UNDER THE CANVAS.
The one great wish of the small boy's heart, as he stands at a
respectful distance from the ticket wagon watching the huge canvas
rise and sink--apparently with as much ease as the flag flies from
the top of the centre-pole--is to get inside the tent before the band
begins to play. He may not have a cent to pay the admission, but he
has Micawberish hopes that far surpass any money value that might
be placed upon a small boy, that something will turn up to gain him
admission to the show. He knows that if the canvas-men give him a good
chance he can crawl in under the cloth and make his way up through
the seats. He has been told that if he is caught at such a trick the
showmen will drag him to the dressing-tent and fill his hair full of
powdered sawdust. The canvas-men are, however, vigilant; besides that,
they are lazy and do not care to move around, so the small boy must be
content to throw hand-springs in the sawdust-sprinkled lot, and keep on
hoping until the show is out. In this respect the minute boy does not
betray the same shrewdness credited to a Baltimore girl. She was on a
visit to her brother's ranche near Austin, Texas, when a small circus
came along. It is considered the acme of honesty to beat the circus in
that region--in fact, paying is heartily deprecated. Although only a
month in the place, the Baltimore belle was thoroughly imbued with the
cowboy spirit, in as far as "beating" the circus was concerned, and
when the show pitched its tents she made up her mind as to what she
was going to do. At night, when the show was under headway, she calmly
approached the circus tent on stilts, and viewed the first half of the
performance through the opening between the canvas and the roof. One of
the fighters of the show detecting something wrong, crept around with a
club to "smash" the intruder, but received a kick in the eye from the
fair stilt performer, and was so taken aback that the cowboys had time
to rally to her support and raid the show while she at a safe distance
applauded the conquering herders. The troupe left town that night in a
sadly damaged condition.
[Illustration: "BEATING" THE CIRCUS.]
Until late years circuses generally gave a balloon ascension before
the afternoon performance took place, and sometimes a slack-wire
performance was added. The latter free exhibition dropped out of sight
a short time ago, and since 1876 there have been few circus balloon
ascensions; they have been abandoned on account of the danger and
frequency of accidents. Everybody remembers the fate of Donaldson and
Greenwood, the former an æronaut in the employ of Barnum at the time,
the latter, a Chicago newspaper reporter. They left Chicago July 15,
1875, in a tattered old balloon. It was a remarkably fine day, and not
the remotest shadow of danger fell across the sunshine. The balloon
was carried out over the lake, disappeared from view, and the fate of
the missing men was not known until a portion of the tattered balloon
and the body of Greenwood, with his note-book and other articles
that helped to identify him, were found on the Michigan shore of the
great lake. The balloon had been wrecked and both men had perished in
the waves. Donaldson's body was never recovered. An imaginary sketch
of this fatal trip was written by John A. Wise, the æronaut, who
himself perished in Lake Michigan while attempting to complete a night
ascension. He and George Burr started from St. Louis at dusk, and as
the ærial ship was vanishing into the clouds it was seen for the last
time. For weeks nothing was heard of the missing men or the balloon.
They were thought to be lost in the Michigan prairies. At last Burr's
body was found on the east shore of Lake Michigan. Wise's remains were
never recovered.
[Illustration: WASHINGTON H. DONALDSON.]
A lady balloonist met with a terrible death at Cuantla, Mexico, some
time ago. A great crowd assembled to witness the balloon ascension of
Senorita Catalina Georgio, a beautiful girl only seventeen years old.
There was no car attached to the balloon, only the trapeze on which
the girl performed. The balloon shot up amid the deafening cheers of
the crowd which was present. Catalina, meanwhile, was seen clinging to
the trapeze and performing daring feats of agility. When the balloon
was three-quarters of a mile high it suddenly exploded and fell to
the ground with the unfortunate girl. Her dead body was found horribly
crushed and mangled beside the wrecked balloon. The remains were
tenderly cared for by the natives.
[Illustration: CATALINA GEORGIO'S FRIGHTFUL DEATH.]
A frightful balloon accident occurred lately at Courbevoie, near Paris.
A large crowd had assembled to witness the novel and perilous ascent
of a gymnast called August Navarre, who had volunteered to perform a
number of athletic feats on a trapeze suspended from a Montgolfier
balloon named the Vidouvillaise. Rejecting the advice of bystanders,
Navarre refused to allow himself to be tied to the trapeze. There was
no car attached to the balloon. At about five o'clock the Vidouvillaise
was let loose from its moorings and rose majestically in the air.
Navarre, hanging on to the trapeze, appeared quite confident, and
repeatedly saluted the spectators. When, however, the balloon had
reached a height of nearly one thousand yards the crowd was horrified
to see him suddenly let go the bar and fall. The descent was watched in
breathless excitement. At last the body reached the ground, striking
with such force that it made a hole in the earth two feet deep,
and rebounded four yards. It was crushed and mangled almost beyond
recognition. Meanwhile the balloon, freed from its human ballast, shot
up with lightning speed, and soon disappeared from view. Late in the
evening it burst and fell at Menilmontant, much to the consternation of
the inhabitants of that busy Parisian quarter.
The day after Donaldson's fatal ascension, Dave D. Thomas, then press
agent for Barnum, and filling the same place still, made a successful
ascension. Mr. Thomas is familiar with ballooning, and often laments
that the days of ærial ascensions as circus advertisements are past.
While waiting for the performance to begin let us drop into the
dressing-tent. It is divided in the middle by a strip of canvas
about seven feet wide, and this half space is again divided into
dressing-rooms, one for the men, the other for the women. The large
space is the green-room of the circus. It is not only that, but it is
the property-room. The performers are preparing for the grand entree.
Helmets are lying around loose, and wardrobes appear to be in a state
of great confusion. Cheap velvet gaily bespangled is quite plentiful.
It looks best at a distance. Quantities of white chalk are brought into
use, each man's face being highly powdered, his eyebrows blackened,
etc. The dressing-room is small and there is apparently much confusion
while the performers are donning their respective costumes. But each
knows what his duty is, and does it accordingly, without really
interfering with anyone else. On the other side is the ladies' room;
into this we are not permitted to cast our profane peepers, but we know
from exterior knowledge that paint and powder, short dresses and flesh
tights are rapidly converting ordinary women into equestrienne angels.
Outside of the dressing-rooms are the horses, ranged in regular order.
At a given signal the riders appear, mount and enter the ring. As they
are dashing about in apparent recklessness let us look more clearly
at them. They all look young and fresh, but there are old men in the
party who for twenty-five or thirty years have figured in the sawdust
ring. Chalk hides their wrinkles, dyestuffs their gray hairs, and skull
caps their baldness. Yonder lady who sits her steed gracefully, and who
looks as blooming as a rose on a June morning, is not only a mother,
but a grandmother. And there is George who was engaged last winter to
do "nothing, you know." He finds his duties embrace riding, leaping,
tumbling, object-holding, and occasionally in short times drive a team
on the road. There is one rider who was formerly a manager himself. He
had a big fortune once, but a few bad seasons swamped it, and he is now
glad to take his place as a performer on a moderate salary. Returning
to the dressing-room after the entree, we find the clown engaged in
putting the finishing touches to his make-up. We must look closely at
him to recognize him. He does not seem to be the same fellow we met at
the breakfast table, in stylish clothes and a shirt-front ornamented
with a California diamond. He has given himself an impossible moustache
with charcoal, and has painted bright red spots on his cheeks. You
think him a mere boy as he springs into the ring, but he has been a
mere boy for many a long year, and his bones are getting stiff and his
joints ache in spite of his assumed agility. The "gags" that he repeats
and the songs that make you laugh are not funny to him, for he has
repeated them in precisely the same inflection for an indefinite number
of nights. He comes out to play for the principal act of horsemanship.
Meantime in the dressing-room, if it is damp or chilly, the performers
are wrapping themselves in blankets or moving about to keep warm. When
the bareback rider returns from the ring he usually disrobes, takes a
bath and dons his ordinary attire; but the less important performers
must keep themselves in readiness to render any assistance which they
may be called upon to perform.
