The faithful recording of daily life with one of the “big shows,” wandering with it under all vicissitudes, fortunate or adverse, is the errand on which this book is sent. You and I will travel from the distraction and tumult of the summer season to the congenial quiet of winter quarters, and survey operations from the hour when new and unwonted scenes and sounds startle city quiet or country seat retirement until the stealthy breaking of the white encampment and the departure from town. We will scrutinize the entrance of strangers into strange lands and observe the rising and expansion of the tents as an army of men stamp their image upon the earth. Our astonished eye will gaze upon the gorgeous pageant of the parade and returning to the grounds will peer freely and familiarly about the place of strange sounds and entrancing sights. We will watch the master mind of the circus and his associates in counsel and action. We will study the life, character, and habits of the motley throng of “show” people and learn of morals and manners, of hopes and fears, of trials and solicitudes; and we will pass sunny hours on meadows enamelled with violets and daisies and goldened with buttercups and dandelions, where the circus is passing its day.

We circus people have so high an opinion of our good qualities that we are not ashamed to introduce ourselves to you. As pilgrims with no abiding city, leading a life of multiplied activities and varied fortunes amid scenes of din and turmoil, hurry and agitation, our platform is courage, ambition, and energy, governed by honest purpose and tempered by humanity. We have our infirmities, our faults, and our sins, but also our virtues, our excellences, and our standards of perfection, and a discerning world has come no longer to regard us as unscrupulous invaders, but as invited and welcome guests. The voice of joy and health resounds through our ranks; we are united in fraternal good-will unbroken by dissension, our life of weal and woe is ever invested with peculiar delightful fascination, and boisterous relish transports itself from town to town. Memory clings with fond tenacity to halcyon days with the circus.

Sometime between 1820 and 1830 (circus annals tell not exactly the year), near what is now New York City, while a red-coated band blew forth a merry melody, a round-top tent swelled upward. The parents of some of the present-day performers remember the day. It was the first cloth circus shelter erected in this country, and then what was formerly an open-air show assumed the dignity and importance of an under-cover performance. A crude enough affair it was, as compared with the perfection and finish of the modern circus. The flags and streamers and bunting which add grace and beauty waved no friendly greeting; the clamorous welcome of side-show orators and ticket sellers was wanting; no menagerie offered its accumulated wealth of curious and snarling beasts; human curiosity had not been awakened by the overpowering splendor and magnificence of a preliminary parade; there was a lack of sentiment and excitement and appeal to the senses; only din and confusion and broiling heat. From this mean beginning has come the marvellous circus of to-day, involving a business so extensive that few people possess anything but the vaguest conception of its magnitude, organization, and methods of operation.

Underlying the pomp and glitter and the odor of sawdust and naphtha is a system of government and management whose scale and scope are stupendous and staggering. No human institution is more perfect in operation and direction. Surely no more flattering tribute could be paid than that officially given us by the United States Government. Officers from the army department, skilled veterans in their profession, critically observed the swift sequence of proceedings when we showed in Washington—the early arrival of the trains; the rapid debarkation; the magical growth of the white encampment; the parade passing with measured tread through deeply lined streets; the scene on the grounds and at the performances, and the pulling down at night and the hurried, though orderly, departure. Then Gen. Nelson A. Miles surveyed the scene and expressed wonder and admiration. Finally there came a request that two representatives of the department be permitted to accompany the circus for two weeks. To the Government had come a realization that the modern circus offered lessons in the transportation and handling of men and horses, canvas and vehicles. And when the Barnum & Bailey Show was in Europe, the monarch of one of the world-powers, visiting under tents incognito, confessed that he had profited immensely by what he had witnessed, and proposed to put into immediate effect many of the original working arrangements of the circus. For instance, astonished at the ease and celerity with which the heavy circus wagons were run on to the cars by means of a block and tackle and an inclined plane, he admitted, ruefully, that in his vast army they had been hoisting their artillery over the sides of the cars. It remained for the American circus to bring appreciation of the waste of time and labor.So to the humble employee of the circus who wanders with it from place to place, one day in one town and the next perhaps one hundred miles distant for a period of more than thirty weeks, is a part of the strange daily life, witnesses the emergencies constantly met and dealt with and the perplexing obstacles overcome, comes a forcible and convincing knowledge that it is not an ungodly thing to be questioned and looked at askance, but a genial, legitimate, business enterprise, based upon sound principles and conducted upon the highest lines of ability and responsibility by men who assumed a risk at which the nerviest professional gambler would hesitate. The amount of capital invested is several million dollars; no insurance company will give protection. The dangers of the road are never absent. A cataclysm of damage suits is a constant peril. Rainy weather, preventing performance and profit, may be a companion for months. There must be constant renewal of costly perishable property. Deaths of costly rare animals may swallow up the receipts of days. Continual other dangers and losses, of whose frequency, gravity, and magnitude the general public has no adequate conception, are encountered. Against these ruining possibilities the circus stakes.

There is a popular misapprehension regarding the profits of the circus business. Some of the large organizations have continued in existence for periods of several years without returning a cent on the investment or at an actual operating loss. Less strongly financed tented shows succumb. The circus is an infallible register of the monetary condition of the country. Hard times are reflected in it, and prosperity fills it with joyous evidence. The daily expenses of our circus are placed by the management at over $5,000, and a moment’s calculation discloses that the receipt of this amount of money is not the quick operation surface conditions often indicate. The average daily free admissions are eleven hundred. These are largely the tickets given for bill-posting privileges. This territory embraces, generally, forty miles on the lines of all converging railroads and a distance of twenty miles in both directions from the tracks. City officials, newspapers, and a throng of others claim the remaining gratuitous entrance passes. Sometimes the number is larger. In one city we have been obliged to place three thousand free tickets.

Experienced circus owners reckon that one-quarter of the attendance comprises children under nine years of age and who pay half-rate, twenty-five cents. Thus it will be seen that some thirteen thousand persons, including those with free tickets, must pass the door each day before a dollar’s profit has been yielded from this source for the management. Our “big top’s” capacity is ten thousand persons. One realizes, after consideration of these facts and figures, how necessary it is that there be few vacant seats at either performance to insure a profit for the day, and how often the net revenue is supplied entirely by side-show, peanuts, popcorn, lemonade, and other small departments. Moreover, when the casual observer convinces himself that the huge tent is full to repletion, he is often badly mistaken. The circus usher must perform his duty with great care and systematic thoroughness, else he will permit the man who has paid for one seat to occupy two or more.

The circus does not run its season, dissolve, and disperse. In winter the entire establishment is maintained. Only the performers and workmen are dropped, and with the former this is generally a mere suspension of service, for contracts are frequently made for several years. Owners, managers, contracting agents, advertising agents, press agents, treasurer, bookkeepers, and others, find no idle moments. Rolling stock, suffering from the hard effects of a season’s campaign, needs painter and carpenter; new acts and novelties must be secured to keep abreast of the times; the new route must be laid out and considered; and to do this the management must know the population and character of every town; have information of the condition of business, vicissitudes of the year and the prospects for the coming season; know the national, state, and municipal law and the character of licenses, and the price of food for man and beast; keep track of floods, droughts, or disasters to crops or people; be conversant with the periods of ploughing and harvesting; learn what railroads run in and out of town, their grades and condition, the extent, strength, and height of tunnels and bridges and the relative positions of railroad yards and the show lot; and find out the condition of the soil wherever the circus is booked in case of rain, and provide in advance for such a contingency. The circus is a fair-weather show and the management must have a definite knowledge of wet and dry seasons, to avoid encountering, so far as human foresight is possible, unpropitious meteorological conditions.

The question of transportation is the most careful one involved, and upon its cost and facilities the route of the circus is in a great measure determined. For instance, up in agricultural Windsor county, in southeastern Vermont, nestles the village of White River Junction. It boasts a weekly newspaper, a public school, and a national and a savings bank. Its population does not exceed fifteen hundred; yet the big circuses make annual pilgrimages thither because it is a local trade centre, the Boston and Maine, Central Vermont and Woodstock railroads converge upon it, and there the White and Connecticut rivers merge their waters. Its selection for exhibition purposes is a good illustration of the important part transportation facilities play in arranging routes. White River Junction itself would not turn out patrons enough to pay for the menagerie’s food, but the throngs conveyed there by train and boat always fill the tents. So it is all over the country, barring the large cities. It is not so much the character and size of the place picked for the tents as its topographical position and drawing powers.

All through the winter a corps of women is busy on new uniforms and trappings for man, woman, and beast. There are rich plush and gold bullion galore in this workshop. The pretty spangles that will glitter in the ring are being sewed in place, the elephants are getting new jackets of royal purple and gold, and the camels are being fitted out afresh for the parade. Some of these gorgeous fittings are very expensive, but the circus management calculates that they must be renewed every year. The outlay for hats, boots, and other articles of attire for the army is heavy and ceaseless.

Circus day, to the men who have hundreds of thousands of dollars invested, it will be seen, means the culmination of long and careful and systematic preparation. To get ready for the day has been the work of many months and has employed the talents and attention of men wonderfully expert in their particular fields. The advance staff of one of the “big shows” usually consists of a general agent, a railway contractor, an executive agent, several general contracting agents, and assistants; car No. 1, carrying eighteen to twenty persons; first regular advertising car No. 2, bearing the chief press agent, car manager, and from twenty to twenty-five men; car No. 3, with eighteen to twenty men; car No. 4, carrying a special press agent and car manager and from twelve to fourteen men, including “route riders” and special ticket agents; next and finally, the “layer-out,” who is one day ahead of the circus.

The railroad contractor is the first man out. He is familiar to the finest details with every railroad in the country—its mileage, connections, yard facilities, bridges and tunnels. He plans, besides arranging for the transportation of the circus trains, the special excursions which will converge upon the town on the specified day of exhibition. The general contracting agent follows. He makes contracts for feed, lot, accommodations for advance men, livery teams, and billboards. The contracts of these two men involve many thousands of dollars every week and must pass the rigid scrutiny of the experienced general agent. No detail of the business is unfamiliar to him.Car No. 1 is professionally known as the “skirmishing car.” It is most frequently called into service to fight opposition. As soon as a railway contractor of a rival circus puts in an appearance on the route the general manager is promptly notified. There is at once a formidable concentration of forces at the threatened point. No stone is left unturned or chance overlooked to gain an advantage; and the circus man is resourceful of schemes and plots. Billboards, barns, fences, hedges, trees, windows, and all other available space is bought up with apparently reckless expenditures. Banners, printed on muslin, are swung from walls and awnings. Sometimes more money than will be realized on show day is spent in this fight for publicity, but the circus regrets not a cent of it if the opposition has been taught a lesson and will not venture again to cross the path.

Attached to a passenger train and about four weeks ahead of the show, comes car No. 2. The general contracting press agent is aboard with his advertising cuts and prepared advertising matter, or keeping pace with it on the route. Sometimes there is a steam calliope, which produces marvellous sonorific effects at sundown, to the dismay of all who live in the immediate neighborhood, but calling obtrusive attention to the approach of the circus. The force of men bills and lithographs for miles around. Each team has a native driver who knows every road and every inhospitable bulldog. Permission is always secured from the owner or lessee of the spot selected for decoration, for without his consent, the astute showman knows, a poster becomes soon a thing of shreds and tatters. In return for the privilege an order is given on the circus for tickets, which is promptly honored if the agreement has been honestly kept.

The men on two other cars see to it that the work of their predecessors is followed up carefully. Various neglected preliminary work is in their charge. They replace posters torn down or mutilated and try to find new points of advantage. They check up and report every discrepancy of the other advance men, too, and send a detailed report to the general agent. The last man before the arrival of the circus is the “layer-out” or “twenty-four-hour man.” He inspects the lot, fixes the route of the procession, and performs a variety of other final duties.

Sometimes a stereopticon man is sent out, but not unless there is opposition or the outlook for the day’s business is bad. He stretches a big white sheet on a popular corner and entertains the town for an evening, adroitly advertising the show and putting the people in good humor.

A general agent estimates for me that the score of pretentious circuses employ, during at least seven months of the year, an average of fifty bill-posters each, making a total of six hundred men, outside of agents, contractors, inspectors, etc. To properly transport, supply, and provide for these employees it requires not less than thirty-six advertising cars, which, in the course of a season, cover every part of the American continent and the better part of Europe. These men post upward of one hundred and seventy thousand sheets of paper daily, and as their display of paper usually has a thirty days’ showing for each day’s exhibition, it is safe to estimate that from five millions to five millions two hundred thousand sheets are in sight for six months of the year. To-day the public often measures the value of an enterprise largely by the size and character of its posters. The development of poster printing and bill posting is due largely to the demands of the circus. Not all the commercial advertisers put together use posters so liberally as do the combined circus interests. The requirements of the circus built the boards and the results obtained forced the business to become a permanent and recognized factor in active commercial life.

One big circus used in a season seventy-seven kinds of posters, varying in size from one to sixty sheets and let loose on the public twelve publications, from a four-sheet to a twenty-page courier. They had a total edition of five million four hundred thousand copies.The elevated standard of morality among circus men and women is a revelation to one who lives with them from day to day and is their close companion. The atmosphere and environment seem charged with health and happiness, virtue and vigor. Drunkenness is not tolerated in any form. Immediate discharge, no matter who or what the rank of the offender, is its penalty, and except in isolated instances among the canvasmen there is seldom provocation for punishment. Of other vices which are prevalent in many walks of life there is no evidence. The very nature of the business, with its claims on brain and body, forbids immoral or vicious excesses. Those who indulge in them are looked upon with coldness by their associates and made to feel themselves delinquents. Gambling is strictly prohibited, and fines are imposed upon the employee who is heard using profane or vulgar language. The women of the circus are not permitted even to engage in conversation with any one not directly connected with the show. Most of them spend a few hours each Sunday in church. A fine awaits the luckless man caught exchanging words with an outside woman. It is the effort and aim of the management, too, to inculcate a spirit of good-fellowship and enduring affection, founded upon mutual respect and esteem. It demands that all be obliging and civil, answer questions politely, assist patrons in distress, smooth ruffled tempers, in short, make people who go to the circus feel at home, have a good time, and want to come again.

Circus folk, like sailors, are perhaps the most superstitious people in the world. They have numerous curious beliefs and all possess pet superstitions. Disease, disaster and death are presaged in their minds by signs and wonders. Few are without amulets and charms. Four-leafed clovers, made as pendants in silver or glass, and rabbits’ feet set in silver are favorites to ward off evil. Many have horseshoes nailed to their trunks for luck. To see three white horses in succession and no red-headed woman is a forerunner of good luck. So, too, they declare, is the sight of a boxed corpse in a railroad station as the train rolls in. It is an ill omen to catch a glimpse of the death receptacle when leaving a town. Tapping a hunchback on his hump is sure to result favorably, and a white speck showing on the finger nail indicates auspicious things. The appearance of a white foamy spot on the surface of a cup of coffee or tea denotes “money,” and should be at once swallowed intact. To open an umbrella in a house is sure to result in a shower of trouble, and one’s future is risked by going under a ladder. Breaking a mirror is significant of death and seven years’ ill-luck. If undergarments are put on wrong side out, it is tempting fate to change them until removed for the night. A peacock’s presence is fraught with promise of dire evil, and a stuffed bird or a fan of its feathers bodes ill for the owner. To eat while a bell is tolling for a funeral will bring misfortune. The hooting of owls at night is ominous of death. Bad luck may be expected if a mouse gnaws a gown. To rock an empty cradle will entail injury to the child who should occupy it. Salt spilt at the table is a warning of a quarrel, unless a pinch of the mineral is promptly thrown over the right shoulder. Stray cats have their terrors, but a black one is welcome.

Many performers invariably go into the ring putting the right foot forward. If they neglect to do this they back out and re-enter. All believe a cross-eyed man should never be permitted inside, the tents; evil times accompany him. Few foreigners fail to cross themselves before performing, and nearly all wear strange charms. Many circus people regard a color or a combination of colors as a hoodoo. None would venture to cross a funeral, and I have seen those who turn their backs until a death procession has passed out of sight and hearing. All believe Friday an unlucky day, and are sure there are fortunate and unfortunate hours in every day. If Friday falls on the thirteenth day of a month, it will bring misfortune, for thirteen cuts a wide swath in the profession.

In marked contrast to the popular notions of the rank and file of circus men is the practice of Mr. James A. Bailey, who founds his business conduct along lines tending to discourage superstition. Friday is his accepted choice upon which to make an important move—the Barnum & Bailey show left America on Friday—and he welcomes the figure 13 in any transaction. His marvellously successful career perplexes credulous associates.

The slang and colloquialisms of the circus form a secret language in themselves, a collection of jargon, racy, pungent, and pregnant of meaning, and always used in familiar conversation. “Stall,” as noun or verb, is a popular and widely employed expression. It indicates anything tending to conceal real intention, a confederate who diverts attention, an accomplice under cover. For instance, “I am stalling for a walkaway,” if I refrain from notifying a customer that he has forgotten his change. The “walkaway,” a flurried, absent-minded, or hurrying person who leaves his return money behind, is legion and a constant source of joy to the ticket-seller. “Nix” is a significant circus watchword, whose utterance generally is the signal announcing the approach of some one in authority or who is not a confidant. It is used, too, as the curt form of request to desist from word or deed. The exhibition place is never anything but a “lot” in circus parlance, and the organization itself is referred to as the “show.” A “snack-stand” is the improvised structure at railroad depot or show ground where a hasty bite of food can be obtained. The men who sell candy, popcorn, lemonade and the like are “butchers.” The tents are “tops” in the circus vocabulary. The canvas under which the performance is given is known as the “big top,” the eating tent as the “cook top,” and so on. One might travel a season with a circus and not hear the word tent mentioned. The side-show is the “kid show,” as the vernacular of the profession has it.

Employees are “working” whether driving stakes, throwing somersaults, or sitting on exhibition as a curiosity. The broad license of the word is amusing to the stranger who hears the Albino, whose sole occupation is to receive the stares of side-show visitors, remark that “she didn’t work yesterday,” but remained in the car all day. The rallying-cry, “Hey Rube!” has become a vague memory among modern circuses. Ample police protection is assured nowadays, the character of circus employees is higher and the discipline is sterner, and the days of sanguinary encounters among themselves or with town rowdies are gone forever. The inaugural procession around the tent is the circus man’s “tournament.” A “grafting” show is the circus with dishonest motives, as described in another chapter, and its “fixer” or “squarer” is the man who makes the corrupt arrangement with town officials. In circus dialect “yap” and “simp” indicate a credulous rustic who is easy prey for sharpers.

The policeman in plain clothes is rather contemptuously referred to as a “flattie.” A trunk is known as a “keester” and a valise as a “turkey.” Circus dialect for a man is always “guy,” and the proprietor of the show is invariably styled “the main guy,” or the “main squeeze.” The former appellation is probably adapted from the fact that the main guy rope holds the tent in position. To “fan a guy” is to make an examination to discover whether or not he is carrying concealed weapons. A pocketbook is a “leather,” a watch a “super,” and a watch chain a “slang.” “Lid” signifies a hat and a ticket is called a “fake.” A complimentary ticket or a railroad pass has no other name than “brod.” An elephant in circus language is never anything except a “bull.” The showman’s word for peanuts is “redhots,” and their lemonade concomitant is designated “juice.” “Plain juice” is water. Human eyes are “lamps,” and heads are chosen “nuts.”

The posters and lithographs sent out in advance are “paper,” and the programmes and other literature are distinguished as “soft stuff.” Side-show orators have the cognomens “spielers” and “blowers,” and the employee who has charge of the naphtha torches, which are “beacons” in the circus world, is known as the “chandelier man.” Reserved seats are alluded to as “reserved,” and all other allotted sitting space is termed “the blues,” derived from the painted color of the boards. Clowns are “joys” and the other performers “kinkers.”

The history of the circus records many disasters by fire, wind, and wreck, but only a few solitary instances in which patrons have suffered. In none of the vocations of life, in times of crisis, are given better examples of energy, daring, discipline, and power of command and obedience. For more than a score of years, since the old method of overland horse and wagon mode of transportation was abandoned for the swift, modern steam-engine way, hardly a year has failed to catalogue a catastrophe entailing loss of life and property and human and animal misery. Yet death and damage are confined to the ranks of the show people.