THE OLD-FASHIONED CIRCUS
“The size of the tent was rather staggering at first, as the greatest
length of the oval is nearly two hundred feet, and standing at one end
it is impossible to distinguish with the naked eye the features of
those on the crowded seats at the other end.”
I quote the foregoing paragraph, taken from a newspaper of 1877, as
illustrating by comparison the physical magnitude of the circus of
to-day. Our “big tent” could stow away in its capacious depths half a
dozen of the canvas arenas of twenty-five years ago, and our “menagerie
top” covers more area. The scanty side-show cloth, an insignificant
detail of the encampment, is not much smaller.
Is the modern circus, with its bewildering array of man and beast
marvels, an improvement from the public standpoint over the
old-fashioned show wherein the clown predominated and one ring
sufficed? Has there come with the expansion more skill and hazard
of performance? Do patrons relish the relegation to oblivion of
some time-honored circus accomplishments, and the interpolation of
vaudeville? The circus performer of former days will invariably answer
these interrogations in the negative; the circus owner and manager
makes no hesitation in disagreeing on all points, and his conviction
is that backed by the weight of ticket wagon receipts. Whatever the
artistic merits and the drifting away from things traditionary,
certainly the opportunities for profit have multiplied with the years.
Everything favorable, there is no more wonderful a money-maker than
the modern circus. Despite frequently expressed longing, it is not
likely that the public would receive with favor the return of the
old-fashioned circus, no matter how alluring the performance in its
meagerness. The case of the small circus of to-day bears this out. It
is ignored if a “big show” is headed its way.
After retrospective talks with many old performers I cannot discover
that the modern generation of athletes has kept pace with the progress
of the business department of the circus. There are few legitimate
circus feats executed nowadays, so far as I have been able to learn,
which were not equalled in years gone by, and there are instances
where supremacy is yielded to the men now retired; many of their
accomplishments have not been duplicated. I cite the case of George
Bachelor, who was accustomed to single somersault over ten elephants,
and of “Bob” Stickney, who without apparent exertion turned two
somersaults in his flight over twenty-three horses. Oscar Lowanda
has been the only person to improve materially upon former equestrian
acts. He succeeds in doing a back somersault from the haunch of one
moving horse to that of another. In aerial performances few new
individual feats are in evidence. The strides forward seem solely in
the employment of more persons in a single act. The Potters perform ten
in number, an unheard-of achievement a few years ago. The strain of
planning and successfully carrying out the act, however, is so intense
that the head of the troupe had decided to partially disband it when I
talked with him.
The life of the circus man of to-day is a continual round of ease and
luxury as compared with the strenuous, haphazard existence of his
brother of a few decades ago. The memory of this generation can shed
no light on the origin of the circus in this country, and there is no
literature definitely disclosing when the first travelling organization
reared its canvas. Seth B. Howe was the first circus owner of note.
“Bob” Stickney, still a vigorous reminder of former days, remembers the
stories told of that time by his father, Samuel Peck Stickney, who was
a member of the company. The advance agent made his lonely journey on
horseback. His saddle-bags bulged with circus “paper,” which he tacked
wherever his judgment suggested, for it comprised a welcome addition
to the community’s supply of reading matter. He was a smooth-tongued,
polished man of the times and full of wonderful tales of the
approaching circus. Curiosity and excitement were at high pitch when
the caravan put in its appearance a fortnight later. The line halted
on the outskirts of the town, uniforms were donned and a parade made
to the scene of exhibition. This was frequently in the spacious yard
of the local tavern. The centre pole of the tent was cut daily in the
abounding woods, trimmed and dragged into place. The tavern provided
chairs and the church was drawn upon for benches. An extra charge was
imposed for the use of these resting places. Admission to the circus
carried with it only the privilege of viewing the performance standing.
At night, candles furnished illumination.
