IVI TELL ABOUT CLOWN TRICKS

“BEHIND THE JESTS OF THE CLOWN IS THE SEAR OF SORROW.”

The negro lived in deadly fear of the escape of the wild animals. One of the favorite jokes of the advance brigade of the circus, and by this is meant the men who go ahead and do the billing, was to tell the negroes that a den of lions and tigers had escaped, and were prowling through the country. However, this gave the negro a good excuse to avoid going in the woods tocut timber, and the negro has always delighted in a pretense that postpones manual labor for him as long as possible.

Our work was not without its diversion. The desire of the average boy to join the circus is, of course, universal, but in the young countryman this desire seems greater. Many of them wanted to become “actors,” as they called the acrobats. This caused us to fix up a scheme by which we sold the ambitious youngsters a liniment to make them limber. It was made from cheap grease, and was sold more for a joke than anything else. There were always many young men who wanted to be clowns. They, too, bought the grease, which was supposed to have every known physical power.

It was a clean, free life in which the hardships were soon forgotten.

THATwas 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 backmemories 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 circuscrowd. 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 twothousand 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 isnearly 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 rushedin 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 ona 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 thinkyoucan 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. Thecrowd 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, withsmoke 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 areknown. 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 thinkit 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 onvogues. 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 forhis 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.

IHAVErambled along, talking about my profession and the things that have happened in it, until now I realize that I have not touched upon some events which meant a good deal to me personally. A clown, despite the general impression, is a real human being. He has emotions like any other mortal, and sometimes they are deeper and truer than in those who pretend to piety and keep a straight face.

Although we are nomads, we people of the circus have hearts. It was shortly after I came to America that I first saw the woman who was to play, for a time, such an important part in my life. I had justjoined the Burr Robbins show, and I was a struggling young clown in a strange land. I did not even know all the people in the show. My life had been so hard and fast that I had had no time to think of romance.

One day as I walked from the pad room to the entrance to the main tent, waiting for my time to go on, I saw a young woman in tights and ruffled skirts, standing with a whip in her hand. She, too, was waiting her turn. She was lithe, slender, and graceful, and she had the most wonderful eyes I had ever seen. Something rose in my throat and a keen, swift feeling ran through me. I had never anywhere beheld anyone who had impressed me in just that way. As she stood there, full of life and animation, the very embodiment of grace and beauty, I realized that she wielded a fascination for me that was irresistible. I watched her as she made her entry. When she walked she was the very poetry of motion; her bow to the crowd was airy, and when she leaped to the back of a noble white horse, she seemed like a bird. I stood at the entrance transfixed. She seemed the most exquisite rider I had ever seen. I forgot my cue, and one of my fellow-clowns had to shake me by the shoulder and say:

“Wake up, Jules.”

That afternoon I stumbled through my work. I was so slow that the ringmaster touched me up with his whip. I could not keep my eyes off that rider. When she was in the ring the whole tent seemed to be flooded with sunshine, and when she left it, amid a tumult of applause, it seemed bare and desolate.

Day after day I watched her in silent admiration. Once I picked up courage tospeak to her. The informality of circus life requires no introductions among its people. She seemed to be very proud and haughty, and treated my advance with disdain. Yet I always made it a point to be at the entrance when she went on, and I watched for her when she came out. While she was in the ring I could scarcely work.

I never realized how deeply I cared for her until I saw her talking to the head of our principal trapeze family. He was a splendid-looking Frenchman, with brown hair and curled mustache, and he had a dashing air. He got a big salary, was featured in all the bills, and quite naturally my lady smiled upon him. But I loved on in silence, and in pain, covering it all with the clown’s fool garb.

Can you imagine how I felt as I stood apart each day, watching this glorious creature laughing and making merry witha handsome rival? It was just like a scene in a French book that I had read when I was a boy at the Circus Francisco in Paris. I little dreamed then that it would happen to me.

One day I gave her some flowers that I had bought on a hot, dusty trip downtown. She accepted them with a sort of condescension, and then turned quickly away, for the French acrobat happened along, and she beamed on him.

This ordeal was not pleasant. It got on my nerves, and interfered with my work. I had always been sunny and smiling, and my unfailing good cheer had often helped to drive care away from my colleagues. I grew sad and irritable.

“What’s the matter, Jules?” they all said.

