THE CIRCUS PRESS AGENT
The wily press agent’s method of gaining publicity for his show varies
with the size and moral disposition of the cities in which he finds
himself. In executing his publicity-provoking designs in populous
centres there is in him no serious purpose to avoid an arrest. In the
smaller cities he must needs exercise his ingenuity to prevent the
action of the law. The notion that showmen are moral delinquents is
firmly settled in rural communities, especially in the East, and if in
the excess of his enthusiasm to bring to wide attention the presence of
the circus the press agent commits what an obdurate policeman considers
a public wrong, and there follows an appearance before a magistrate,
resentful townspeople look on him and his companions as lawbreaking
intruders, rudely defying the local government, disturbing the peace,
and ready, perhaps, to commit some more flagrant offence. A clergyman
may make the incident a text of protest. It is bound anyway to arouse
animosity and have a calamitous effect.
But in New York, Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia and cities approaching
them in character and size, the standing of the circus is affected
neither one way nor the other by an ingenuously-explained legal
interruption, and the notice it attracts if it has unusual features
shows gratifyingly at the box office. It isn’t always easy to
accomplish the thing. “Splash” Austin, whose first name, Paul, was a
boyhood memory, was the high diver with one of the big circuses. He
performed for the free edification of the crowd which gathered on the
lot after the parade, which is the side-show harvest time. Later he
was one of the features of the show itself. “Splash” was always at the
press agent’s service. The circus arrived in Chicago on Sunday for a
week stand, and the press agent was ready with an elaborately planned
venture. He and his aquatic accomplice drove to Lincoln Park bridge,
where, by a coincidence which is not remarkable, a band of newspaper
men were in waiting. The performer shed a few garments and plunged
headforemost from the railing’s height into the water. The feat was a
simple one to the skilled acrobat, but its appearance was hazardous and
spectacular, and the reporters marvelled and interviewed at length.
The beaming press agent’s ingenuity had not been exhausted. Two
frowning policemen intervened. Their pockets, the press agent alone
knew, bulged with circus tickets. They were accommodatingly indignant;
the law had been violated. “Splash” was put under arrest, and the
party started in a body for the station house. On the way, the
delighted author of the proceeding secured permission from “Splash’s”
captors to stop at a drink dispensary. The bluecoats waited outside
while the circus man entertained. All were thirsty and happy, and the
newspaper guests, in their innocence, cheerful over the unexpectedly
“good” story which had developed. They have never known they tarried so
long that one of the policemen called their host outside and whispered
that there must be haste, two posts had been left vacant too long
already, and they were half inclined to throw up the whole thing.
The day was eminently successful from the circus standpoint. The
newspapers told at great length of the accomplishment of the daring
dive and its tragic ending, and the public curiosity to see the
performer added materially to receipts. And best of all none of the
reporters was so wanting in human charity as to reveal that, at the
police station, the captain had refused to hold the prisoner, remarking
grimly that no offence had been committed; and that the press agent,
searching frantically through the book of ordinances that his scheme
not miscarry at the end, had found that a penalty attached to the crime
of disturbing the fish in the lake, and patient “Splash” was locked up
on that charge. A small fine was promptly paid next day.
Read one press agent’s circus literature and begin to understand that
the resources of the language are less limited than you suppose. He is
the world-renowned alliterator of the show business. He is better known
in the profession than Shakespeare, although Shakespeare never did much
for circuses. He has no acknowledged rival in the successive use of
the initial letter. The advance matter which he sends abroad for his
“moral” enterprises where presumably only moral people are admitted,
forms an extraordinary narrative.
During each winter he writes, writes, writes, writes, whether he feels
right or not, but the annual incessant drain does not subtract from his
elaborate eloquence. He tells of “real and royal races for reward,
huge heroic hippodromes, genuine contests of strength, skill and speed,
superb struggles for success and supremacy between the short and the
stout, the tall and the tiny, the fat and the frail, the mammoth and
the midget, the adipose and the attenuate, the large and the little,
the massive and the minute, the swift and the slow; elephants in
ponderous, pachydermic progress, camels in cross and comical cantering,
horses in hurricane hustling for home, donkeys in deliberate,
dragging, droning pace, monkeys in merry meanderings on meek and mild
mules, whippets in whirlwind dashes swifter than a horse, runners in
record reducing running in rivalry, ponies in carts with clowns for
conductors, and the celebrated charioteer contestants of the Coliseum.”