Trained horses and ponies composed much of the show. The feats of the
equestrian were amazing in their daring, to the onlookers of that
period. The ringmaster made a preliminary announcement. The rider,
he proclaimed, would stand erect on a horse in full motion_!_ This
accomplished, amid wild enthusiasm, the hero of the hour balanced
himself on one foot and concluded by playing a violin as the horse
cantered around the ring. This was before the broad saddle pad had gone
out of circus use. The rider who first jumped over banners was given a
fabulous salary, and he who dared plunge through the familiar paper
balloon became rich in a year.
The night overland journeys of these old-time circuses were full of
dire peril. Highways were dark and dreary and places of pitfalls. Each
circus wagon bore a flickering candle torch, showing the route to
the driver behind. Soon menageries were added, and then an elephant.
Hannibal, the “war elephant,” was one of the first. There were few
nights when his services were not required to extricate a wagon from
mud or gully, or to urge it up some steep incline. The old Van Amburg
circus transported a giraffe, a mournful beast which few modern
circuses are possessed of. Wood choppers went ahead to clear the
road with their axes and permit the passage of the high cage. Then
came, in order of time, the side-show, with the free exhibition in
front--wire-walking, a balloon ascension, a high-diving performance, or
feats on the “flying” trapeze.
Probably the most noted knight of the sawdust ring was Dan Rice,
who died in Long Branch, N. J., on February 22, 1900, at the age
of seventy-seven years. His history was practically that of the
circus--the real old-fashioned circus--in America. Daniel McLaren,
his father, nicknamed him Dan Rice, after a famous clown he had known
in Ireland, and the name clung to him. He touched the heights and
depths of circus luck, making in his life three independent fortunes
and losing one after another. He died comparatively poor. As acrobat
and later clown, he travelled every portion of the United States and
extensively in Europe. He first appeared as a clown in Galena, Ill.,
the home of U. S. Grant, in 1844, and from that time his popularity as
a circus clown increased amazingly. He retired in 1882, a hale old man
of sturdy frame and resonant voice, whose hearty handshake it was a
pleasure to feel.
Bobby Williams, Sam Lathrop, Sam Long, Joe Pentland, Billy Kennedy,
Jimmy Reynolds, William Wallett, Frank Brown, Nat Austin, Herbert
Williams, Dan Gardiner, Bill Worrell and Tony Pastor were other noted
clowns and “Shakespearian jesters” of his day, and most of them are
hale and hearty to this day. A press agent of their time, not behind
his lavish-languaged modern brother, called attention to this group
as “jolly, jovial representatives of Momus, whose fund of wit and
humor has given them the proud titles of America’s greatest wits and
punsters; scholarly, refined and every one fit to grace the proudest
court as its greatest jester. Merrier men within the limits becoming
mirth live not upon man’s footstool--this greatest earth.”
[Illustration: HUMILIATION OF THE KING OF BEASTS.]
In the old days of the clown, when one ring furnished satisfying
enjoyment, his was a very important and conspicuous part of the
performance. His efforts of entertainment occupied the sole attention
of the audience at times, as with voice or action he provided fun
and folly. It was as a songster that he was at his best. Perched on
a stool in the centre of the ring--thrown up of soil and not the
portable wooden, forty-two foot diametered affair of to-day--his vocal
enlivenments were a source of much laughter and merriment. Here is a
type of the old-time clown song, which none who ever witnessed one of
the shows will fail to recall:
I don’t mind telling you,
I took my girl to Kew,
And Emma was the darling creature’s name.
While standing on the pier,
Some folks did at her leer,
And one and all around her did exclaim:
Whoa, Emma! Whoa, Emma!
Emma, you put me in quite a dilemma.
Oh, Emma! Whoa, Emma!
That’s what I hear from Putney to Kew.
I asked them “what they meant?”
When some one at me sent
An egg, which nearly struck me in the eye.
The girl began to scream,
Saying, “Fred, what does this mean?”
I asked again, and this was their reply:
Whoa, Emma! etc.
I thought they’d never cease,
So shouted out “Police!”
