IV I TELL ABOUT CLOWN TRICKS

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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:

“You seem to be so smart, I suppose you think you can ride.” The horse had remained in the ring all the while.

“You bet I can,” replied the stranger, and started for the horse.

The ringmaster tried to restrain him, saying:

“That horse is dangerous. I warn you that you will be hurt.”

But the man ignored the warning. He took off his coat, still giving every appearance of intoxication. Then he laboriously climbed on the back of the horse. The crowd watched the performance with growing intensity. Many stood on their seats; all thought some accident would ensue. Nearly every person who goes to a circus expects something to happen that is not down on the bills. They want the lion tamer to be bitten by a fierce beast, or to see an acrobat fall to the ground. I suppose it is human nature.

At any rate, the drunken man finally got on the horse, pulled a bottle from his pocket, took a farewell swig, and then lurched forward as if he only maintained his position with the greatest effort. Meanwhile the horse had started. As he trotted the man’s clothes began to fall away from him. In a moment he stood revealed, clad in tights and spangles, and a noble and commanding figure. The ringmaster’s whip cracked, the horse began to gallop and lo, the erstwhile drunkard proved himself to be a graceful and accomplished rider. Then the crowd saw that it had been tricked, but it was so well done that it invariably burst into applause, and the act became a great success. It took a good clown to do this, because he had to be, first of all, a fine bareback rider. I was the second clown in this many times. It was my job to play with the horse while the ringmaster and the rider were having their conversation.

There was still another very successful clown trick then. It was called the “January Act.” From the beginning of the American circus, the mule driven by the clown has been called “January.” I never knew just why or how he got this peculiar name, save that the animal looked like the dead of winter, and always got his tail tied up in the reins. The trick was this:

The clown drove into the ring in a red cart drawn by the mule. He drew up with a clatter, saying:

“Whoa, January!”

The magic in this very exclamation was amazing. No matter where spoken, in town or in country, before great and small, it always drew tumultuous applause. After his noisy entrance the clown got into an argument with the ringmaster, who had a fine horse at his side. The clown wanted to make a trade, which was agreed upon, but no sooner did the ringmaster try to move the mule than the animal became balky, and would not budge. Meanwhile the clown drove off in triumph with his horse. The ringmaster, failing to move the mule, called to the clown to come back, but the funny man treated his plea with contempt, while the crowd roared with laughter. The ringmaster, in a last entreaty, yelled that the clown could have a cash bonus if he would only take his mule away. This, of course, brought the clown back. In a moment old January was hitched up to the clown wagon, and the clown drove off, waving his money and saying:

“It’s easy when you know how.” This always caught the crowd, for everybody is interested in a horse trade, and especially a trade in which one of the parties gets much the worst of the deal.

“TO BE A SUCCESSFUL CLOWN YOU HAD ALSO TO BE A GOOD PANTOMIMIST.”

In 1889 I went with the Ringling circus, and I have been with it ever since. It was their last year as a wagon show, for the next year it became a railroad show, and went from town to town on trains. Somehow I did not like the change at first. I had become so accustomed to the wagon traveling at night, to the wild, free, clean abandon of the life, that I did not fancy the idea of sleeping on a stuffy train, with smoke and cinders to bother me. Many of the other circus people felt the same way about it. The wagon life may have been hard traveling, but it was in the open. God’s air and sunshine were about you always, and although it rained and blew sometimes, the discomfort was not for long. It kept everybody sound and healthy. Many a millionaire would envy the appetites and health we enjoyed. And yet, in a way, our life was one of more or less constant hazard.

There was one big satisfaction about the change to the railroad shows. The circus remained under canvas. Strange as it may seem to an outsider, we can work better under canvas than any other place. This is true all up and down the circus line, from the highest priced “kinker,” as the performers are called, down to the cheapest “rough neck,” as the canvas men are known. They would rather get soaked to the skin under the “big canvas top” out on a North Dakota prairie than be dry under the roof of Madison Square Garden in New York City.

Of course the circus had been getting bigger all the time. Originally it was a one-ring affair. But the competition in the show business stimulated the various showmen to get new and greater attractions. The one-ring show became a two-ring show, and this in turn became the “monster three-ring aggregation of mastodonic amusement creations,” such as is now billed throughout the length and breadth of the land.

As the circus grew bigger, the talking clown ceased to exist. It was only natural that this end of his work should be eliminated. The tents became so large, the arena area so extended, that it was with difficulty that anyone could be heard in the seats. Besides, so many things were going on at the same time that the clown had to perform with his hands and legs in order to attract any attention at all.

With all the innovations that have come to the aid of the modern circus, such monstrosities as “the dip of death” in a somersaulting automobile, and various other freakish inventions calculated to divert the mind and thrill the young, the clown remains, and always will remain, the really picturesque and permanent feature of the circus business. Like the brook in the poem that the English poet wrote about, he shall go on forever.

But the clown has had to keep pace with the development of the circus. The average person who watches a group of clowns disporting themselves in the ring, and is amused at their grotesque antics, may think it is silly and easy work. Let him try it, and he will soon find out what hard work it is, and what careful thought is necessary for each act. Every act that is done must be carefully rehearsed. I have practiced on a trick fall for a whole month.

You may have noticed that clowns travel in pairs and trios. This is due to the fact that every clown act, no matter how ludicrous, or how simple, must tell a story. It is really a small comedy or a slight drama. We must not only have action, but something to suggest an incident or a series of incidents. If the clowns, for example, wear soldier uniforms, their act must give a hint of a camp, a battlefield, or some other definite martial picture. It may be hugely grotesque, but it must be a concrete picture just the same.

Like everything else in this busy world, clowning must be timely. We play on vogues. It may be Salome, or The Merry Widow, or Roosevelt’s trip to Africa, or the airship. The good clown must make his act a perfect piece of mimicry. This is the first and foremost requirement. This is why so many good clowns are such fine pantomimists. We must, in short, first see ourselves as others see us.

Many people wonder why we keep the white make-up. This is the traditional clown face, and has been so for many generations of clowns. Both the costume and the face have undergone little change within my lifetime. It is perhaps the only amusement that has maintained its physical integrity through many years. Take the slap-stick, the bladder, and the funny fall, and you have the clown’s sole stock in trade for decades. Unless I am much mistaken, they will remain so for another hundred years.

“EVERY CLOWN ACT MUST TELL A STORY.”

Some very successful clown tricks are mere accidents. You start out to do an act, stump your toe or slip up. Then everybody laughs, for they think it is part of the show. Thereafter, every time you go out to do this act you stump your toe or slip up. With all these aids, some men work for years at clowning, and never become clowns. Good clowns are born, not made.

The clown’s costume requires much thought and study. Although most clowns look alike to you, if you will watch their attire carefully you will see that each one is slightly different from the other. I have little patience with the many contrivances that some modern clowns use, such as guns, electrical appliances, and all that sort of thing. To be a real clown you only need your wits and a few simple things. The dullard clown seeks to make up for his mental deficiencies with mechanical contrivances. Perhaps I am prejudiced in favor of the old ways, just as I cling to the memory of the old days. But they are the best.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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