; where he fell in love with a Western girl and
was happily married in less than a year. Emma married young Lane, and
deserted him in less than two years, and we never saw her again.
And the poor showman came likewise to me and told his tale of sorrow and
financial troubles. A relative of mine was organizing a little circus in
the town, and proposed going on the road after the summer fair. I secured
a situation for my new friend, but when the opening day came the poor
fellow had not gained sufficient strength to perform on the bars, or ride
bareback, as he had been doing before he was taken down with fever.
But he could sing a song, so on the first night he came out before an
unappreciative and unsympathetic audience and tried to sing. He did not
know that weakness of the body interfered with the voice. The audience
laughed at first, for they thought he was imitating an old man; but when
they discovered that the poor emaciated fellow was giving them the best
he had, they hooted him and hissed him, and called to him to take the
frog out of his throat, and to get more wind, and to go and hire out as a
nurse and sing to the baby.
Oh, how I pitied the poor fellow. The refrain of his song was: “But I
will say nothing, not I!” I went around to the dressing room to console
the poor man, for there was a look on his face when he left the ring
which I did not like to see. He had been despondent and dejected before,
but when he left the ring there was a look of desperation on his thin
face. I found him sitting on a trunk taking a fond look at the photo of
his absent wife. I tried to start a conversation with him, but he only
looked at me and asked: “Did you catch the refrain of the song I tried to
sing? Well ‘I will say nothing—not I’ tonight. You have been kind to me,
and some day it will come back to you, like bread cast upon the waters,
but nothing will ever come back to me. My heart is broken—I am no good. I
am deserted and alone. The woman I loved has left me, and my luck will go
with her—good bye—I’m going out.”
He shook hands and I said, “Wayne, I will see you in the morning.”
“Yes, in the morning,” he replied, as he lifted the flap of the tent and
passed out into the night, while I returned to the big tent and tried to
become interested in the performance.
Next morning the body of my despondent friend was found in the Grand
river, just below the bridge, lodged on the middle island.
When the ringmaster announced to the audience that the man who had been
hissed from the ring on the previous night had drowned himself, there
were a few “Oh’s!” from the women, but the men who hissed him were not
there. One man said if they had known the real facts, they would not have
hissed; but when people do not know the real facts, is when they should
be merciful—always.