[Illustration: FAIR EQUESTRIENNE ON HER FAVORITE HORSE.]
Proceeding in his product, after this gaudy prologue, this
adjective-millionaire is impressed with the “astral array of aerial
artists. The very air is filled with their flying forms, describing
the most intricate figures, far flights, swallow-like sweeps, gymnic
gyrations, castings and catches, revolutions and returns, swings
and somersaults, leapings and lightnings, soarings and sailings,
altitudinous ascensions, diving descensions, keeping the dizzy heights
of the lofty canvas dome alive with activity. Never before have the
satiated public seen a spectacle to so surely stir their sluggish
blood, arouse their admiration, excite their enthusiasm and command
their applause.”
The clowns appeal to him. As phrased by him they are “a phenomenal
phalanx of phantastical, phuriously phunny phellows; silly and sedate,
short and stout, smile securers set scot free; loyal legion of long
and lean laugh liberators let loose. These extraordinary experts in
the creation of laughter have invented this year a new, novel, unique,
irresistibly comic, excruciatingly funny and simply surprising series
of skits, scenes, screaming sallies and silly situations.”
Danger is “defiantly defied by one audacious aerial athlete, whose
deed is daring, desperate and death deriding, a fearless, fearful,
fascinating feat, the veritable pinnacle of perillous performances.”
“Whirling Wonders of the World on Wheels” are “cycling champions in
clubs and coteries, in single, double and tandem teams, in wheeling
fads, fancy and freakish, in pictorial and picturesque peripatetic
posturings.”
Proceeding, he describes the elephants as “mountains in motion,
ponderous and perspicacious pachyderms, in marvellous, military
manoeuvres.”
The districts remote from New York are assured that “every element and
entity that enthused, excited and enthralled in the enormous Madison
Square Garden will be a part and parcel of the prodigious performance.”
And as a “super-splendid spectacular suggestion of greater, grander
glories yet to come, early in the forenoon of the day of exhibition
there will pass through the principal streets of the city the most
mammoth, monster mass of moving magnificence that ever fell athwart the
delighted, gratified, entranced vision of the human eye, the nearly
all new free street parade, including an interesting and instructive
illustration of the progress of our glorious Republic, showing in
correct uniform the soldiers of all American wars; gorgeous tableaux,
many massive, open dens, glittering cavalcades of knights and ladies,
representatives of the regiment of Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, comic
clowns and grotesque grimaldis, rollicking rubes and jolly jays, herds
of ponderous elephants, droves of camels, floods of music from military
bands, etc., etc.”
* * * * *
“Some circus owners never appreciate the valuable services we render
them,” lamented a veteran press agent who has toured two continents
under a tent. “The ignominious end of my graveyard specialty is an
example of the palpable lack of sentiment and business astuteness
sometimes disclosed when one least expects it. I observed that almost
every town has turned upon the public a circus man of high or low
degree, who finally returns to his native spot to pass his last days
and be put away in the local cemetery. With the arrival of the circus
his career becomes a topic of conversation among the townsfolk and
invariably newspaper reporter, hotel keeper or some other resident
engaged me in talk about the man. I always unblushingly remembered
him vividly and was able, after a few leading questions, to shed much
entertaining light upon his circus life, to express well-feigned
surprise that the body of so well-known a character was buried there
and to express a deep feeling of sorrow over the loss the profession
had sustained in his death. Sometimes I would urge the erection of a
more suitable monument and reproach townspeople for their neglect.
“Not infrequently the subject of my solicitude had been a four-horse
driver, a trombone player or a stake driver. But his professional
insignificance was not appreciated by the friends of his life time,
my tender expressions made good feelings toward the show, and I let
no opportunity pass ungrasped. Sometimes the newspapers quoted my
sentiments, and it helped business.
“If I had only been content with my own perfidious eloquence I wouldn’t
have got disgusted and quit. But I was ambitious and wanted to throw
away no chance to boom the show. So, soon, in every town in which
I could locate an appropriate headstone, I put on black clothes, a
countenance of becoming sadness and marched the band to the graveyard.
