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.

“BEHIND THE JESTS OF THE CLOWN IS THE SEAR OF SORROW.”