Part 2

Meanwhile I had been traveling all over Europe, first with one circus and then another. My work as clown developed. Of course, in passing from one country to the other I picked up the different Continental languages. This was highly important, because I had often to carry on a sort of running conversation with the spectators.

Like every other circus performer I had many escapes from death. My body and arms were soon covered with scars, each one a souvenir of some accident. At the Circus Cliniselli in Berlin I was knocked down by a horse, which walked on my face. One hoof laid my cheek open. The crowd thought it was part of the show, and laughed, while I suffered tortures, not knowing what the animal would do next.

At St. Petersburg I was doing a clown leaping act over a row of horses, when the springboard slipped and I landed on my head. I was taken out for dead, but in a few days I was all right again and back at my work.

It was while I was performing at the Cirque d’Eté in Paris that I witnessed a sight that made a profound impression on me. In the circus was a dashing rider named M. Prince. He was a great favorite and his appearance was always greeted by tremendous applause. He did a somersault on horseback. One day he slipped, fell on his head, and lay still. An attendant ran forward, covered him with a blanket, and carried him off. At that moment the ringmaster took off his hat and announced:

“It is nothing, ladies and gentlemen; a very slight accident. M. Prince begs the public will excuse him.”

Then we clowns leaped into the arena and made merry, and the circus went on. The truth of the matter was that M. Prince’s neck had been broken by the fall and that he had died instantly. So swift and sure is the circus man’s desire not to divert the interest of the crowd that there was absolutely no hint of the tragedy that had happened before the very eyes of everybody.

About this time I joined what was called the Schumann Combination, a half circus and half variety show. We had acrobats, jugglers, singers, dancers, a clown, and a marvelous sword swallower named Maldini. He was the greatest artist of his kind I ever saw. He could run a bayonet and part of a gun-barrel down his throat. He was very keen and resourceful, too, as you shall see.

We went on an elaborate tour, and reached Mexico. There we played many small towns. It was hard traveling, for Mexico was a rude country with few cities. We had to journey by donkey and by stage; the roads were bad and the land infested with brigands. All the men in our troupe were heavily armed.

One night we stopped at a small inn and took a much-needed rest. Before we departed the next morning the innkeeper warned us about the danger of crossing a certain narrow mountain road. The innkeeper said that we were very liable to be held up by brigands.

“But,” he added, “if a man appears at the top of the cañon and waves his hat at you, you are safe.”

Being a sword swallower, Maldini was the nearest thing to a real soldier or fighting man that we had, so, by unanimous vote, he was placed in command of the expedition. As we approached the narrow pass we saw men concealed in the bushes. Maldini halted us, gave orders to prepare our weapons in a loud voice, and then added:

“Fire fast and die bravely.”

Then he stepped forward and pulled from a sheath one of the huge swords that he used in his sword-swallowing act. After testing its keenness by running the blade over his finger, he struck a fine dramatic pose, and rammed the sword down his throat again and again. It was a curious and unforgettable picture; the sword swallower out on that rocky ledge in the early morning light, with the great mountains all around. He was literally swallowing for dear life.

It was a wild country, and the people were very superstitious. They had never seen a sword swallower before. Therefore, as Maldini did his act out in the open we could hear the brigands fairly gasping in wonderment and awe. In a few moments one of them arose, waved his hat with trembling hand, and we passed through the danger zone safely. The sword-swallowing act had probably saved our lives, and we showered praise and congratulation upon Maldini. This incident determined my future course. I had found my work hard enough, but I did not want physical hardship increased by outside menace. I had all the perils I wanted in my work, so I decided to leave at the very first opportunity. In those days we had no written contracts, and the performers could leave whenever they got ready.

We traveled through Mexico and some of the Central American countries. Finally we reached the Pacific coast. The Combination was headed for South America and wanted me to go along, but I declined. I was in the New World, and I wanted to see something of it. Besides, my mother had come to New York to live. She had married for the second time, her new husband being a manufacturer of fireworks.

I took the first boat for San Francisco. It gave me a sort of thrill to step ashore there, for the United States had always beckoned to me. I felt that there could be no hardship here. The land was smiling and the sky was as blue as Italy’s.

I crossed the continent to New York and went straight to my mother’s. She lived in a little flat on Third Avenue. You must remember that I had not seen her for nineteen years. Almost tremblingly I mounted the steps and rang the bell at her door. It seemed an age before the knob turned and the door opened. In the doorway I saw a stout woman, who stared at me curiously. I saw that she did not recognize me.

“Who are you and what do you want?” she asked.

“Don’t you know me?” I asked.

The woman looked steadily at me, and said slowly:

“No.”

It gave me a deep wrench.

