[THE CIRCUS IN THE COUNTRY.]
BY JNO. GILMER SPEED.
Nearbye is a very small village, and a country village at that, for it is approached by wagon roads only, and the silence of the streets is never broken by the whistle of a locomotive, as the nearest railway is seven miles off. The shows that come to Nearbye are few and far between, and the people consider them such events that they mark epochs in the history of the town. As in other places an old inhabitant would speak of the year the war began, in Nearbye the people say, "The summer that Uncle Tom's Cabin was played in the Shoemakers' Lot," or "The autumn that the negro minstrels came to town." Now these two shows were ten years apart, but every one remembers the earlier one perfectly, except the children, who have been born since the honest folk of Nearbye wept over the tribulations of Uncle Tom. And even these think they remember the theatrical performance under the tent in the Shoemakers' Lot. This self-deception is due to the fact that they have heard so much about the show that they have persuaded themselves that they saw it. But these two shows have been entirely eclipsed in glory within the past little while, for there was a circus in Nearbye a few weeks ago—a real circus, with a caged lion and tiger, with an elephant, a camel, and a giraffe, as the menagerie part, while there performed in the ring bare-back riders—both men and women—who cavorted around the ring right merrily, and jumped through paper-covered hoops as though they actually enjoyed that kind of thing. Barnum, in my opinion, did much to spoil the circus as we see it in the great cities. Three or four rings in which performances are going on at the same time are extremely bewildering, and few spectators can give such undivided attention to one ring as to keep entire track of all that goes on in it. After an evening at the one-ring circus in the country I am persuaded that I am right in my opinion, and that the old-fashioned circus has much greater power to please than "the greatest show on earth."
I was Miss Kitty's guest when the circus came to Nearbye, and this attention on her part was in recognition of the fact that I had taken her to the Barnum show at Madison Square Garden last spring. I consider that I have been amply repaid. But, really, the best part of the show was not under the circus tent. I doubt very much whether there was a small boy within four miles of Nearbye who slept a wink the night before the circus was to arrive. If any of them slept at all at night, it is very certain that none of them continued that sleep into the daylight, for long before the sun was up the roads leading to the village were dotted here and there with groups of hurrying and impatient youngsters hastening to the Shoemakers' Lot to welcome the arrival of the circus caravan, and to superintend the erection of the tent. Pretty nearly all the small boys in the township were on hand three hours before the first of the circus wagons came. The long wait had tried their patience sadly, and the gay tricks on each other with which they had beguiled the earlier time of waiting had either been exhausted because the country boy's repertoire of pranks is limited, or because their spirits had been stilled by anxiety. It was rather the spirits that had given out than the pranks, I fancy, for I saw evidence now and then of a gulped-down sigh and a half-concealed tear when John or Tom or Billy would reach the sad conclusion that the circus was not coming after all. But the first wagon drove up at half past eight, and by eleven all had arrived. The tent was pitched in short order, the ring was made, the side show was in full working order, and the circus people were as much at home as they ever get to be in their wandering lives.
The small boys were not the only persons attracted to Nearbye in the early hours—not by a jugful, as the average farmer in the Nearbye neighborhood would be apt to say if he were writing this article. People of both sexes and all ages, from the gray-haired great-grandmother to the infant in the arms, came or were brought, as each case required, until there was not a vacant fence post eligible for a hitching-place within half a mile of the circus tent. If half a dozen holidays could have been combined into one, not one-third so many people would have been attracted to Nearbye as were brought by this little circus. Some city people who had gone to Nearbye for their summer vacations put on airs about the show, and laughed at the enthusiastic excitement of the country folk. Miss Kitty observed this in two young men who had been made welcome on the tennis-court at her father's place, and flushed with shame that she should know, even ever so slightly, persons of such affected pretension. She shook her curly little head and whispered to me: "We ought not to know them; they can't be gentlemen." Dear little soul, I dare say she was right. We ought not to have known them, and probably they were not gentlemen; but she will learn, when she gets to be a grown woman, that if she confines her acquaintance only to real ladies and real gentlemen—that is, to men and women who never put on airs and never inconsiderately assume to be better than they are, and who never scoff at simplicity—she will have a very narrow circle, and will know fewer people than almost anybody in the world. But few of the country people cared for the rudeness that Miss Kitty resented. They did not even notice it. They had come to Nearbye to have a good time and to see the sights, all unconscious that they furnished amusement to any one.
As a rule they brought their dinners with them, and at twelve o'clock they attacked baskets and pails for the good things in them. Eating, with hard-working people, whether of the city or country, is not a time of conviviality. They eat because they are hungry, and they get through with the business as quickly and unceremoniously as possible. The dinner hour, therefore, on this day of the circus did not as a rule last more than ten minutes. There was another long wait of nearly two hours. But this wait was relieved somewhat, for every now and then the old lion roared portentously, and filled the souls of the youngsters with delightful apprehension. At one o'clock the slit in the tent, by courtesy called a door, was opened, and the people filed in. By half past one nearly every seat was filled, and the show might have begun then without disappointment to any, for there was no one else to come. All were there save the bedridden; even the two blind people in the township had come to hear, though they could not see.
Of course the show began with what I believe they called in the programme the Grand Entrée. And of course every one who has ever been to a circus will recall how the ladies and gentlemen of the company come into the ring on horseback, and ride round and round with distinguished courtesy towards each other and towards the audience, and then ride out again. This recalls to those who have heard of such a time the days of chivalry, and some others see in the men and women in the sawdust-covered ring the heroes of their story-books. Miss Kitty had just been reading Charles and Mary Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare, and one of the ladies suggested to her the fair Rosalind, while the gentleman who cantered by her side seemed very like the bold Orlando.
When this act was over, we were treated to performances by acrobats and gymnasts, and each one seemed more wonderful than any of the rest. Each tumbler, each jumper, each contortionist, each trapeze-swinger, each tight-rope walker was enthusiastically applauded, and the feats of all were regarded by the appreciative audience as entirely wonderful. This must have been very gratifying to the actors. But what pleased best were the acts where horses took part. Country people know about horses, and have opinions of those who ride and drive them. The young lady who rode two bare-back horses at once, now with a foot on each horse and now riding one and driving the other, easily bore off the palm. When she ran by the side of one of her steeds, as he cantered round the ring, and vaulted to his back without touching either mane or rein, and landed squarely upon her little feet, and then stood upright, the audience was so filled with wonder and admiration that there was a pause before the applause began. This evidently excited more wonder and admiration than anything else—more indeed than the bespangled woman who confidingly put her head in the lion's mouth, more than the other one who permitted the elephant to walk over her and then to pick her up with his trunk. But that which diverted the audience most of all was the trick mule—the mule so resourceful of pranks that he threw all the boldest riders among the ambitious youth of Nearbye. When Mike, the young man who is both hostler and barkeeper at the White Horse Tavern, wrapped his legs round the mule's neck and caught hold with both hands of the little fellow's slippery tail the people in the circus tent nearly went wild with delight. It was a hard tussle between Mike and the mule, but the latter rolled over on Mike, who let go, and scampered out of the ring defeated, and terrified lest the mule should kick him.