FOR thousands of years man has searched for the Fountain of Youth, and it has always eluded him. Yet I am foolish enough to think that I have discovered it. The secret lies in being a clown. We are not only the oldest people of the circus in tradition, but also in years. There is that about our work which keeps us eternally young in spirit. Sometimes when the journey has been long and the day hot and the dust thick, I get a little weary, for I am moving on towards sixty. But as soon as I hear the music of the band, the snorts of the horses, the shrill voices of the “barkers,” and the indescribable movement of the crowd toward the big tent, it all acts like wine upon my blood. I am stirred to action, the weariness falls away like magic, and I am young again. I have not missed a performance in five years.

Many performers in the circus have this same experience, but the clown has a deeper and truer inspiration behind his. It lies in laughter. We make people laugh and we get, in a curious way, the effect of that laughter on ourselves. Laughter looses the fetters of the brain, and it radiates a spirit that makes for the joyousness of life. Combined with it is our constant action in the open air. No man who keeps his body and mind active, and who lives temperately in the fresh air, will grow “old” as the world sees age. This is why I say that I have found the Fountain of Youth.

Perhaps by this time you may wonder what a clown’s state of mind is. If I have succeeded in giving any hint of the real mood of my profession, you will know that it is seriousness. Hence the clown’s outlook on life is grave. It takes a wise man to be a fool. Therefore anybody cannot play the clown. It is only in external things that we are “comical fellows.” There are good and bad clowns, clowns with high ideals, and those who regard clowning merely as a means towards earning a livelihood. Of course, clowns, like poets, must be fed, but there is a right way to approach one’s calling and a wrong way. To be a good clown a man must be a student and be in earnest.

I read books every chance I get. It will not surprise you perhaps when I say that one of my favorites is “Don Quixote.” Somewhere in this great work Sancho Panza says:

“In comedy the most difficult character is that of the fool, and he that plays the part must be no simpleton.”

Wise old Sancho was right. It fits into my theory of clowning perfectly.

I have read every one of Charles Dickens’ books. This is not because the Immortal Boz was the friend and editor of Grimaldi, the king of clowns, but because it always seems to me that he knew how to analyze the human heart. He knew the lowly. I like history, too, and once in a while, when I want to be stirred deeply, I read about Napoleon. I think he was a very wicked man, but I have French blood in me, and I suppose it is pride in him, after all, that makes me admire him. I have left for the last the book that has influenced me more than all others, and this is the Bible. The world never associates a white-faced clown with piety. I don’t profess to be pious, but I love to read the Bible. Sometimes on the long, hot Sunday afternoons I lie under a tent flap and read it to the men. The roughest canvas man will respect a man who is sincerely good, but he has a profound contempt for the pretender.

Since I have gotten into a reflective mood I should like to say something about the work of a clown that I don’t think the average person who goes to the circus comprehends, and it is this: the clown’s art has endured through all the years because it is clean. This is a very simple but a very powerful reason. Amusement vogues come and go, for the taste of the man who wants to be diverted is fickle. He is always craving something new. He may be interested for a brief time in the sickly atmosphere of a problem or an erotic play, but he soon tires of it. So with many other forms of entertainment. The vaudeville which is now having its hour of glory will pass away. But clowning is done out in the open air, where the winds of heaven blow about you! It is clean, morally and physically. It has no ambition to appeal to the senses; it has no elevating purpose; its sole idea is to amuse. In this it has achieved permanency.

Perhaps nothing in all my long antic before the public has given me a keener pleasure than the realization that I have given delight to children. The sight of their little faces, beaming with happiness and stretching up, row behind row, to the very top of the seats, has always filled me with renewed zeal for my work.

Nothing so attracts the small boy as the circus. I have strained my conscience many a time by letting a ragged urchin slip under the canvas and get a seat in the cherished paradise. This reminds me of an incident that always gives me satisfaction to rehearse.

Eighteen years ago the Ringling show was at Binghamton, N. Y. It was a very hot day, and I stood outside the dressing tent to get a breath of air. As I stood there a little boy came up and eyed me eagerly. I was dressed for the afternoon performance, and thought he was merely staring at me out of boyish curiosity. Then I saw tears and a very wistful look in his eyes. I have always loved children, and this little chap made me think of my own dead boy. I walked up to him, and putting my hand on his head, said:

“What’s the matter, sonny?”

“I want to see the circus,” he replied.

“Have you no money?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, and fell to weeping.

Something in the lad’s manner touched me deeply. I saw that he really wanted to see the show, so I took him by the hand and led him to where he could find his way to a good seat. He was radiant with pleasure as I left him.

The years passed, and I forgot all about the incident. A few seasons ago we again showed at Binghamton, N. Y. Once more it was a scorching hot afternoon, and curiously enough I stood outside the dressing tent before the time came for me to go on. A fine-looking young man came up to where I was standing, and said:

“I beg your pardon, but I am looking for a clown who befriended me fifteen years ago. I heard someone then call him ‘Jules.’ Can you tell me if he is still with the show?”

I said to him:

“You don’t have to look far, for I am Jules.”

With that he reached forward, seized my hand and shook it warmly. Then he said:

“I have waited a long time to thank you for that kindness of long ago. It may have seemed a small thing to you, but it meant a lot to me. I want you to take dinner with me to-night.”

I went downtown with him after the performance, and we had a fine talk. He had become an electrical engineer and was doing well. He had always missed our circus when it showed at Binghamton. He made me promise to send him a picture of myself.

“IT IS GOOD TO BE A CLOWN.”