“I am your boy Jules,” I said. She gave a cry and fell on my neck. Then she almost carried me into the room and made me sit on her lap. She caressed my face, and said:

“You have changed a great deal. Where is your soft, silky hair that you had as a boy, and what has become of your beautiful complexion?”

Sadly enough my circus life had played havoc with whatever tenderness and softness I once had in my face. The Red Rattle, as the paint I had used in the Demon Act is called, had left marks on my face. Besides, pain and hardship had put their indelible impress in lines and wrinkles. The close-fitting caps that I had to wear as clown had made my hair thin and coarse.

But I was glad to be back even in the pretense of a home. I inquired eagerly of my sisters. One of them, Millie, had become a great balancing trapeze artist, and was with the Forepaugh circus. Another sister, Jennie, was a noted bareback rider with the Sells show; my brother Tom had developed into a famous acrobat and pantomimist, and was with the Hanlons. I felt proud of all of them. They had done honor and dignity to the family’s circus name, and maintained its best traditions. I alone felt that it was up to me to do something great in my line.

I wanted to remain near my mother for a little while, so I went on as juggler at a variety show on the Bowery, which was then the most famous amusement highway in New York. But the call of the circus was always in my ears. When once you have tasted of its sensations they never die. I played the part of a Spanish clown in a circus at Havana, and then returned to the United States, this time to stay.

III

I JOIN THE TENTED CIRCUS

During all these years that I had spent clowning in various lands, that peculiarly American institution, the tented circus, had been rapidly developing. The first circus to show under a “canvas top” had unfolded its wonders in New England as far back as 1826. Previous to that time the circuses had showed in frame buildings, theaters, or in hotel yards behind canvas walls under the sky. The first shows had no menageries. When the showmen did begin to acquire animals from the sea captains who brought them to America in a spirit of speculation, the menagerie was a separate and distinct institution. The animals had a strong drawing power, and were only exhibited in the daytime. This enabled the showmen to attract people on Sunday. It was not until 1851 that the circus and the menagerie were exhibited at the same time for one price of admission.

Strange as it may seem to you who are accustomed to seeing elephants, the first one brought to this country produced a profound sensation. I have heard the old showmen talk of it very often. It was not attached to a circus, but was exhibited in barns during the day. At night it was taken from town to town, swathed in blankets, so curious country people could not get a free glimpse of it. Sadly enough, this elephant was shot by some miscreant, who wanted to see if a bullet would pierce his thick hide.

In Europe we had heard various kinds of reports about the American circus from performers who had gone over. Some seemed incredible. It was said that the shows in this country had hundreds of horses and as many attendants. This seemed so huge alongside our smaller Continental circuses that I refused to believe it. But when I did come over and saw an American circus in all its glory I realized that half of the truth about it had not been told. When I came back from Havana the old circus kings were coming into their own. W. C. Coup, probably the father of the modern traveling circus, had the “United Monster Shows” out. He lured P. T. Barnum from the museum business to the circus game, and they formed what was undoubtedly the first great combination of showmen. “Yankee” Robinson, who had been a circus autocrat as far back as the sixties, the Sells Brothers, Adam Forepaugh, the Mabies, Dan Costello, and John Robinson, all had shows on the road, and were getting bigger and stronger all the time. It was about that time that the Ringling Brothers were having their first circus thrills, and were laying the foundation of a knowledge and experience that have made them leaders of their world to-day.

All the circuses then were wagon shows. They traveled from town to town in wagons. The performers went ahead to the hotel in ’buses or snatched what sleep they could in specially built vans. The start for the next town was usually made about three o’clock in the morning. No “run” from town to town was more than twenty miles, and more often it was considerably less. At the head of the cavalcade rode the leader, on horseback, with a lantern. Torches flickered from most of the wagons, and cast big shadows. The procession of creaking vehicles, neighing horses, and sometimes roaring beasts was an odd picture as it wound through the night. Many of the drivers slept on their seats. The elephant always walked majestically, with a sleepy groom alongside. The route was indicated by flaming torches left at points where the roads turned. Sometimes these torches went out, and the show got lost. More than once a farmer was rudely aroused from his slumbers, and nearly lost his wits when he poked his head out of his window and saw the black bulk of an elephant in his front yard. It was, indeed, the picturesque day of the circus.

My first engagement was with the Burr Bobbins circus, which was a big wagon show. The night traveling in the wagons was new to me, and at first strange. But I got to like it very much. It was a great relief to lie in the wagons, out under the stars, and feel the sweet breath of the country. Often the nights were so still that the only sounds were the creaking of the wagons, and occasionally the words, “Mile up,” that the elephant driver always used to urge on his patient, plodding beast.