They played dirges all the way. Frank Morris, the orator of the circus,
accompanied us and I had him make an address at the grave. I wrote
out three non-committal speeches and there was no dead man whose life
didn’t fit one or judiciously selected parts of the three. They were
all very affecting, and made the women cry. On the way back to the lot
we always got a loving ovation. The newspapers spoke approvingly of the
proceedings and the residents thought it a great compliment. I was very
proud of myself.
“The thing went along swimmingly for several weeks and my motives were
never openly assailed, although I think once or twice there lurked
a suspicion in the minds of shrewd townspeople that their departed
brother wasn’t all in life that we represented him. Anyway, I know
it brought money to the circus, and I could never understand the
boss’s secret disapproval. He never offered any sensible, legitimate
objection, but I could tell by his manner that he was afraid of some
kind of a boomerang finish some day. I persevered aggressively,
nevertheless, and was confident he would never get a valid excuse for
forbidding us to continue. I knew the experienced old man of affairs
was waiting warily for a chance.
“The success or failure of the concert depended in a great measure
upon Morris’s oratory. When in good voice and spirits, he could fairly
glue his auditors to their seats. They wouldn’t budge until they had
seen all the concert attractions about which he had so insinuatingly
roared. So it was through him that the boss found opportunity to base
a complaint, put an end to my practices and lower my estimate of his
business intelligence. One unlucky day Morris caught a bad cold. He was
hoarse and depressed, and his announcement was received with little
favor. The concert attendance was small and the head of the show was
quick to seize his advantage--and strike at my burying-ground plot.
“‘Morris got that cold in one of your graveyards,’ he addressed me,
reproachfully, ‘and we’ll have to give him a rest from this double
duty. Let those fellows rest in peace in their graves after this!’
“I left the show a month later, disgusted and discouraged, and found a
place where my fine art received support and confidence and gratitude.”
* * * * *
In the Southern States several years ago a circus now disorganized was
in high popular favor, and it was with great difficulty and at heavy
expense that the “big shows” of to-day succeeded in convincing the
population that its confidence had been misplaced. Finally, however,
they were welcomed and accepted. The colored public was the last to
forsake its cherished tradition.
An advance press agent strolling past the flaring billboards announcing
the approach to an Alabama town of the metropolitan organization he
represented, observed an aged, tottering darkey, supported by a small
boy of his race. They were scrutinizing the posters.
“Read it to me, son,” directed the old man. “What dey say about dis new
circus?”
The lad stared ruefully at the polysyllabic collection and began
slowly: “Of all magnificent and master consolidations of rare, varied
and illustrious menageries, circus and hippodrome possessions and
possibilities this is greatest. Sept. 1, ----.”
“Dat’s enough, my boy, dat’s enough,” interrupted the attentive old
listener, shaking his head grimly and chuckling, “’cept one, eh, ’cept
one. I know dat one. It’s de circus I’s been seein’ for years. Dis
false show don’t git none ob my money.”
A free ticket, produced on the spot, helped to shake his faith, but
history does not record whether the performance made him a thorough
convert.
* * * * *
Adam Forepaugh was as ready a man in an emergency as circus life ever
developed, and was noted in the business for his skill in avoiding
legal entanglements. A resident of Auburn, N. Y., does not know to
this day how neatly the showman escaped a claim for damages at his
expense. The man had been drinking heavily, and in the menagerie tent
before the performance had begun offered Bolivar, an elephant noted
for his size, a bottle filled with whiskey. The smell of the liquid
always infuriates the beasts. In the spring of 1902, Tops, a usually
good-natured elephant, stamped the life out of a man who offended
her with whiskey, in Brooklyn, N. Y. The Auburn man was chased away
unharmed by the watchful keepers, but Bolivar’s small eyes gleamed
vindictively and he did not forget. The performance was well under way,
and the menagerie tent was being rapidly emptied of its collection of
animals and cages, when the man returned. The elephants and camels
were lined up preparatory to the march to the cars. The scene was
one of confusion and excitement, and the man was not observed by the
attendants. Bolivar, however, had his eyes fixed on his persecutor and
as the luckless stranger came within reach the big beast trumpeted,
struck with his trunk and prepared to stamp upon the victim. Keepers
rushed to the spot with pitchforks, subdued the angry elephant and
dragged the unconscious form away. An examination showed no serious
injury.
