I FOUND that I could still do some acrobatic tricks like simple flip-flaps. You can never possibly realize the feeling of consolation that came to me when I landed on my feet after the first experimental turn, for, with that landing, I realized that I still had a means of earning a livelihood. It was like a man who suddenly found an arm useful that had been considered helpless. I had been a good balancer in my contortion days, and this was also an asset. So I joined a troupe known as “Jackley’s Wonders,” which started for a tour of Northern Africa with Brachini’s circus.

But my joy over finding the relic of my gymnastic power was short-lived. Even the most ordinary acrobatic work began to tell on me. Every night when the circus day was ended, I suffered the most intense pains. My back became weak. I was in despair.

One day the ringmaster, to whom I had told my physical troubles, said to me:

“Jules, you are a good mimic. Why don’t you try clowning?”

It struck me as a very good idea. I had always been interested in clowns. Their drolleries and fooling had won my child heart, and I could never forget those early kindnesses of the old clown Albro, my first nurse, who was with my mother’s circus. Often during the harsh days of my apprenticeship I would steal away after training and watch the clowns at work or play. They told me stories, but, to my great surprise, they were never funny stories, and I now recall my first sense of surprise over finding the clowns such serious, sober men when they were away from the circus. I had watched them very carefully, and I had an instinct that I was going to succeed as one of them.

To be a good clown, even then, a man had to be a pretty good acrobat, because in his clowning he was called upon to do many arduous physical things. The clowns in those days were what was known as “talking” clowns. They talked as they worked. The circuses were much smaller than now, and it was not difficult to get and hold the interest and attention of the people. One of the clowns’ favorite occupations was to guy the ringmaster. He would engage him in conversation something like this:

“I hear you are a great traveler.”

“Yes,” the ringmaster would reply with great dignity.

“Ever been to Rome?”

“Yes.”

“Been to Paris?”

“Yes.”

Then the clown would ask if he had been to various other cities, to which the ringmaster would keep on making the reply “Yes.” Then the clown would glibly ask:

“Ever been to jail?”

Whereupon the ringmaster would pretend to fall into the trap and say “Yes,” at which the crowd roared with laughter. This may seem to be rude humor to you, but the circus crowds in the foreign provinces were composed of rude people of the middle and lower classes, and they thought this kind of horse-play was great fun.

My first appearance as clown is a very vivid recollection. It was in the circus at Oran, in North Africa. I had, in my day, done many hazardous acrobatic feats and it was a daily matter for me to risk my neck in some kind of performance. I could do it, too, without turning a hair. But when I came out in my white face before a great crowd I was nervous. I had a good make-up, however, and the people laughed as soon as they saw me. Laughter has a peculiar effect. If it ripples out as soon as you appear, you may be sure that you are succeeding, because if the people do not think you even look funny, they will not laugh. My nervousness in clowning soon wore off.

As I came to study clowning I found that it was a serious and difficult business. Every step in the making of a clown or the manufacture of his “business” is hard work. To produce laughs you must make a serious effort. You may have noticed that nearly every clown makes a practice of falling down in various absurd and ridiculous ways. Even this business of making a fall requires the most elaborate kind of preparation. It may look very easy to take a tumble in the sawdust, but I assure you it is only done after long practice. Every step of it must be rehearsed. Unless the funny fall is natural, it fails utterly.

The tall, peaked hat was a great aid to the clown in my early days of clowning. I do not know the origin of it, save that it probably descended from the original fool’s cap. I used to come out with seven of these peaked hats piled up on my head. Then I would take them off, throw them up in the air, one by one, and catch them on my head. This always made a great hit. In those days the circus, being small, only had one clown, and he had to do a good deal of work.

To be a successful clown you had also to be a good pantomimist, because all clowning is really based on the pantomime. This enabled the clown to get an engagement on the variety stage during the winter and closed circus season.

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.