“He must be in love,” said the contortionist, banteringly.

Full many a jest is spoken in earnest, and I realized it that day. All the while we were traveling in the South. The weather was very hot and there had been a good deal of rain. Often the lot on which we showed was damp. I caught cold, fever developed, and I had to go to bed. But I stayed with the show. As I lay in my berth I dreamed, as all young lovers dream, that some day this beautiful bareback rider, hearing of my illness, would come to see me on our car; that she would lean over me with a wondrous smile on her face and say:

“Jules, forgive me. I have cared for you always, and now I shall never leave you again.”

One night, when I dreamed this very vividly, I woke with a start to find the moon shining in my face, and the car rattling over a long bridge. I was alone.

I got well, and took up my clowningagain. The first day I was back in harness I went to my accustomed place, where so often I had seen the bareback lady. My heart was in my eyes, and they looked for one thing. But I did not see her. I went on for my first turn, with my mind all in a whirl. When I got back to the dressing-room I asked the boss clown about her.

“Humph,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders. “That woman?”

“Yes?” I replied, growing indignant.

“The less you ask about her the better,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Simply this,” he replied, “at Shreveport, last week, she skipped the show, and eloped with the hotel manager. She has a husband and two kids in Canada.” After a pause he added:

“Good riddance, I guess.”

It was a great shock to me. It seemed as if the ground had been cut away from my feet. I felt a pain in my heart, and stumbled over to my trunk and sat down. My temple of romance had come toppling down. I had been terribly disillusioned. But I said to myself:

“Brace up, Jules. There are plenty of other women in the world.” And I braced up.

I must say right here, in defense of the women of the circus, that the type I have just described is a very rare one. The women who work under the canvas are brave, loyal, and moral. Inured to physical hardship, and accustomed to meet all kinds of emergencies, they well know how to combat life’s cares. They are the gentlest of wives, the tenderest of mothers, and the best of comrades.

That early sentimental experience madea slight impress on me, I am glad to say. I was young and full of life. Some years later, when I was playing in a winter show in the West, I met a strong and noble woman. We became great friends. She was not of the circus, but had many friends in the profession. The next year I went back and married her. She has been my mate ever since, and each winter I go back to her to find a tender welcome and a heart filled with affection. Were it not for her I might to-day be a wanderer on the face of the earth.

They say a clown is a jester and has no soul. I will tell you of an incident in my own life. One of the joys that my home had given me was a little boy. I was away with the circus when he came into the world, and I recall how impatient I was for the end of the season to come, so I could go to him. We became great pals,this little chap and I. I called him Jules, and I wanted him to be a great circus performer. I had to be away from him all summer, but in November, when the show went into winter quarters at Baraboo, I hurried back to him. The family lived in New York then. I watched his little muscles develop. I would dress up in my clown clothes for him, go through all my stunts, and he had enchanted hours. He was the delight of my life.

One year the show opened very early. We were playing in a small Wisconsin town. It was a one-night stand, and the big tent was full. I had a brand-new act, and it was very funny. In it I carried a rag baby around in my arms. I was supposed to be taking it away from the nurse. After I had been out on the track for a little while, a clown came up and told me I was wanted in the pad room. When I gotthere I was handed a telegram from my wife. It read:

“Jules is dying.”

He was in New York; I was hundreds of miles away, and I could not go to him. The dearest thing in all the world to me was slipping away. Outside in the big tent the band was playing; whips were cracking; people were laughing; the whole circus fun was on. There I stood in fool’s garb, with the hot tears streaming down my make-up. I heard a voice say merrily:

“Come, Jules, we’re waiting for you.”

So I had to go out into that crowded arena with a breaking heart, and disport myself that the mob might laugh—playing with a dummy child while my own lay dying.

Can you wonder, then, that behind the jest of the clown there is often the pang of pain, the sear of sorrow? I have manychances to look into the heart of the circus, because I am the postman. I go down to the post-office in every town, and I bring out the mail. I know every performer by name, and I am the agent that brings joy or ache. Many eager hopes hang on those post-office trips of mine. The dashing bareback ladies and the daring trapeze performers look for letters that never come. Human nature is the same the world over, whether it is in the gilded palace or under the canvas of the big tent.

“I BECOME THE FRIEND AND CONFIDANT OF ALL.”

