THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A CIRCUS HORSE
When the circus bill posters swarmed over the farm a month ago and
garnished my stable with products of their pot and brush, a shadow of
sadness and melancholy oppressed me. Curiosity urged me to approach,
but a sense of mortification over my ignominious fate bade me restrain
myself. I kept in seclusion under a distant apple-tree and hoped to
escape detection. However, I was doomed to disappointment, for soon I
observed my owner, whom I detest, coming with halter and whip. Then
I knew that he had revealed my identity to the showmen and they had
expressed a desire to view me. At first I was disinclined to enter
their presence, but the master cornered me and adjusted straps, despite
my protestations. How shameful a spectacle, Tom Keene, who made for
himself, at home and abroad, a place among the greatest horses in
circus history, being led by a New Hampshire farmer--for the vulgar
scrutiny of a group of cheap posters!
They inspected me with many evidences of interest, although I am
convinced I would not have been recognized had not one of the visitors
called attention to a scar on my flank and recalled the incident of
a train wreck in which it was received. Then I remembered him as one
of the stable men of my professional career. He called me by name and
stroked me tenderly, but I was too ashamed at my position to respond
to his greetings. He handed the master an order for circus seats and
I felt more miserable. I knew it was inevitable that my old comrades
spy me hitched to the old carry-all, along with the nags of the
neighborhood, as they paraded by amid the joyous flourish of trumpets
and proud and plumed. I loathed myself in the contemplation.
The succeeding days were a period of dismal foreboding. Adding to my
sorrows and regret was the scarlet paper which confronted me when I
entered the stable. It depicted the performance of one “Senator,” a
low-born pony, of whom I had a vague memory. He had displaced me with
my associate of many years, Frank J. Melville. He was represented in
all sorts of accomplishments, which I secretly feared were really
carried out. A wave of emotion and sentiment overcame me whenever I
permitted myself to gaze at the familiar figure of the man. My mind
reverted to the time when he was one of the champion bareback riders
and I contributed to the brilliant artistic results. How I longed to
feel his slippered feet on my broad back, and hear again the plaudits
of onlookers! I shall always have a warm, deep feeling for him.
Perhaps, after all, he had no other recourse than to dispense with my
services. I know he was much affected at the parting, and exacted a
promise that I should always be given kind treatment, and that every
consideration be shown my impaired leg.
Instinct told me when the hateful day was at hand. The master was up
and about early and I could hear the glad shouts of the children. I had
little appetite for the bountiful breakfast he spread before me, and
he seemed much concerned over my want of spirit and worn appearance. I
had wasted appreciably in anxiety over the ordeal before me and felt a
faint sympathy for the man. I appreciated that he would feel that Mr.
Melville would decide that I had not received proper care and would be
angry. For myself, I was in that desperate condition of mind which is
the recklessness of despair.
I was guided, to a hitching post in the main street of the town, where
eager crowds awaited the arrival of the parade. We were a shabby enough
outfit, the farm wagon and I, and I could summon no interest in the
scene. I heard, with listless feeling, the master confide, boastfully,
to all who would listen, that once I had shed great lustre upon the
circus ring, and felt no humiliation when they scoffed at his words. He
seemed to find great exultation in dwelling upon my former renown and
my downfall, and in his present proprietorship. I caught a glimpse
of several familiar faces in the throng, notably the circus detective
and the commissary department man, but gave no sign of recognition.
If they observed me at all, they doubtless saw nothing not in common
with my neighbors from the rural districts. The crowd wondered at
the tardiness of the parade, and I felt a silent contempt for their
ignorance. The cages had just passed on the way to the lot and they
come on the last section. The man who leads the procession passed in
his carriage, inspecting and familiarizing himself with the route. I,
of all the throng, alone knew him and his mission.
[Illustration: TEACHING HER HORSE NEW TRICKS.]