Visions of a sheriff, attachment and suit for heavy damages oppressed
Mr. Forepaugh at once, but his quick wit suggested a way out of the
trouble.
“Take this fellow to the cars,” he shouted to “Dan” Taylor, boss
canvasman, “and keep him locked there. Don’t let him out when he gets
his senses again, but bring him to me in the morning in Syracuse.”
The bruised and wondering man was taken like a prisoner, according to
instructions, before the owner of the show next day. Mr. Forepaugh’s
attitude was that of a judge on the police court bench. A withering
frown was on his face.
“You’re a nice specimen to hire out as a driver,” he observed
severely, “you were so drunk you fell off the wagon. You are
discharged. I can’t tolerate intoxication with my circus. It’s
fortunate you were not killed and the horses didn’t run away.”
The effects of drink and the blow he received had driven memory from
the unfortunate man’s brain, and as Mr. Forepaugh perceived it a load
was lifted from him. He talked kindly but firmly to the penitent
before him, dwelt on the evils of intemperance and finally offered him
a day’s pay if he would promise not to drink liquor for a year. The
pledge was solemnly given and, I have been told, the man was ever after
consecrated to sobriety.
* * * * *
A good story is told by a former press agent of one of the big circuses
of how Samuel D. Clemens (Mark Twain) was out-humored at his home in
Hartford, Conn., by an untutored savage. The enterprising agent decided
it would be a good advertisement to get an interview between Mr.
Clemens and one of the Indians who were then a feature of the show. He
called on the humorist and laid the matter before him. Mr. Clemens said
that he didn’t care for the Indians, he was very busy, and didn’t see
what Indians had to do with him, anyway.
“Why, the fact is,” replied the circus man, “they have heard of you in
the far West and want to see you.”
Still Mr. Clemens was indisposed to grant the request until the press
agent swore solemnly that a big Sioux Chief had said that he would
never die happy, if compelled to return to his reservation without
seeing and speaking with the man whose fame was world-wide.
“All right,” finally assented the humorist. “Have him here at six
o’clock this evening, but make it short.”
Mr. Clemens sat on the broad porch of his home in Farmington avenue
at the appointed time. The house was a fine, long, rambling red
brick structure standing near the top of a green breezy hill. To the
astonishment of the man he perceived an immense cavalcade of mounted
warriors, more than half a hundred of them, tearing along the broad,
airy boulevard in a mad exhibition of horsemanship. They swept in
on the lawn, breaking down the shrubbery, wearing off the grass and
devastating the whole place like a destroying army. A crowd of boys
were at their heels, trampling flower beds and shrubs. The spokesman of
the party was a mighty hunter who had been previously told that Mark
Twain was famous for his slaughter of wild beasts.
The Indian laid himself out for a game of brag. The interpreter, who
was in the deal, instead of repeating what the chief said, made a
speech of his own, extolling Twain’s literary achievements.
“For Heaven’s sake, choke him off!” ejaculated the sad funny-man, with
blanched face. The cracking of boughs in the choice trees in which
the small boys had ensconced themselves were punctuating the Indian’s
remarks.
The interpreter turned to the red man and soberly remarked that the
White Hunter wanted more talk, and on he went. Every time Twain cried
for quarter the chief was told to give another hunting story. Finally
his Indian vocabulary was exhausted and he quit.
Twain made a brief reply which the interpreter translated into a
marvellous hunting yarn. The Chief listened stolidly, and when he got
away grunted contemptuously and muttered:
“White man heap big liar.”
* * * * *
Adam Forepaugh, in the latter years of his circus life, carried with
his show a “Wild West” department. He had Indians, cowboys, Mexicans,
Cossacks, Arabs, scouts, guides, detachments of regular soldiers from
the armies of several nations and all the others that go to make a
spectacular rough-riding production. I remember an amusing incident
which illustrates that the veteran tented-amusement purveyor did not
allow sentiment to interfere with the ticket wagon end of the business.
One of the features of the exhibition was a representation of Custer’s
disastrous battle with the Sioux Indians under Sitting Bull. The
_mise en scène_ was correct in most particulars, and carried out with
fidelity to the subject. It was a graphic illustration of the Indian
mode of warfare. The cowboys who participated were true children of the
plains who had faced danger in many of its deadliest forms. They were
very proud of their records as scouts, plainsmen and warriors.