The circus arrangement then was much different from now. Then the whole outfit halted outside the town, which was never reached until after daylight. The canvas men would hurry to the “lot” to put up the tents while we remained behind to spruce up for the parade. Gay flags were hoisted over the dusty wagons; the tired and sleepy performers turned out of tousled beds to put on the finery of the Orient. A gorgeous howdah was placed on the elephant’s back, and a dark-eyed beauty, usually from some eastern city, was hoisted aloft to ride in state, and to be the envy and admiration of every village maiden. No matter how long, wet, or dusty had been our journey from the last town, everybody, man and beast, always braced up for the parade. Of course, by this time, we were surrounded by a crowd of gaping countrymen. Often the triumphant parade of the town was made on empty stomachs, for there was to be no letup until the people of the community had had every bit of “free doing” that the circus could supply. The clowns always drove mules in the parade. When the parade reached the grounds, the performers changed clothes, hastened back to the village hotel, and ate heartily. If there was time, we snatched a few hours of sleep. But sleep and the circus man are strangers during the season. Ask any circus man when he sleeps, and he will say, “In the winter time.”

Then, as now and always, the clown was a very important part of the circus. You could hear the people all up and down the village streets asking: “Where are the clowns?” and when we hove into sight there would be a clapping of hands and the exchange of jests and words. During that first engagement with the Burr Robbins show I was what was called a “talking and knockabout clown.” I have had many odd experiences, but none more memorable than my first appearance under canvas in America. I felt as if I had been transported to a different show world and was moving and breathing under a sea of canvas. The arena was much bigger than those of the European circuses, and I found that you had to strain every effort to be seen and heard and appreciated.

I found, among other things, that the average American circus-goer was not so responsive to the clown as the European frequenter of the arena. One reason for this is that the average American, even in the smaller towns, has more diversions than his foreign cousin. Besides, Europe had seen many generations of clowns, and had witnessed the whole evolution of his art. The American had to be educated up to him.

I stayed with the Robbins show for a number of years. I found the wagon life very alluring. There was an odd sort of democracy among the circus people. I found various countrymen of mine, for the average circus performer is a great nomad. In those days there was fierce and costly rivalry between circuses. It often led to open combat. I have heard that on one occasion one showman burned up a bridge in order to keep a competitor from reaching the next town. Often there was hostility on the part of the natives. The circus man then had to be a fighter in selfdefense. The phrase “Hey, Rube!” had been born. This has been, for many years, the battle-cry of the showmen. It is the call to arms and for help, and I have heard it ring out on dark nights, and the next moment found myself in the center of a struggling, fighting mob.

When I joined out with the Robbins show, however, some of the costly competition of the fighting kind had subsided, although the circus business was fraught with much hardship. Fires, cyclones, and wrecks were the chief dangers. The menagerie then was exhibited in the tent where the big show was given. In case of fire, the animals often got loose. Once, when I was out on the track, I was horrified to see a leopard that had escaped from his cage. He crouched in the sawdust. A troupe of bronchos was in the ring. The wild beast hesitated a moment, then sprang through the air, and alighted on the back of one of the horses. The animal was stiff with fear. Suddenly I heard a commotion in the seats, and a tipsy countryman made his way to the ring. Before any of the people could move, he had seized a whip and begun lashing the leopard. He was big and strong, and he rained blows on the animal. Soon it began to whimper and before long was groveling in the sawdust, where it was taken in charge by the trainer, who had arrived by this time.

It did not take me long to find out that to be a successful clown in America you had to make local hits, just the way comedians did on the stage. The tents were not nearly so large as they are now and you could talk to your audience and be readily understood. Accordingly, I made haste, as soon as I reached a town, to get a local newspaper, find out what was going on, and then I made a reference to it in my clowning. It never failed to please the spectators.

I was very much impressed with the United States, for we were traveling all the time. Down South I was much interested in the negroes who flocked to the circus. They would spend their last cent to get in. They were very superstitious, and when we did sleight-of-hand tricks or fancy falls, they stared with big eyes. Some even got scared and left the tent.

The negro lived in deadly fear of the escape of the wild animals. One of the favorite jokes of the advance brigade of the circus, and by this is meant the men who go ahead and do the billing, was to tell the negroes that a den of lions and tigers had escaped, and were prowling through the country. However, this gave the negro a good excuse to avoid going in the woods to cut timber, and the negro has always delighted in a pretense that postpones manual labor for him as long as possible.

Our work was not without its diversion. The desire of the average boy to join the circus is, of course, universal, but in the young countryman this desire seems greater. Many of them wanted to become “actors,” as they called the acrobats. This caused us to fix up a scheme by which we sold the ambitious youngsters a liniment to make them limber. It was made from cheap grease, and was sold more for a joke than anything else. There were always many young men who wanted to be clowns. They, too, bought the grease, which was supposed to have every known physical power.

It was a clean, free life in which the hardships were soon forgotten.