I send away the money orders for all the performers, and in this way I find out some of their secrets. The gruff strong man, whose giant muscles are the admiration of the crowd, sends part of his wages each week to his old mother in Germany; the bewildering little rider, who moves in a gay world of motion and color, has a sick husband, whom she supports. I become thefriend and confidant of all of them, and it makes life richer and deeper and more worth while for me.

I have seen many things in my circus day to wring the heart. I told you of my own great sorrow. It reminds me of a sort of kindred grief that came to my old friend Garrett. He was one of the best fellows that ever lived, an Irishman of the real sort, and a good clown. Many a time we worked together in the sawdust. He married a very pretty slack-wire performer, named Dottie. She was a very lovable little thing, and everybody in the circus liked her. One night Garrett and I were working on the track, and Dottie had gone up for her act. We made merry as we went, and kept the crowd in a roar of laughter.

All of a sudden I heard a scream, but kept right on with my work. It is part ofthe unwritten rule of circus business to ignore fear and panic. So we kept on. But a curious hush fell on the crowd. I turned, and there on the middle stage I saw a group standing about a huddled figure. A man came rushing from the pad room, and I saw it was our doctor. By that time Garrett had turned, too. I saw his face turn ghastly, even under the white make-up. He gave a moan, and dashed over to the platform. There he found his wife dead. She had fallen from the wire and there was no net beneath.

Gently he picked her up, and carried her away, sobbing out his heart over her tinseled dress. But in a moment the music struck up, the whips cracked, and the circus was going again.

MANYpeople think that because the clown wears a grotesque garb and indulges in silly antics, that he is a buffoon all the time. They are very much mistaken. Like humorists, we take our profession very seriously, for it has traditions of real greatness.

I never quite understood this so much until I had an experience in Boston. We usually stay there a week, and this gives us a chance to get around and see the city. One hot June afternoon I was taking a street-car ride out towards the suburbs. It was so sultry that few people were stirring. For a time I had the car all to myself.Then a very dignified old gentleman came aboard and sat down next to me. We rode on in silence for a time until I made some remark about the weather. I am inclined to be friendly. We got to talking. Finally he asked me what my business was.

“I am a circus clown,” I replied.

He looked amazed. Then wiped his glasses, gazed at me, and remarked:

“It’s extraordinary. I thought you were a minister.”

Perhaps the white string necktie that I always wear fooled him, as it has fooled many other people. They seem to think that a clown should be grinning all the time or ready to turn a somersault.

I found the old gentleman very entertaining. He said a little later on:

“My friend, your profession is a thousand years old, and you may well be proud of it.”

This interested me immensely, and I asked him to tell me where I could find out some facts about its origin.

“If you will read your Roman history you will find much to enlighten you about the beginning of your work.” Then he told me that he was a professor at Harvard, and soon after he left the car.

The next day I went down to the Boston Public Library and got some Roman histories. Although I found nothing about clowns, there was a great deal about pantomime, which I have always held was the real forerunner of clowning. Pantomime dates back to the Jews and early Egyptians. The early Greek drama partook of it, and it was introduced into Rome during the reign of the Emperor Augustus. Mæcenas, Virgil, Horace, and Ovid, and other great literary men of the period, enjoyed the work of the pantomimists. Theearly pantomimes, so I discovered, expressed love or the exploits of the gods and goddesses. At one time the Romans went mad on the subject of pantomimes. Nero was one of the most ardent patrons. When he asked Demetrius what gift he most wanted, that worthy answered:

“A pantomime, because it needs no interpreter.”.

“TO BE A GOOD CLOWN A MAN MUST BE A STUDENT AND IN EARNEST.”

The pantomimist spoke a universal language, because he talked with his hands. The Roman pantomimist worked in the great open-air theaters, and also in the homes of the rich. In the latter places he was called upon to carve the meats, which he did with many flourishes. Thus he made himself both useful and ornamental. In later years, however, I might add that the clown has lost his ornamental features. The Roman pantomime died with the decay of Roman glory, and it was not untilthe fifteenth century that it was revived in Italy

Then it was that the original predecessor of the clown of to-day made his appearance in rude plays in the character known as Arlecchino, who was a blundering servant. Originally he combined loutishness with great cunning. Out of this name developed the word Harlequin, which became very popular in France. The Harlequin wore a black mask, had a cocked hat, and wielded a bat. This bat was the original of the modern slap-stick so much used by clowns and low comedians.