And when he came he looked at me so sly
The crowd they then me chaffed,
And said “I must be daft,”
And once again they all commenced to cry:
Whoa, Emma! etc.
An old man said to me,
“Why, young man, can’t you see
The joke?” And I looked at him with surprise.
He said, “Don’t be put out,
It’s a saying got about,”
And then their voices seemed to rend the skies:
Whoa, Emma! etc.
After a round of jokes and other buffoonery at the expense of the
ringmaster, who retorted with threatening crackings of whip, he was
ready with more melody. Sometimes he appealed to the tender emotions.
“Baby Mine” was a favorite. It ran thus:
I’ve a letter from thy sire,
Baby mine, Baby mine;
I could read and never tire,
Baby mine;
He is sailing o’er the sea,
He is coming back to me,
He is coming back to me,
Baby mine, baby mine;
He is coming back to me,
Baby mine.
Oh, I long to see his face,
Baby mine, Baby mine;
In his old accustomed place,
Baby mine;
Like the rose of May in bloom,
Like a star amid the gloom,
Like the sunshine in the room,
Baby mine, Baby mine;
Like the sunshine in the room,
Baby mine.
I’m so glad I cannot sleep,
Baby mine, Baby mine;
I’m so happy I could weep,
Baby mine;
He is sailing o’er the sea,
He is coming back to me,
He is coming back to thee,
Baby mine, Baby mine;
He is coming back to thee,
Baby mine.
The clowns of the modern circus must needs possess, they confidently
assert, more vivacity, wit and observation than their predecessors.
The magnitude of the spread of canvas almost entirely precludes
the possibility of effective oral utterance, and their drollery is
confined to gesture, movement and posturing. This dumb acting places
the funmaker at a decided disadvantage, and the problem of creations
that will meet public favor is one requiring unusual natural aptitude.
Frank Oakley (“Slivers”), fitted by nature for the part, sprang into
wonderful public favor in a season.
In the grateful shade of the “big top,” during the period between the
two performances, I sat one afternoon with an old-time performer whose
age keeps him from the ring, but the memory of whose famous feats
retains him in the employ of the circus. The seductive fascination and
charm of the life has never dulled within him, and until accumulated
years finally forbid, he declares he will be a member of the
organization. He was in a reminiscent mood and began:
“In the old days I remember a feature of our circus was Nettie
Collins’s lilt ‘Dance me on Your Knee.’ The band played the flowing
melody, and she bowed and waved as she sang on a little platform in the
ring. It made a great hit for several seasons. Here’s how its lines
went, and many an old-time circus goer will call them to mind:
When I was a little girl and full of childish joys
I used to play with all the girls, but oftener with the boys;
And with them climb the apple trees, and races, too, we’d run,
I’ll tell you, oh, ’twas then, my boys, we had such jolly fun;
But now those days are past and gone, no more them I will see,
If I could only call them back, how happy I would be.
You may dance me, darling, dance me,
You may dance me on your knee.
If there’s such a man among you
As can recommend himself to me,
Be sure he’s brave and strong enough
To dance me on his knee.
“Then ‘Dick’ Turner, comedian, in bucolic attire, would stand up in a
conspicuous place in the reserved seats, gesticulate emphatically and
shout: ‘I’ll dance you on my knee, girl.’ Most of the audience would
be deceived as to his identity, supposing him to be a rural visitor to
the show, and there was great hilarity. ‘Come down here, then,’ the
ringmaster would respond, and amid shrieks of laughter ‘Dick’ would
make his way to the ring, where the fun continued. Oh, it was easy to
entertain in those simple old days!
“‘Al’ Meaco was a favorite with his songs and jokes. He was one of the
first general clowns, and did a drunken act on stilts that convulsed
the house, but was a hazardous performance, withal. One of his idiotic
stories which afforded great amusement in the country districts was:
‘I’ve got a beautiful girl. Went to see her the other night. Met her
on the woodshed. Oh, the tears I would shed for her and the tears she
would shed for me would be shed more than the wood shed would shed
for me.’ Then he did some fancy steps, the band played and everybody
laughed. What a ghastly proceeding with the modern circus!