Soon the faint music of the bands and the distant shriek of the
calliope. The cortege was approaching. I braced myself for the trying
experience. Some one shouted: “Look out for your horses! The elephants
are right behind!” A policeman grabbed my bridle and I gazed at him,
indulgently. I afraid! I who lived for years among them! I remembered
the solemn joke of my former loved master, who used to cry, when
the crowd wouldn’t make way: “Keep back! A drove of loose lions are
coming!” Then there had been no further pushing; everybody scampered
to sidewalk or doorstep. I think it was the third uniformed horseman
who recalled in me their old acquaintance. He called the attention of
the rider behind, was corroborated and then the word seemed to pass
instantaneously back through the parade. Some reached over and patted
my sides, others spoke words of encouragement and praise, and all had a
look of profound veneration. I tried to look very spruce and sprightly
through it all, but candor confesses that the attempt was a feeble
imitation of the old days. My blood stirred for the first time since I
was in the foremost circus ranks and I lamented bitterly. Oh, for the
staunch, true leg of a few years ago and Mr. Melville on my back! Again
we would make all other performances appear commonplace.
The man I sought everywhere with my eyes was not in the procession and
a fear possessed me that I might not be permitted to feel his hand
and hear his voice. But it developed that this was farthest from my
master’s thought. Up to the circus grounds we progressed and I ambled
to the horse tents and stopped mechanically. I was living again in
former glories. Then my eyes were blessed with the appearance of my old
comrade. How he kissed and hugged me and looked me over critically and
asked about my welfare! And how ineffably proud and happy I was when
he insisted there was never my equal in all the requirements of the
ring, and there was none to say him nay! I fancied there were tears
in his eyes as we hopped away toward the farm, and I gave him a last
beseeching plea for a return to the old life. My three sound legs are
as gifted, I’ll warrant, as any four in the circus stables.
Thus was broken, for a little space, the dull tenor of my sombre life.
I often assure myself that death will be brighter than the contemptuous
existence I am leading. Of one thing I am convinced, the history of
the circus can never be written without mentioning me, the pioneer of
horses born with all the true circus instincts. I first saw the light
of day in Keene, N. H., not far from the spot where I am passing my
last days in oblivion. I was distinguished by a strong frame, was
hardy, gentle and active, and could properly be called handsome. Mr.
James A. Bailey singled me out when his circus came to New Hampshire,
and my career certainly justified all the prophetic things he said
about me. I was disappointed when they attached me to the pole-wagon,
but felt confident that I would soon rise superior to the rather humble
position. The work was long and arduous, and it was several weeks
before I became accustomed to the nocturnal train rides, jammed erect
among a score of other equines, but I endured it better than many of
my companions. Some of them contracted a disease of the foot, caused
by continued rain and mud, and in many cases it resulted fatally. I
was patient and hopeful through all vicissitudes and arrived at winter
quarters in physical condition that attracted general attention.
Mr. Melville happened upon me soon after arrival and stopped short
in admiring wonder. I knew him as a noted rider and connoisseur of
horseflesh and was much elated. Next day Martin Welsh led me to new
quarters. He was Mr. Melville’s groom, and the delicious consciousness
came that I was in their famous hands. Soon practice began as a ring
animal and a great future opened before me. I meditate over the past,
here in my loneliness, and wonder if mine is not a career which no
other circus animal has equalled. Some of its striking features occur
vividly to me.
I remember first, with pardonable pride, that it was generally conceded
that I was the best “broke” horse in the history of the ring. There
seemed to be a vein of harmony in the feeling existing between Mr.
Melville and myself. Nothing ever made me nervous or shy. I trusted my
master implicitly and I was as accurate and certain in my movements
when he was turning somersaults or leaping through fire rings or
balloons as when we made the preliminary canter. My broad, muscular
back was ever waiting for him to alight just where he planned. Many
said much of the credit for his feats was mine. Modesty prevents an
expression on my part. We toured America a season and were everywhere
received with warm approval. Then we set out for England. Bessie, a
fine, gray horse, also from New Hampshire, accompanied us. She was a
wonderfully intelligent animal, and the only horse, I understand, who
ever was trained to trot in the circus ring. She used to circle the
ring at a forty gait, with our owner doing all sorts of tricks upon her
back. Poor girl, she died in Hamburg and I missed her sorely for years.