As the pantomime developed, Harlequin surrounded himself with characters. Of course there had to be a woman, so she was introduced in the shape of a pretty servant, who wore tights. She was Colombine. The girl had to have a father, so he became Pantaloon, who wore baggy trousers. Afourth figure was also needed. Here is where the first real clown came in. He was the servant to Harlequin. He, too, wore baggy trousers, had a peaked hat, and was supposed to be always getting into trouble. You can now see the connection between Harlequin’s clown and the circus clown of to-day.

Pantomime found its greatest vogue in England, where it was introduced early in the eighteenth century at the Covent Garden Theater. A manager named Rich first brought it out. He devised a pantomime play in which Harlequin appeared as the lover of Colombine. Her father (Pantaloon) opposed the match; thereupon Harlequin abducted her, with the aid of the clown. The clown introduced many ludicrous effects.

The pantomime plays grew into tremendous popularity in England. Theywere given at the holiday season before immense crowds. The greatest managers found them necessary to good business. Even Garrick became sponsor for it. It was he who introduced Signor Giuseppe Grimaldi, father of the “Immortal Joe,” the greatest clown the world has ever known. I am proud to belong to the profession that Grimaldi adorned. The father played Harlequin for a long time in the London pantomimes. Joe early appeared with his parent. His first part was as monkey, when he was three years old. He was attached to a chain, and his father used to whirl him around by this chain. Once the chain broke, and little Joe landed on the stomach of a stout gentleman who sat in the front row.

When Joe grew up he abandoned the Harlequin part, and became the clown. He took off the spangles and fancy coloreddiamonds that were always a part of the Harlequin costume, and dressed in white with pantaloon trousers. He whitened his face, and then put on patches of red. He looked more like a lubberly boy, who had been caught eating jam.

With the ascendency of Joe Grimaldi the clown took precedence over Harlequin, and has had it ever since. But it was due to Joe’s great genius. He was called “The Garrick of Clowns.” His first triumphs were in “Mother Goose.” He did not depend upon acrobatic feats for his success, but on genuine humor. His antics were side-splitting. He became a national figure. Lord Byron was his friend, and Charles Dickens used to come to see him each week. Later, Dickens edited his Memoirs, which I regard as a remarkable tribute to a clown’s thoughts. When Grimaldi was out of the cast all Londonsulked. He was as necessary to Covent Garden as was the great John Kemble himself. Yet he was only a clown.

It is said of Grimaldi that he felt his work so keenly that as soon as his performance was over, he retired to a corner and wept profusely. He was a man of tender heart and generous impulses. There is a story about him which has been handed down by many generations of clowns. It goes on to say that once Grimaldi became very ill and despondent. He went to consult a great London specialist. The great man looked him over, and then remarked:

“Go to see Grimaldi, and laugh yourself well.”

The clown looked at him sadly, and replied:

“I am Grimaldi.”

The art of exquisite clown fooling died in England when Grimaldi passed away.The London managers had to create a substitute, which they did after a fashion, with elaborate scenic spectacles. The clowns that followed were acrobats. Agility took the place of humor. There are traces of this in the clowning of to-day.

Of course, in any consideration of the origin of the modern clown you must reckon with the king’s jester. You have only to turn to the pages of Shakespeare to find how highly he was regarded. Every court had its fool, and he was often the wise man. In King Lear are the words:

“Jesters do oft prove prophets.”

Jacques was a philosopher, and Touchstone a great personage.

I have known king’s jesters in the American circus, but their art was too fine to be appreciated by the multitudes, and theyhad to give way to the more popular form of clowning. It took years of thought and study to be a Shakespearian jester.

Although the historical facts about the origin of the clown are fine and imposing, I somehow prefer to remember the legend about it that I heard as a boy in France. It was told me by an old clown in Normandy. As he related it to me, it went on to show that the little daughter of a wandering mountebank once dreamed that she saw her father with whitened face, peaked hat, and baggy white pantaloons, performing before a great crowd, and that everybody was laughing and applauding. It was such a vivid dream that she told her father about it. He was deeply impressed, and adopted the costume, thus appearing as the first white-faced clown.

FORthousands 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, butI 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.

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