Along about the middle of the season Mr. Forepaugh picked up a famous
addition to the show in Mt. Vernon, O. He was Sergeant George C.
Wagner, “representative frontiersman of the past.” He came unannounced,
looking for a job in the Wild West department, hopping on to the lot
like a clumsy bird. A wooden prop replaced the flesh and bone of his
right leg below the knee. He explained to Mr. Forepaugh that he was
the sole survivor of Custer’s immediate command; he had escaped death
in the last rally, because at the time of the fight he was riding the
plains with a message to Major Reno, seventy-two miles away. During
his lonely journey he had encountered Indians, and a poisoned arrow
received in the running conflict had necessitated amputation of his
leg. He looked the figure of romance and adventure, impressed the
circus owner as sincere and was hired on the spot.
[Illustration: ACROBATS PRACTISING NEW FEATS.]
As the days went by the sergeant became more and more a conspicuous
part of the show. He was a skilful horseman, despite his abbreviated
limb, although we all wondered how he was able to hold his seat. His
name appeared in black type on the programme, and he always got a
tremendous ovation when he scurried on a big bay horse around the
hippodrome amid the blare of trumpets, after a highly complimentary
introduction by the announcer. After the show, Grand Army posts
frequently gave him informal receptions, at which he regaled the
veterans with thrilling stories of life on the trail and of incidents
of the excitement and turmoil of the unsettled West. He drank whiskey
with great freedom and frequency, but it seemed to affect only his
tongue. His encounters with red men then became innumerable and his
life history was written all over with blood. His knowledge of Custer’s
campaigns was comprehensive to a detail.
Mr. Forepaugh was mightily pleased with the acquisition, but not so
the cowboys, the true sons of the frontier. All the honors of the show
were Wagner’s and they were jealous. One day one of them suggested
a systematic review of their gallant comrade’s past in the hope of
uncovering an act of cowardice or crime, and the proposition met
general favor. They hired a lawyer to investigate and his report was
received in a surprisingly short time. The man who had represented
himself as cradled amid pioneer surroundings had never been out of the
Ohio county in which he revealed himself until the circus adopted him,
and he had lost his leg by a premature anvil explosion at a Fourth of
July celebration.
It was at this juncture that Adam Forepaugh lost, in a great measure,
the respect and admiration of the cowboy fraternity, and proved, as I
have observed, that noble emotions and lofty ideals cannot always rise
supreme in the circus business. The cowboys, with many strange oaths
and threats, presented their damning narrative, confident that the hour
of retribution was at hand and that the owner of the show would express
sympathy and gratitude for the disclosure. Wagner, they thought, would
be clubbed off the lot.
Mr. Forepaugh listened intently to the story of the imposition. He,
too, I know, had been as thoroughly deceived as the rest of us, but he
wasn’t willing the show should suffer.
“What do I care,” he remarked quickly, and the expectant faces of the
cowboys blanched, “whether the fellow’s a fakir or not? He looks the
part better than any of you, he’s got a wooden leg to confirm it, he’s
the finest liar under the tent and he’s made a big hit. He stays with
the troupe.”
“Sergeant” Wagner continued as hero, guide, and scout until the
season’s close, when he disappeared and the Wild West department heard
of him no more. The memory of his dare-devil appearance, long golden
locks floating in the wind, wide sombrero, buckskin breeches and
protruding guns will not be effaced for many years.
* * * * *
The gnawing fear of attachments is never absent from the circus owner’s
mind, and with all his mental wealth of resource, acquired by hard
experience, he cannot always escape imposition. The sheriff becomes
an object of hate and dread. His appearance with a levy, the showman
knows, is a portend of extortion. So it is that sometimes he submits to
injustice rather than bring about a conflict with the law. Unscrupulous
people appreciate this, with its fine opportunity for blackmail, but
sometimes the instigator comes as a shock and a surprise to the circus
owner and helps to shake his faith in the general honest impulses
accredited to human nature.
We were playing the Ohio towns. Business was big, weather fine and
everybody was happy. One day a negro preacher, hat in hand and
apologetic in manner, approached the owner and explained a grievance.