Our itinerary, as I recall it, was about like this: From London to
Hamburg, to Russia, to Poland, to Liverpool, to France, to Holland,
to France again, to Belgium, back to Hamburg, returning to London and
Liverpool, once more in Hamburg and then aboard ship for our native
country. Here we visited all states and territories, toured Mexico and
passed on to Cuba. Ten years were consumed in our travels and nowhere
did we fail to achieve emphatic success. It is a record I contemplate
with a feeling of great elation, and which I have heard circus men say
is entitled to unique distinction. We gave eleven private matinees
before the royal family of Russia, and some of the prominent persons
who witnessed our performances during our professional career were
Grover Cleveland, President of the United States; the late Queen
Victoria of England and her son, the present king; the Marquis of
Salisbury, prime minister of England and the great leader in the House
of Commons; Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany and his wife and their son,
Prince Fritz; the late Prince Von Bismarck, the “man of iron;” the late
Count Von Moltke, field marshal and chief of staff of the German Army,
one of the world’s greatest soldiers; President Carnot, of the French
Republic, since assassinated; Queen Emma of Holland and her daughter,
the present queen; King Leopold of Belgium; the last three Emperors
of Russia, Alexander I., Alexander II., and Nicholas II; and Francis
Joseph, emperor of Austria, and his accomplished wife who was later
stabbed to death. What other lowly horse ever helped to enthrall the
attention of such a galaxy of notables?
Many ludicrous and many sober incidents of my eventful circus life come
to my mind. I was in many train wrecks. Once my car caught fire on the
journey from St. Petersburg to Warsaw. There were four of us in the
place and I was the only one to escape alive. Martin Welsh, my devoted
friend, helped me to safety. Again, when twenty-five horses were packed
in one of the circus cars in Indiana, it rolled down an embankment. I
was one of five to emerge unhurt; most of the others had their necks
broken. I remember, too, when I was thrown with four carloads of equine
companions into the Ohio river. It happened on a Sunday run from Cairo,
Ill., to Detroit, Mich. Many were drowned or perished from exposure.
I floated about eight hours before being rescued and never felt any
ill effects. Mr. Melville and I were on the steamer Stork which became
waterlogged during the trip from Hamburg to England. We were nine days
at sea, and I passed most of the time in water above my knees. I was
ready for the ring when we finally landed.
I am sure that I have travelled more miles in my life than any other
horse ever born and have displayed through it all more hardihood than
any, save perhaps Mayfly, whose famous career has been recited many
times in circus camps. He antedated me many years. They tell of his
standing trip of one hundred and ninety days from Sydney, Australia, to
Valparaiso, Chili, and his subsequent rough overland journey to various
parts of the republic and back again to the Pacific Ocean. Then he was
taken by water to San Francisco, a three months’ trying experience, and
later around the southern continent to New York. It was enough to wreck
the finest constitution, but he never flinched. He and his sister,
Black Bess, were of pure Arab extraction, and some of the finest horses
in California to-day date their parentage from them. As bareback
performers they have had few superiors.
Then I remember, too, many renowned animals of my time. The Russian
horse Zib, who was poisoned in Mexico, achieved fame more for his
tricks than his ring exhibitions. Dan Rice’s horses Excelsior and
Excelsior, Jr., although both blind, were wonderfully intelligent.
Obeying their master’s directions, they would grope to a pedestal,
place the left foot on its staff, bend the right leg gracefully and
incline both ears forward as if in the act of listening. How often
have I, in an adjacent ring, seen the veteran clown turn proudly to
the audience and heard him announce: “Mark well the beauty of the
curve of the right leg, which strikes the eye of the sculptor. Horace
Greeley calls them the horses with souls of men!” Levi J. North’s horse
Cincinnatus was probably the first “dancing” equine, and Stickney’s
Tammany was the best jumper that ever came to my knowledge. Wicked
Will, owned by Spalding and Rogers, eclipsed most animals in difficult
feats of various kinds. Rarey’s horse Cruiser, although never a circus
performer, was invaluable to his owner in horse “taming” exhibitions,
and seemed to execute his duties with human intelligence.
Thus I live again the days of old and unfold the roll of my eventful
history. My thoughts travel fondly back to the scenes I am to behold no
more, and my heart throbs with emotions excited by their reminiscences.
I remember those gone to their rest and shed a tear to their memory.
For myself, only ignominy and mental anguish. I, who have been an honor
to my birthplace and an ornament to my race, wearily await the final
summons. In the array of names of illustrious circus horses, may my
memory be cherished faithfully is the hope of miserable
TOM KEENE.