“The size of the tent was rather staggering at first, as the greatest length of the oval is nearly two hundred feet, and standing at one end it is impossible to distinguish with the naked eye the features of those on the crowded seats at the other end.”

I quote the foregoing paragraph, taken from a newspaper of 1877, as illustrating by comparison the physical magnitude of the circus of to-day. Our “big tent” could stow away in its capacious depths half a dozen of the canvas arenas of twenty-five years ago, and our “menagerie top” covers more area. The scanty side-show cloth, an insignificant detail of the encampment, is not much smaller.

Is the modern circus, with its bewildering array of man and beast marvels, an improvement from the public standpoint over the old-fashioned show wherein the clown predominated and one ring sufficed? Has there come with the expansion more skill and hazard of performance? Do patrons relish the relegation to oblivion of some time-honored circus accomplishments, and the interpolation of vaudeville? The circus performer of former days will invariably answer these interrogations in the negative; the circus owner and manager makes no hesitation in disagreeing on all points, and his conviction is that backed by the weight of ticket wagon receipts. Whatever the artistic merits and the drifting away from things traditionary, certainly the opportunities for profit have multiplied with the years. Everything favorable, there is no more wonderful a money-maker than the modern circus. Despite frequently expressed longing, it is not likely that the public would receive with favor the return of the old-fashioned circus, no matter how alluring the performance in its meagerness. The case of the small circus of to-day bears this out. It is ignored if a “big show” is headed its way.

After retrospective talks with many old performers I cannot discover that the modern generation of athletes has kept pace with the progress of the business department of the circus. There are few legitimate circus feats executed nowadays, so far as I have been able to learn, which were not equalled in years gone by, and there are instances where supremacy is yielded to the men now retired; many of their accomplishments have not been duplicated. I cite the case of George Bachelor, who was accustomed to single somersault over ten elephants, and of “Bob” Stickney, who without apparent exertion turned two somersaults in his flight over twenty-three horses. Oscar Lowanda has been the only person to improve materially upon former equestrian acts. He succeeds in doing a back somersault from the haunch of one moving horse to that of another. In aerial performances few new individual feats are in evidence. The strides forward seem solely in the employment of more persons in a single act. The Potters perform ten in number, an unheard-of achievement a few years ago. The strain of planning and successfully carrying out the act, however, is so intense that the head of the troupe had decided to partially disband it when I talked with him.

The life of the circus man of to-day is a continual round of ease and luxury as compared with the strenuous, haphazard existence of his brother of a few decades ago. The memory of this generation can shed no light on the origin of the circus in this country, and there is no literature definitely disclosing when the first travelling organization reared its canvas. Seth B. Howe was the first circus owner of note. “Bob” Stickney, still a vigorous reminder of former days, remembers the stories told of that time by his father, Samuel Peck Stickney, who was a member of the company. The advance agent made his lonely journey on horseback. His saddle-bags bulged with circus “paper,” which he tacked wherever his judgment suggested, for it comprised a welcome addition to the community’s supply of reading matter. He was a smooth-tongued, polished man of the times and full of wonderful tales of the approaching circus. Curiosity and excitement were at high pitch when the caravan put in its appearance a fortnight later. The line halted on the outskirts of the town, uniforms were donned and a parade made to the scene of exhibition. This was frequently in the spacious yard of the local tavern. The centre pole of the tent was cut daily in the abounding woods, trimmed and dragged into place. The tavern provided chairs and the church was drawn upon for benches. An extra charge was imposed for the use of these resting places. Admission to the circus carried with it only the privilege of viewing the performance standing. At night, candles furnished illumination.

Trained horses and ponies composed much of the show. The feats of the equestrian were amazing in their daring, to the onlookers of that period. The ringmaster made a preliminary announcement. The rider, he proclaimed, would stand erect on a horse in full motion! This accomplished, amid wild enthusiasm, the hero of the hour balanced himself on one foot and concluded by playing a violin as the horse cantered around the ring. This was before the broad saddle pad had gone out of circus use. The rider who first jumped over banners was given a fabulous salary, and he who dared plunge through the familiar paper balloon became rich in a year.

The night overland journeys of these old-time circuses were full of dire peril. Highways were dark and dreary and places of pitfalls. Each circus wagon bore a flickering candle torch, showing the route to the driver behind. Soon menageries were added, and then an elephant. Hannibal, the “war elephant,” was one of the first. There were few nights when his services were not required to extricate a wagon from mud or gully, or to urge it up some steep incline. The old Van Amburg circus transported a giraffe, a mournful beast which few modern circuses are possessed of. Wood choppers went ahead to clear the road with their axes and permit the passage of the high cage. Then came, in order of time, the side-show, with the free exhibition in front—wire-walking, a balloon ascension, a high-diving performance, or feats on the “flying” trapeze.

Probably the most noted knight of the sawdust ring was Dan Rice, who died in Long Branch, N. J., on February 22, 1900, at the age of seventy-seven years. His history was practically that of the circus—the real old-fashioned circus—in America. Daniel McLaren, his father, nicknamed him Dan Rice, after a famous clown he had known in Ireland, and the name clung to him. He touched the heights and depths of circus luck, making in his life three independent fortunes and losing one after another. He died comparatively poor. As acrobat and later clown, he travelled every portion of the United States and extensively in Europe. He first appeared as a clown in Galena, Ill., the home of U. S. Grant, in 1844, and from that time his popularity as a circus clown increased amazingly. He retired in 1882, a hale old man of sturdy frame and resonant voice, whose hearty handshake it was a pleasure to feel.

Bobby Williams, Sam Lathrop, Sam Long, Joe Pentland, Billy Kennedy, Jimmy Reynolds, William Wallett, Frank Brown, Nat Austin, Herbert Williams, Dan Gardiner, Bill Worrell and Tony Pastor were other noted clowns and “Shakespearian jesters” of his day, and most of them are hale and hearty to this day. A press agent of their time, not behind his lavish-languaged modern brother, called attention to this group as “jolly, jovial representatives of Momus, whose fund of wit and humor has given them the proud titles of America’s greatest wits and punsters; scholarly, refined and every one fit to grace the proudest court as its greatest jester. Merrier men within the limits becoming mirth live not upon man’s footstool—this greatest earth.”