Library Collections: Document: Full Text

P. T. Barnum's Observation -- "The American Public Likes to Be Humbugged" -- Still Hold Good?

Barnum spoke for his day when he made his celebrated observation concerning the public's liking for humbug; at least, circus ledgers of the years of P. T.'s ascendancy and supremacy in the field of amusement back up his remark. One has but to recall the "white" elephant, the $10,000 beauty, and even Jumbo to believe that the famous showman had facts upon which to base his conclusions. Times change, but probably no branch of American endeavor is so reluctant to change with them as the circus; yet, the circus has been forced to display its wares in a slightly different manner than it did twenty and thirty years ago. Then, the loop-the-loop was a big show thriller; now only the extraordinary merit of certain acts can be exploited as features. With birdmen leaping from plane to plane in mid-air, the day of the thriller act in the big top is gone, other than that afforded by trained wild animals. But it is in the circus side show that the greatest change in circus methods is to be marked.

In the days of Forepaugh's $10,000 beauty -- just a beautiful blonde billed far and wide as receiving that sum for travelling with the circus so that the public could look upon the world's most lovely woman -- an enterprising side-show manager advertised that he had on exhibition the only Volpus on earth, under the sea or in the sky. The general idea of the Volpus projected by great, glaring stands of bills was a gigantic crocodile with a large horn growing from its snout. It was pictured as tearing into ribbons whole tribes of breech-clothed brown men, each victim with the lithographer's conception of extreme annoyance on his face. In the South the colored folk stood in front of these stands for hours, pondering, discussing, marvelling. Needless to say that side show was packed from the morning of show day until it was torn down at night. The owner of the Volpus made a fortune before the beast died. It was an alligator, with the horn of a yak fixed on a plate, which was anchored to the 'gator's snout under the hide. A simple surgical operation had thus produced a very rare animal, in fact, the only one ever exhibited. The younger generation of circus men say that the public will not "fall" for that sort of deception today, but is that conclusion based on facts? Perhaps it is and perhaps it isn't.

Well, it has been but three years since a two-headed man was the feature of a certain big circus side show. This man had a head growing out of the top of what we will term his normal head. The upper head was somewhat smaller than the other, with eyes, features, ears, and general conformation apparently normal. Of course, this side show freak was a tremendous drawing card. Crowds gathered in front of the two-headed man's platform and gazed and gazed. When it seemed that some doubt as to the genuineness of the "living curiosity" was manifesting itself among the less credulous of the audience, the manager or lecturer would shoot a sharp word of command at the freak, who would toss back his head -- his lower one -- and the upper head would tilt rearwards and upwards, revealing a perfectly realistic expanse of neck. Thus, the joining of the upper and lower heads was shown, and the public could only gasp its awe. That was the "clincher," the "convincer," that toss of the head and that view of the flesh between the two heads.

Then, too, a very interesting and plausible talk accompanied the viewing of the two-headed man. He was supposed to have been a refugee, who followed General Pershing out of Mexico. Details of the man's life in the mountains of northern Mexico, his loss of his little ranch when Villa's raiders drove him toward the border, and, finally, shuffling out on the platform, his happy and contented little family of seven -- all these contributed to a most amazing and astounding ten minutes for the eager public. Newspaper men, educators, professional men and even show-men looked on this Mexican freak and did not scoff. They eyed the man carefully, viewed him from all sides, talked to him, puzzled, cogitated -- and gave it up. But they never looked at the Mexican except when he was on a platform. The side-show folks saw to that, for the two-headed man was not so convincing a freak when seen from above.