His church edifice, eight miles outside the town, had been posted with
our glaring show bills, the congregation was angry and mortified and
threatening to go over in a body to another parish, and the church
receipts had fallen to nothing. One hundred dollars would set things
right. A lawyer who fingered a bunch of legal papers ominously was with
the outraged clergyman. The circus compromised for fifty dollars and
got a release.
We showed next day in a town fourteen miles distant. Before the parade
had formed, the colored minister of the day before again confronted
us. He was humble and devout enough in appearance, but the same lawyer
was his companion, and a man whom we knew was the sheriff hovered on
the outskirts of the lot. The man of religion lamented his complaint
of the preceding day without a variation, and concluded the narrative
again with a demand for pecuniary balm.
“Why, I settled with you yesterday,” the astonished owner retorted. “I
gave you fifty dollars, and hold your paper of satisfaction. You have
no further claim.”
“You see, Mr. Circus man,” was the ready answer, “my church is on the
county line. Yesterday you paid for desecrating the house of God in
Lorain county. But you also profaned our sacred worshipping place in
Cuyahoga county. I want damages now for the actual and religious injury
done there.”
If we hadn’t been so prosperous, I know the owner wouldn’t have
yielded. As it was, the unblushing effrontery of the thing appealed to
his sense of humor, and he gave the man another fifty dollars. He told
of the proceeding at dinner as a good joke at his expense, and remarked
that, after all, he was not sorry to have had the chance to contribute
to the finances of the struggling congregation. It might bring him good
luck.
About three o’clock in the afternoon he told me to ascertain the
whereabouts of the church--he had become curious about the shrewd
preacher’s affairs--and we would drive out there. The church was about
six miles away, through a lonely country district. We lost our way once
and the circus owner was not in the best of humor when we arrived. The
sight that greeted him knocked out all the exalted sentiment that had
stirred him. The steeple of the building was on a level with the eaves,
two cows browsed off the pulpit, there was evidence of the nocturnal
presence of hens in the amen corner, and the whole edifice was in a
state of dilapidation and decay. Along the entire front was an inch
and a half accumulation of circus bills. Ours were the outside strata.
The minister couldn’t be found, fortunately for his physical welfare.
He was probably spending his booty. His wife told us the congregation
had dissolved months ago, and our adroit questioning disclosed that the
couple’s income consisted in a great measure of the money extracted
from the circuses who, innocently, utilized the inviting stretch of
ecclesiastical boards. The memory of the colored clergyman is still
green with the circus man, and religion is at a discount with the show.
* * * * *
P. T. Barnum, in the early years of his life, had no modern press
agent, but it is doubtful if the interesting person could have aided
the showman in advertising his enterprises. No one knew better than he
the value of printer’s ink, and of the men who made printer’s ink the
vehicle of news and information. Old circus men recall an illustration
of his unique but impressive way of attracting public attention in
1849, which would have done credit to this enlightened generation. He
sent an expedition to Ceylon, a formidable undertaking then, to capture
elephants. They returned to New York with ten of the animals, harnessed
them in pairs to a chariot and drove up Broadway. Not content with this
advertisement, he sent one of the elephants to his Connecticut farm and
engaged the beast in agricultural pursuits. A keeper, clad in oriental
costume, was the companion. They were stationed on a six-acre lot which
lay close beside the tracks of the New York and New Haven railroad.
The keeper was furnished with a timetable of the road with special
instructions to be busily engaged in plowing, with the animal dragging
the implement, whenever passenger trains passed. The proceeding made
a sensation and the showman gravely announced that he intended to
introduce a herd of elephants to do all his plowing and heavy draft
work. After the six acres had been plowed over at least a hundred
times, he quietly returned the animal to his museum.
It is related in the circus world that the “Feejee Mermaid” was the
stepping-stone to Barnum’s road to wealth and circus renown. The thing
was made in Japan with an ingenuity and mechanical perfection well
calculated to deceive. Barnum bought it in 1842, when he was unknown,
modified by printer’s ink the general incredulity as to the possibility
of the existence of mermaids, and aroused great curiosity to see
and examine his specimen. Then, too, he persuaded some naturalist
to endorse it as genuine. The fame of his museum and its preserved
curiosity was wafted from one end of the land to the other. Money
flowed in rapidly and the notoriety he attained he never permitted to
fade.