There is but little repose for the weary circus people during a season.
Frequently they stay but one day in a place, and the next town is
fifteen or twenty miles distant. All the properties must be packed
up, the helmets and cheap velvet, the tights and the tunics must be
stowed away and the journey made by night. The following day brings a
recurrence of the dangers and toil of circus life.
A clown who was importuned by some young ladies of Mill City, Iowa,
as they passed the dressing-tent, to let them in, said he'd do it
for a kiss from each. There were four in the party and they held a
brief consultation when they came back and wanted to know if one kiss
wouldn't do.
"Yes, one each," said Mr. Merryman, who had his paint on and looked
anything but pretty.
Again they consulted, and at last agreed. They were respectable young
ladies and were slow to do anything that might compromise them, still
they kissed the clown, who lifted a flap of the tent and passed in each
as she paid the osculatory fee. The kisses did his old heart good,
and when he went into the ring so fresh and happy did he feel that he
actually got off a new and good joke, which is an extraordinary thing
for a clown. The clown is pretty much the whole show to the little
folks, and there are many grown people who cherish fondly the childish
admiration they had had for the retailer of old jokes and singer of
poor comic songs. He talks and jumps around as lightly as if he were a
young man; but often if the reader could be around when the chalk and
the streaks of black and red have been washed off he would see that
the light-hearted laugh-provoker is an old man wrinkled and gray, and
that he is to be pardoned for not being able to say anything funny that
would be new at his time of life. I like everything about a clown, his
clothes, his comical hat, his old jokes, his poor voice and his worse
songs. He tries to amuse other people's children, and therefore I am
glad when I hear he has children of his own, as the following touching
story told in verse has something to say about:--
THE CLOWN'S BABY.
It was out on the western frontier--
The miner's, rugged and brown,
Were gathered around the posters;
The circus had come to town!
The great tent shone in the darkness,
Like a wonderful palace of light,
And rough men crowded the entrance--
Shows didn't come every night.
Not a woman's face among them!
Many a face that was bad,
And some that were only vacant,
And some that were very sad;
And behind the canvas curtain,
In a corner of the place,
The clown with chalk and vermilion,
Was "making up" his face.
A weary-looking woman,
With a smile that still was sweet,
Sewed on a little garment,
With a candle at her feet.
Pantaloons stood ready and waiting;
It was the time for the going on,
But the clown in vain searched wildly--
The "property baby" was gone!
He murmured, impatiently hunting,
"It's strange that I cannot find--
There! I've looked in every corner;
It must have been left behind."
The miners were stamping and shouting--
They were not patient men;
The clown bent over the cradle--
"I must take you, little Ben!"
The mother started and shivered,
But trouble and want were near;
She lifted her baby gently,
"You'll be very careful, dear?"
"Careful! You foolish darling--"
How tenderly it was said!
What a smile shone through the chalk and paint--
"I love each hair of his head!"
The noise rose into an uproar,
Misrule for the time was king;
The clown, with a foolish chuckle,
Bolted into the ring.
But as with a squeak and a flourish,
The fiddles closed their tune,
"You hold him as if he was made of glass!"
Said the clown to Pantaloon.
The jovial follow nodded:
"I've a couple myself," he said;
"I know how to handle 'em, bless you!
Old fellow, go ahead!"
The fun grew fast and furious,
And not one of all the crowd
Had guessed the baby was alive,
When he suddenly laughed aloud.
Oh, that baby-laugh! It was echoed
From the benches with a ring,
And the roughest customer there sprung up
With "Boys, it's a real thing!"
The ring was jammed in a minute,
Not a man that did not strive
For "A shot at holding the baby--"
The baby that was "alive!"
He was thronged by kneeling suitors
In the midst of the dusty ring,
And he held his court right royally--
The fair little baby-king--
Till one of the shouting courtiers,
A man with a bold, hard face,
The talk of miles of the country,
And the terror of the place,
Raised the little king on his shoulder,
And chuckled, "Look at that!"
As the baby fingers clutched his hair.
Then "Boys, hand round that hat!"