There is not the slightest doubt that this was the greatest amusement deception of all time, greater than the Cardiff giant hoax. The two-headed Mexican was a fake, but a clever one. As a matter of fact, he was a member of a Texas railway section gang when the side-show manager discovered him. An immense tumor on top of his head intrigued the professional interest of the showman. The result of it was an operation in which a silver plate-mask was inserted in the growth, eyes, ears and nose molded and even teeth set in and made to look natural. Of course, the face lacked animation. This fault was explained by the assertion that the man had been able to see, talk and hear with his upper head until he attained the age of twenty, when, unaccountably, the upper head had atrophied. It was extraordinary how this yarn went over with all classes of people. However, the golden harvest of the side-show manager ended in Detroit, when the Mexican began to show symptoms of insanity. It was found the silver plate was pressing against the brain. One operation did not mend matters, and the showman gave it up, sending the Mexican away from the hospital a perfectly normal section hand again. In a tour of two years, however, this freak gained a modest fortune, a wealth of attention and a knowledge of the United States and Canada.

There is no doubt that the public "fell" for the two-headed freak, but it was unusually "real" for a fake. In fact, some showmen thought so well of the side-show manager's faking that they claimed he could have exposed it without harm once his audience had viewed his freak.

There is another fake no longer practiced with circus side shows, which had its vogue in the days of Mr. Barnum, although it was certainly not staged with any of his enterprises. It is the fake of the dancing turkeys. On a platform with a thin tin covering would be exhibited the dancing turkeys. When a sufficient crowd had gathered for a show, a fiddler would play a lively dance tune, "Turkey in the Straw" most likely. At the same time a helper, hidden back of the platform, would shove a pan of hot coals underneath the thin tin footing on which the turkeys stood. Presently, the heat would cause them to lift their feet. Soon, they would be madly dancing as the tin became hotter and hotter. Then, the music would slow down and the helper would remove the pan. The show was over. This fake was worked largely in the eighties and nineties, but it is doubtful if the public of the present day would look on credulously. It is certain that any old-time showman who might try to revive the trick would shortly he detected by an officer of the humane society.

Another fake that the circus has discarded is that of the wild man. It is almost a certainty that there is not a wild man working at his trade in all the length and breadth of the land. There are many wild men still living, regular "Wild men of Borneo," but they are selling tickets or peanuts or "barking" in front of the banner line, which flaunts to the world the wonders in the side-show tent behind. There are hundreds of laughable stories about these fake wild men. They were mostly negro canvasmen painted with brick dust or vermilion red, chained, and their mouths fitted with a false bridge, from which two tusks protruded. Many of them were known as "chicken eaters," through the fact that they had no aversion, when paid a few dimes extra, to biting off the heads of live chickens. These were the stars of their profession. There are stories of wild men discovered shooting craps with other darkies when the curtains were suddenly flung back by too hasty attendants; there are stories of wild men's wives beating them up before the astonished spectators who had just paid a dime each to see "this dread creature from Borneo, half man, half beast," but the best authentic yarn concerns Ray Daley, now a circus side-show manager, who, stranded when a lad in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, the capital of the Osage nation, resolved to produce a wild man show for the Indian powwow there. Daley had been with a small wagon show, and it had just gone on the rocks, paying him off with fifty feet of canvas sidewall. He and another member of the little circus troupe found themselves in Pawhuska with the sidewall, so they sold the canvas to get eating money and some lumber for a show pit. They borrowed bunting and stretched it about four uprights, thus securing an enclosure. The pit, in which the wild man would perform, they made out of a borrowed wagon cover and more uprights. Then came the matter of who would play wild man. Ray's companion wore a long silky mustache, which he refused to shave off. This left young Daley, who was a good talker even then, with no alternative but to play wild man and make his own opening speech as manager of the show. With a crowd of Indians in front of the wobbly stand, Ray made his talk on "Mingo, the Mud Eater," and at its conclusion, rushed inside, where he donned his wild man's garb -- a gunny sacking suit, with a wig and queue made out of an old stocking. While he did this, he growled and jabbered, interrupting him-self to bawl in gruff command: "Lie dow, you beast! Get down, you blood-thirsty brute!" Outside, "Doc" sold tickets like hot cakes, refusing to let the Indians inside until Ray called "Ready!" However, the Indians decided otherwise, and pushed inside to catch Daley without make-up on his face. In a last minute effort to save the day, the youthful wild man grabbed up a mixture of grape nuts, chocolate and milk -- Mingo's "mud" -- and smeared it over his face, as he gulped great mouthfuls of the stuff and growled vigorously. The Indians looked at the preposterous fake in silence. One grunted disgustedly and snatched off the homemade wig. Then "Doc" contributed his bit. He pushed over the enclosure. In the confusion, Daley ducked between scrambling, "kicking legs and moccasined feet for the open. He and "Doc" left on the run, but they had over forty dollars with which to join a circus playing Tulsa next day.

There is a famous showman in America today who suffered ruinous financial reverses several years ago. He had only a few dollars left, and he preferred to start on his own again rather than borrow a "stake" from any of his many friends in the circus business. He jumped out of Chicago to a small white top outfit playing neighborhood lots in a nearby manufacturing town. There he constructed a small pit out of cheesecloth and uprights, and hired a boy to pull a piece of resin along a string tied to a tin can. The boy was, of course, concealed in the pit. In front, this cheerful fakir had a sign bearing the words, "What Is It?" That was all there was to the "show," and the proprietor charged ten cents to each and every person who had the curiosity to enter. The boy on the resin string was a willing worker, and the noise he made sounded like a dozen lions fighting. The showman soon cleared enough money to buy a big snake. When a customer kicked on the fake, the owner would laugh and return his dime, but the vast majority of the "sold" customers said nothing; in fact, many of them went among their friends advising them to see the "What Is It ?" show. This showman, who again is at the head of his own white top attraction, will tell you that Barnum was right, that the world is as well stocked with "suckers" as it was in P .T .'s palmy days, but he does not practice what he would have you believe. There is not a fake of any sort with his organization.

The most effective of all side-show fakes is "The Golden Snake, the Sacred Reptile of India," and the fact that it is not exhibited nowadays is the most convincing proof that, in spite of itself, the circus side show has moved ahead unmistakably since the reign of the Volpus. The golden snake was usually a bull snake painted gold and silver with a mixture of powder and banana oil used in coating ladies' gold and silver evening pumps. "The golden or sacred snake of India," explained the side-show lecturer, "is sometimes known as the thunder snake, because when shut off from the light of day it emits a roaring as of distant thunder."

The mechanics of this snake show were simple. It was arranged as a pit show that is, the spectators looked at the exhibition over a canvas rail, with the snake in a box on the floor of the enclosure. Underneath the canvas floor of the pit had been dug a hole just large enough to contain an upright keg, with a drum-head stretched over the upper end. A string led from this drumhead through a pipe to the rear of the pit show tent, where a boy, concealed behind curtains, rubbed a piece of resin along the cord. Of course, the drumhead gave off a moaning and roaring, which seemed to come from the interior of the box in which the snake was coiled. The man in charge of the box, generally a colored person dressed in Hindu garb, would now and then lift it clear of the canvas floor to show the onlookers that there was nothing underneath. To the spectators nothing but the smooth canvas floor of the pit show tent was visible. As soon as the box was placed in position again -- directly over the hole, of course -- the lad at the end of the resin string would resume operations, and the mystified spectators would gaze at the box with bulging eyes. The snake would then be exhibited. It was always beautiful with its artificial coat, that bull snake, and the crowds looked long before they missed the roaring. However, the cessation of sound was explained easily enough: So soon as the snake saw the light it naturally quit "thundering." The minute the lid was clamped down and darkness overwhelmed the reptile, the "thundering" for the light of day recommenced. It was all very simple.

Naturally, it was in the circus sideshow that most of the old-time faking went on, and it is there that the greatest change in white top methods has come since the days of Mr. Barnum. The big show has not changed, except in costuming, lighting and minor matters. It was always big, open and frank, the American three-ring circus performance, and there was little chance to fake with 10,000 people eying it all from the huge oval of seats. Because circus system was well-nigh perfect when P. T. Barnum and his followers mastered the railroad show, the circus proper has been reluctant to step along with the changing times. They were master showmen, but the side shows have of late years generally set aside the famous humbugging remark as a precept. Yet, it's a debatable question whether they are as interesting as they were when the Volpus and the dancing turkeys were presented for approval.