In the museum, the ladder by which he rose to fortune, Mr. Barnum a
few months later perpetrated another humbug which arrested public
attention. He purchased in Cincinnati, O., a well-formed, small-sized
horse, with no mane and not a particle of hair on his tail, while
his body and legs were covered with thick, fine hair or wool, which
curled tight to his skin. The animal had been foaled in Ohio and was a
remarkable freak of nature. The astute showman immediately advertised
the beast as “The Woolly Horse.” The news had just come that Colonel
John C. Fremont, who was supposed to have been lost in the snows of
the Rocky Mountains, was in safety. Mr. Barnum grasped the opportunity
and asserted that his horse had been captured by the explorer’s party.
The curiosity was a great attraction for many months, and no definite
exposure of the imposition was ever made. It added immeasurably to the
reputation and pecuniary success of the establishment.
* * * * *
The circus press agent is a welcome visitor to the country newspaper
office. In his gratitude over the influx of tickets and advertising,
the editor generally devotes space to a eulogy of the social and
professional merits of the visitor. Here are some truthfully reproduced
specimens, taken at random from a collection:
“The bustling press agent of the vast concourse is the most popular man
with the circus.”
“The press agent is built for a gentleman from the ground up, and he
acts it with the ease and dignity of a Chesterfield.”
“The management is fortunate in having for its press representative
----, who is a gentleman in every way, and who understands his business
thoroughly.”
“The press agent is one of the most genial gentlemen in the profession,
and he is much liked by the newspapers wherever he goes, not only
because he is liberal with the pasteboards, but because he is a hale
fellow well met.”
“---- leaves nothing undone on his part to make the grand show popular.”
“---- is a mighty clever gentleman. He called at our office to-day and
made himself agreeable.”
“The press agent of the circus is undoubtedly an element of strength
in that big institution. He is a mighty pleasant gentleman and knows
exactly how to make himself popular with the newspaper men.”
“He is the right man in the right place.”
“The show has four aces in ----, the press representative, who is such
a thorough gentleman that his kindness to the press boys issues his own
patent to nobility.”
“The press agent treated us nicely yesterday. Several little attentions
he gave us made us feel more than kind to him.”
“The circus is lucky in having him for press agent. He is a refined and
courteous gentleman to whom much is due for the success and popularity
of this great show.”
“The press of this section will always welcome the coming of this
genial gentleman.”
“But probably the most versatile artist of this great aggregation was
----, the press agent of this enormous aggregation. He deserves special
mention.”
“On last Thursday evening of the circus, the editor of the ----, upon
invitation of the pleasing and wide awake press agent, went ‘behind
the scenes’ on a tour of the dressing-rooms of the great institution.
We were first introduced to the great and only ----, just preparing
to mount the twenty-three bareback horses, which he rides to the
consternation of all who see him. Going to the left, the curtain was
raised and Trunktown was seen, that is, about one hundred and fifty
people sitting upon, diving into, standing or beside their trunks, in
various stages of deshabille, preparing for their various acts. Taking
off his plug, the press agent announced the presence of the editor,
and everybody came forward and shook us by the hand--for a little
while we thought we were running for President of the United States.
A chair was brought for us and a little chat indulged in with those
near, among whom was the great bareback rider. We had a chat with the
gladiators, also, who were making up for their act, one of the most
pleasing and artistic of the show. In shaking hands with those chaps we
got some white powder on our left shoulder, which they use to powder
their faces. After returning to our wife in the circus auditorium, we
had great difficulty in explaining the powder away. But the press agent
bore testimony that we had not visited the ladies’ dressing-rooms, not
being the right gender.”
* * * * *
An old-time press agent, writing a brief list of a few men met with
in the circus’s transitory career and who will continue to exist when
showmen of this generation have passed on, mentions:
The man who travelled with Dan Rice.
The man who when a boy carried water for the elephant.
The man who knew the man who sold his cook stove to secure the price of
a circus ticket.
The man who knows how many thousands of dollars the circus takes out of
town.
The man who is anxious to know when “show folks” sleep.
The man who sympathizes with us because of our “hard life.”
The man who asks: “Where do you go from here?”
The man who knows the show is “split up” in the smaller towns.
The man who is sure “this is the best show town of its size in the
United States.”
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.
End of Project Gutenberg's On the Road With a Circus, by W. C. Thompson