IV

I TELL ABOUT CLOWN TRICKS

That was the great clown era in America. Clowning reached a golden age which passed away, never to return again. You may not think so, but we clowns have as much pride in our profession as the most finished Shakespearian actor has in his. It thrills me now to think of the giants of those days, at whose feet I worshiped, and from whose art I drew inspiration. They were all white-faced clowns, but the drollest fun-makers the world ever saw.

The greatest clown America ever saw was Dan Rice. His very name brings back memories of notable sawdust triumphs. He began by running a puppet show in Reading, Pa. Then he had a trained pig. With this he took up clowning. He was a wonderful rider and was equaled in daring by one man only, and that man was James Robinson, perhaps the most marvelous equestrian that the United States has yet produced. Dan was a real character in and out of the ring. At one time he had what was known in those days as a “river show.” He was a good negro minstrel, and took part in the performance. It was given in a “Palace Boat,” fitted up as an opera house. It was towed by a big tug, in which the performers ate and slept. Many of the circuses traveled in this way, making fast at the levees each day to give their performances. They were very popular up and down the Mississippi. Rice could do everything that went to amuse the circus crowd. At one time he earned $1,000 a week, and for one season Adam Forepaugh paid him a salary of $27,000. He rose to great affluence, for at one time he owned the Walnut Street Theater in Philadelphia. He had a big tent circus on the road, too. He was of a generous and noble nature; his courage was Spartan, and he was greatly beloved. He would face an angry crowd without flinching, and his name was a household word for young and old. Yet he died in poverty, in a little house on Twenty-third Street in New York. With him perished part of our art.

A close rival to Dan Rice was George L. Fox, who was called the “Grimaldi of America.” Grimaldi was the great English clown. With Fox the art of pantomime reached its greatest perfection in this country. He was the original “Humpty Dumpty,” and played this part nearly two thousand times in New York alone. His drollery was irresistible, and he counted among his admirers the Booths and all the other great tragedians of the day.

Then there was “Daddy” Rice, who was no kin to Dan, and such great clowns as Joe Pentland, Johnny Patterson, Billy Wallett, Dan Gardner, John Gossin, Charles Seeley, John Lalow, Billy Burke, father of Billie Burke the actress, “Whimsical” Walker, and last, but not least, Al Miaco, who is still traveling with us. He was a real king’s jester, and wore cap and bells. He knows more lines of Shakespeare than most students, and to-day he reads Ben Jonson and Byron under the tent flaps, while waiting for his turn. He is one of the few survivals of the good old days, for he was, and still is, a real artist. In pantomime he is to-day unexcelled. Miaco is nearly seventy, yet he can twist his foot around his neck with the ease and agility of a youngster. With all his wealth of learning and his remarkable knowledge of books, he is a white-faced clown; he makes grimaces at the people every day, and he is glad he is doing it.

The great clowns of that day were also great comedians. If you had put them on the stage of regular theaters—“hall shows,” as we call them—they would have succeeded, simply because they knew how to make fun in a simple, natural way. Transplant a stage comedian to the circus, and the chances are that he will fail. He creates a fun that is artificial.

It makes me laugh now to think of the successful clown tricks of those old days. One of the best known was called the “Peter Jenkins Act,” so named because a clown named Peter Jenkins first did it. The ringmaster and the clown came into the ring and faced the crowd. The former then made this announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen: I have the great pleasure to announce the appearance of Mademoiselle La Blanche, the world’s most daring and renowned equestrienne, in her marvelous and sensational bareback act as performed before all the crowned heads of Europe.”

A magnificent horse was led in by a groom. He was always a superb animal, a real leader of the “resin back” herd. The horses used for bareback riding are called “resin backs,” because you spread resin on their backs in order to hold the rider’s feet firmly. After the horse had pranced around the ring several times a commotion was heard in the “pad room,” the tent where the trappings are put on the horses. It is just outside the main tent. An attendant rushed in and whispered something in the ringmaster’s ear. He seemed much shocked, and then, with some hesitation, proceeded to make the following statement:

“I am very sorry, ladies and gentlemen, to be obliged to announce that Mademoiselle La Blanche has been kicked by a horse on her way to the arena, and is so badly hurt that she is unable to appear.”

Of course a murmur of disappointment always ran around through the crowd. A moment later a seedily dressed man arose from a seat among the spectators. He seemed to be partially under the influence of liquor. He shouted:

“This show is a fake. I came here to see that lady ride, and I won’t be humbugged.”

With this, he started for the ring, reeling as he made his precarious way down the blue seats. At the same time he carried on a running conversation with the ringmaster. Everybody in the big tent became interested in the little drama that developed, for they thought it was the real thing.

As the drunken man crossed the hippodrome track, and neared the ringmaster, he again upbraided him. Then the ringmaster said: