Active preparations for the departure from town begin with the setting of the sun. When the naphtha torches spread their fluttering glow and when the men in the ticket wagon lift up its end and are ready for the evening sale, then canvasman, driver and porter swarm from the comfort of hay couch or from idling group, and are ready for the night’s work. Team horses feel again the weight of harness, and the march to the railroad yards is on. Horse, cook, wardrobe, blacksmith, barber and the other tents spread over the lot drop to earth, are quickly rolled up and packed away. The sound of loading stakes, chains, ropes and poles resounds through the premises. Heavy wagons are soon rumbling through the streets and left convenient to the man at the cars. Then the teamster, returning leisurely to the lot, finds his second vehicle awaiting final transfer.
Ten minutes after the performance has begun, there is a scattering of the executive force at the main tent entrance and the canvasmen take possession. The ropes and stakes holding in position the marquee and menagerie tent are loosened, and the doorkeeper moves to the open fly in the big tent, called the back door. The evening exhibition programme is arranged with the view to finishing with the trained animals as soon as possible that they may be placed safely away for the night. So it is that the elephants, camels, zebra, ponies and other led animals are off with measured tread for the cars before the show is well under way. Then cages are closed, horses hitched, side walls lowered and the caravan passes out into the night. The order “lower away!” rings sharply, and the menagerie tent drops with a heavy puff and sigh. The denuded centre poles follow it to the ground and, where a few hours before was a white encampment is now a dark, bare area, rutted with wheels, trodden by many feet and littered with peanut shells and sawdust. Only the noisy “big top,” glowing like a mammoth mushroom, and the side-show canvas, where the band thumps and the “barkers” roar with tireless energy, remain to mark the spot. The work of stripping the larger tent continues throughout the performance. As fast as a performer finishes his act his appliance is deftly conveyed to a waiting wagon. The entire arena has been divested of its maze and mass of apparatus before the audience have reached the open. They stare in amazement at the changed scene, as revealed in the lights and shadows of the torches. So expeditious and so smooth has been the work of the circus men that no knowledge of the magnitude of the accomplishment was conveyed to the crowd inside. The side-show orators receive the outgoing throng with renewed clamorings. To take this last advantage and let no chance for profit escape, the tent has been kept open. The inmates yawn with the weariness and monotony of it all and eagerly await their last call to the front. Then begins a dash for the freedom and privacy which has been denied them since morning.
In the “big top” the concert band is fiddling valiantly and a woman in skirts tries to raise her voice above the noise of falling wood and stentorian command. Workmen are lugging the seats away, and tugging at ropes and stakes. The side-walls peel off as the last spectator emerges and performers hurry from their dressing-room. Then the thin white cloth roof comes tumbling from above like a monster bird; the encampment is no more. Through dark, deserted, silent streets the last man and wagon make their way. Nothing is left behind in the hurried leave taking. Everything large and small must be individually accounted for by its custodian.
At the railroad yards the blazing torches show a picturesque, animated spectacle. Here again orderly precision prevails. The wagons are drawn on to the cars by horses and a block and tackle, while a man guides the course of the vehicle by its pole as it is passed to the far end of the car. There is a “skid” or inclined plane at the end of the first car, and an iron plate bridges the space between the other cars, making a continuous platform. Each wagon has its number and allotted place again, and is placed to the best advantage for convenience of unloading and for utilizing space. A wrongly-packed vehicle would cause endless confusion and delay. It is seldom later than one o’clock when the three sections are on the move. Rain and mud annoy and retard, sometimes, but extra efforts nullify, in a great measure, the effect of their presence. Working-man and beast are slumbering deeply when the engines couple for the journey, and only the watch-men, patrolling the long stretches of cars, give sign of life and wakefulness. At one end of the line of Pullman sleepers, where are placed the performers and members of the business staff, is the most ornate piece of rolling stock, the Thelma, named for the general manager’s daughter, a tot who is eagerly awaiting her father’s winter cessation from toil. Here is a queer little lunch room where gather each evening, for a bite, after the show, the men and boys of the circus. An hour or two passes with much laughter and jollity and with many innocent jokes, intermingled with serious discussion. Ice-cream is the popular dish, and plateful after plateful vanishes down dusty throats. The frozen mixture is a nightly requisite of the body-weary circus colony. It is to them what the night cap of liquor represents to the toper. No headache or clouded brain or dulled body is its concomitant, only health-giving properties. Strong drink is tabooed in the Thelma, as is its fate elsewhere with the circus, and no demand for its presence has ever been manifested. The scene is one the most approved moralist would endorse.
PERFORMERS AT THEIR MIDDAY MEAL.
Hassan Ali, the giant of the side-show, is the most unwelcome visitor. Room is at a premium, and he occupies about double space. Somebody is always stepping on his protruding feet, to his intense disgust, but to the ill-concealed amusement of the others. There is a general feeling of impending disaster when Hassan is seen stooping into the room. If his huge bulk doesn’t shatter a chair, his awkward movements seldom fail to break a dish, crush a by-stander or scatter food indiscriminately. Colonel Seely, the privilege man, grumbles vigorously, and none of us are at ease until the giant has retired to bed and the nightly ordeal is over. Through it all Hassan never loses his temper or composure. His good nature knows no bounds.
A veteran of the ring tells of railroad accidents and other circus disasters and reverts to the days of P. T. Barnum. “That man certainly had his troubles,” he observes. “His pecuniary catastrophes and fiery ordeals would have utterly discouraged a man less stout-hearted than he. Three times his museums were burned to the ground. The number thirteen he always considered ominous, for the first of his buildings was consumed on that day of the month, while the thirteenth day of November saw the opening of the second establishment, which was likewise subsequently destroyed by fire. On July 13, 1865, while he was speaking in the Connecticut legislature at Hartford, the American Museum was consumed. Nothing remained but the smouldering debris when he arrived in New York. It had been probably the most attractive place of resort and entertainment in the United States. Here were burned up the accumulated results of many years of incessant toil in gathering from every quarter of the globe myriads of curious productions of art and nature. The indefatigable showman immediately began the erection of new buildings at Nos. 535, 537 and 539 Broadway, New York, and started a new chapter in his career. The place was levelled by flames in March, 1868, completely frustrating his plans for the future. The loss did not disturb his tranquillity and he established a “museum, menagerie and hippodrome” in Fourteenth street. Four weeks after the opening, it, too, was ablaze and no effort could prevent its total loss.
“Fire did not, either, confine its devouring presence to his professional enterprises. On December 18, 1857, his home, ‘Iranistan,’ at Bridgeport, became the prey of flames. His assignees sold the grounds to Elias Howe, Jr., inventor of the sewing machine, for fifty thousand dollars, which went toward satisfying the Barnum creditors, for the showman was at that time in one of his periodical financial difficulties, from which, however, he finally extricated himself. His faculty for making money always successfully asserted itself.
“I was in his employ for many years and wonder that I escaped alive. I was in a dozen crashes on the railroad, and was in Bridgeport both times the winter quarters were swept by flames. Fire first came in 1887 and destroyed the main building. The white elephant and two others, Alice and Sampson, were burned, and nearly all the other animals except a rhinoceros, one lion and a white polar bear, perished. The blaze was of incendiary origin, for the watchman told me he saw a man coming down the outside stairs of the paint shop and a few moments later was struck on the head from behind and knocked down. Immediately after, the fire burst out and illuminated the horizon for miles around. The flames spread so rapidly that the firemen could do nothing more than save the adjoining buildings, cars and wagons. The rhinoceros made his escape through a window but was so badly burned that he died. An elephant came as far as the door of the building, then turned back into the flames. Alice and Sampson also made an attempt to escape. One large lion ran out into the yard and the spectators fled in all directions. It took refuge behind a car and a policeman fired several shots into his body. This partially disabled him and a keeper succeeded in caging him. Many of the museum and menagerie curiosities were in the burned building and were destroyed. One of the engines on the way to the fire was stopped by a large elephant on the streets. There was a panic among the people and they tumbled over each other trying to get out of the way. An escaped tiger also caused a great commotion. The elephant trainer was out of town and the other keepers were unable to quiet the frightened animals. Thirty of the elephants and one large lion started across the country in the direction of Fairfield and Easton, scattering the people right and left. It was several days before they were all recaptured.
“The other fire was in 1898 when Barnum was dead and the show was in Europe. The loss was one hundred thousand dollars. We got most of the animals stored there out safely. Fifty green horses, I remember, broke from their stalls and ran mad through the streets. The townspeople were pretty frightened, for they thought some of the wild beasts were loose.”
The husband of “the mother of the circus” drops in for a sandwich. His wife has retired, longing for the happiness of all and full of plans to promote it. He has been twitting the unicycle performer because the latter’s wonderful feat has been made almost insignificant by comparison with the “loop-the-loop” accomplishment. The equilibrist retorts that for next season he has arranged an act that will discount anything ever seen under tent. He proposes to hoist the “cycle whirl” apparatus thirty feet from the ground and ride on its track with nothing between him and earth. There is a general protest that he hasn’t the nerve or skill; but he smiles knowingly.
The discussion turns to feats of agility; it is agreed that the tight rope walker is the best tumbler with the show. The clown laments because he hasn’t received the usual daily letter from the little woman he married in New York in the spring. The equestrian director tells of the circus as it used to be, and all enjoy his stories. One of the trick bicyclist’s arms is in a sling; he had a bad fall during the evening performance. The family of Italian acrobats jabber tirelessly in the corner; they know nothing of our language, but their superior skill commands a big salary. A somersault rider dashes in after a sandwich for his wife, with whom he does a carrying act. The Japanese juggler and his son retire together; they are never apart. There is a laugh at the expense of the two horizontal bar performers who lost their way in the sombre village streets and were an hour in finding the car. A partial exodus begins when the word goes forth that the first section is ready to move. Those whose berths are on one of the other divisions bid good-night. So the scene and its actors shift. At midnight or soon after, the Thelma lunch-room is deserted, save for the busy porter. Dusty clothes and shoes that show inconsiderate treatment occupy his time until the yawning cook appears. Then the delicious odor of coffee pervades the quarters, and breakfast food awaits the hearty order of hungry men. They are far removed from the scene of a few hours before and gaze curiously at the surroundings. To-morrow morning the setting will be new and strange again.