There never was such a hat-full
Of silver, and gold, and notes;
People are not always penniless
Because they don't wear coats.
And then, "Three cheers for the baby!"
I tell you those cheers were meant;
And the way in which they were given
Was enough to raise the tent.
And there was a sudden silence,
And a gruff old miner said:
"Come boys, enough of this rumpus!
It's time it was put to bed."
So looking a little sheepish,
But with faces strangely bright,
The audience, somewhat lingeringly,
Flocked out into the night.
And the bold-faced leader chuckled,
"He wasn't a bit afraid!
He's as game as he is good-looking--
Boys, that was a show that paid!"
The public at large has but a very vague idea of how a circus is run,
and the people, besides the managers and regular employees, who make
a living by it. When the tenting season is about to open, a class of
people, who in the winter hang about the saloons, variety theatres and
gambling hells of the large cities, start for the circuses to bid for
what are known as the "privileges," which are, as a rule, understood to
embrace not only the candy and lemonade-stands and the side-shows, but
all sorts of gambling devices by which the unsuspecting countryman is
fleeced out of his earnings, or borrowings, as the case may be. Monte
men, thimble-riggers, sweat-cloth dealers, and all classes of gamblers
and thieves who have not yet risen to the dignity of "working" the
watering-places and summer resorts, look upon the route of a circus
as their legitimate field of operation. The circus proprietor who
rents the lot upon which his tent or tents are pitched has the right
to sublet such portions of the ground as he does not use, for such
purposes as he deems proper, and which will not make him personally
amenable to the laws for whatever crimes may be committed there. It has
been shown that in many cases the managers not only sell to gamblers
the privilege of locating on the ground and robbing the patrons of the
circus, but also receive a share of the ill-gotten wealth.
"There are," said Mr. Coup, the circus owner, to an interviewer, "lots
of shows with big bank accounts who have made their money by actually
robbing their patrons. They used to swindle on the seats, but that
is done away with now entirely, or nearly so. Of course, I am not at
liberty to mention names, but I could astonish you by designating shows
the managers of which have made the greater portion of their money in
this way. But a great trick which is being practised is this: A man is
sent ahead of the show who is not known to have any connection whatever
with it. In fact, he denies that he has anything to do with it, and yet
he is really employed by the managers. This man canvasses the town and
finds some man who has a big bank account and who is gullible enough
to confide in strangers. The agent makes his acquaintance, gets into
his confidence, and then with a great show of secrecy informs him how
he can make a pile of money when the circus comes along. The innocent
citizen bites at the bait and is steered against a gambling scheme
either inside or outside of the tent, and loses often large sums of
money. Perhaps he is a man whose social standing prevents him from
making his loss known, or, more frequently, he fails to suspect the
agent, who blusters around and declares that he, too, has lost money
on the scheme. And thus the show goes from town to town, making almost
as much by stealing from its patrons as it does at the ticket wagon.
There are shows which make from $30,000 to $40,000 a season in this way
and that goes a good way toward paying for their printing, and is quite
an item. I have made war on these fellows for years and am determined
to keep it up. If I cannot run a show without having a lot of gambling
schemes attached to it, why then I'll stop running a show. I abolished
everything of the kind last season, even down to the selling of
lemonade in the seats. I allow lemonade to be sold now, but the men are
watched carefully and the first one caught swindling my patrons, off
goes his head."
"Do you not find it difficult to keep gamblers and confidence men away
from your show?"
"I did at first, but it is now known among them that I will not allow
it and they keep away. My life has been threatened several times just
on account of this, but I still live and still propose to keep up the
fight. I have been offered as high as $1,000 a week for the privilege
to rob my patrons by camp-followers, so you can see that the privilege
is worth something. In Georgia a gang threatened publicly to kill me
on sight for refusing to let them hang around my tents, but some of my
men went for them and cleaned them out very effectually. The side-show
privileges are sold only on condition that no gambling shall be carried
on in the tents and that the patrons shall not be swindled in any way.
The side-shows can be made to pay without robbery. Last season the
side-shows that traveled with my show, made $75,000, which was more
than I made."