“‘Al’ did an act with his brother ‘Tom’ which was considered a marvel
then. ‘Al’ swung head down from a trapeze, attached his teeth to a
strap which belted his brother and whirled him in circles. The act is
an old one now and vastly improved upon. I remember once ‘Al’ forgot
himself, opened his mouth to speak to ‘Tom’ and the latter revolved
forty feet through the air to the earth below. He broke four ribs and a
collar bone.
“Here’s another joke which one of our clowns got off with success.
Nowadays it would be received with grief and shame. ‘I had a girl named
Sal Skinner. I called at her house one Sunday. She wasn’t home. Her
mother said she’d gone to church. I started out looking for her. Went
into the church and walked down the aisle, but didn’t see her. The
minister spotted me. “Are you looking for salvation?” he says. “No,”
I says, “but I’m looking for Sal Skinner.”’ The audience howled with
mirth.
“Sam Lathrop used to make mock political speeches, with flings at the
politicians in the town we were playing. The best received of his
assortment of jests was this one, given as the ring horse halted:
‘Well, you stop, the horse stops, the music stops, I stop, but there’s
one thing nobody can stop.’
“‘What is the one thing nobody can stop?’ followed the ringmaster.
“‘Why, a woman’s tongue!’
“The ringmaster, in apparent retaliatory discomfiture, would crack his
whip at the legs of the clown, who uttered ‘Ouch!’ as if in pain, and
the onlookers thought it all very funny.
“Trained animals formed an important feature of our programme, and we
gave exhibitions which have not been repeated since. One of our men
drove a troupe of buffaloes in tandem line around the ring. ‘Grizzly’
Adams had performing bears, a dozen of them, and never was greater
courage required. Dick Sands put a herd of camels through tricks and
raced with a hippopotamus. Dan Costello showed the full-blooded Spanish
bull, Don Juan; and John Hagenbeck taught a company of zebras difficult
paces. George Arstinstahl, I think, was the first to group different
animals. He bunched elephants, bears, lions, tigers and dogs before
astonished audiences without ever a suspicion of fight.”
Three noted old-time circus riders, whose fame was world-wide a few
years ago, are members of our organization this season, assisting the
management. They are “Bob” Stickney, whose equestrian and acrobatic
feats are still fresh in the minds of all circus goers, and Frank J.
Melville and William E. Gorman, who were comfortable on any part of a
horse’s body, barring, perhaps, the ears. They will live forever in the
annals of the circus. Timothy Turner was the first to somersault on a
horse’s back. The thing was done in the old Bowery Theatre in New York
City in the ’50’s. Levi J. North, who was performing in an opposition
theatre, heard of the accomplishment and successfully imitated it the
same night. John Glenroy followed with a somersault--performed without
the presence of the pad then in general use and which his predecessors
had alighted upon. Then James Robinson, creator of many bareback
tricks, duplicated the act. Charles Fish, Frank Pastor, Romeo Sebastian
and David Richards were other celebrated circus horsemen of that
period. Billy Morgan inaugurated the now common mule riding act.
Mrs. Walter Howard was the first circus equestrienne of public
prominence. Sixty years ago, her simple performance fairly dazed
spectators. She gave lessons in her art to many of the later woman
riders and made a sensation by being the only woman at that time to
cast herself through paper balloons. Alice Lake was a remarkably
skilful horsewoman. Of the foreigners who came here, Madame Tounaire
was easily the best performer. Her daughter, Molly Brown, was the first
woman in this country to somersault on a horse, and few women since
have accomplished the trick. Mrs. William Roland, Madame Dockrill,
Adelaide Cordona, Louise Rentz, and Pauline Lee attained prominence.
Linda Jeal was famous for several years and taught her niece, Dallie
Julian, seventeen years old, the somersault.