The life of the professional wild man is an unhappy one at best. The story is told of a Baltimore, Md., colored man, who, finding himself penniless in Berlin, Germany, enlisted as an untamed arrival from Africa with a small American circus then playing abroad. He endured the torture he was compelled to undergo for a month and then stole away to a hospital. He was required to explain how and why he came there.
“You see, boss,” he observed sadly, “I’se been working here, got ten dollars a week to play wild man. I was all stripped ’cept around the middle and wore a claw necklace; had to make out as if I couldn’t talk. ’Twas mighty tiresome to howl and grin all day. Then times got hard. I had to eat raw meat and drink blood. The circus man, he stood off as if he was afraid of me and chucked meat on the floor to me. I had to lean over, pick it up in my teeth and worry it like I was a dog. It was horse meat and pretty tough, boss, but it brought crowds for a while. Then it got drefful cold for a nigger with no clothes on and they put a snake around my neck. I couldn’t stand that, so I’se come to the hospital.”
He was given clothes and medical treatment, which he sorely needed, and a kindly American sent him back to Maryland.
Calvin Bird, a negro who hailed from Pearson, Ga., was a famous wild man for several years with divers small circuses, and toured most of the country, mystifying all who saw him and sending them away impressed with a conviction that he was all he was represented to be. Not until he appeared at a Syracuse hospital with a request that his horns be removed was the secret of his unnatural appearance disclosed. Under his scalp was found inserted a silver plate, in which stood two standards. Into these, when he was on exhibition, Bird screwed two goat horns. Thousands of people had paid admission to see the curved bone projections and hear him bark. The artificial additions were the idea of a physician in Central America who gave the man an anaesthetic and inserted the plate. The operation of removing the support was a simple one and Bird started for home from Syracuse with a normal head a few days later. The wild man business had got monotonous, he said, and anyway, he had made enough money out of his deception to maintain him in idleness for a long time.
The “electric lady” is one of the phenomena of our side-show, and a source of great wonder to the gullible visitor. She is saturated with the mysterious force. A continuous supply passes from her finger tips to whoever touches her flesh. Scoffers are confounded at the manifestation, and there is a general feeling among the side-show sightseers that she is a supernatural being. There is nothing indicating a violation of natural law in the lady’s appearance, and nobody appears to enjoy the curiosity she excites more than her own merry self. A strange feature of the exercise of the invisible agent is that it generates only for commercial purposes. For instance, the power leaves her when the performance closes for the night, and does not develop again until she is on exhibition the following day. Then, too, the current confines itself to a fixed spot. It passes away instantaneously if she moves from her chair.
The “electric lady” in private life is a very domestic and studious person. She is Mrs. E. N. Willis, whose husband is one of the managers of the tent and a recognized authority on “freaks.” When I asked her for a contribution to the story of the side-show she took pencil and paper and evolved the following product. It was done under the circus canvas on a hot September afternoon in Illinois, while country visitors stared in wonder at the sight of the “freak” in the act of composition and thought. It is attached in the exact phraseology in which it was handed to me.
“So much has been written regarding circus life as seen only in the ‘Big Show,’ it will not come amiss to chat a while with a member of the side-show fraternity. When the parade returns to the show grounds, it is followed by a large crowd of people, who have been invited by men with megaphone voices to witness a series of free exhibitions which are used as a means of getting the people together for the opening of the side-show, which is the attraction until the ‘Big Show’ is ready to admit its visitors at one p.m. The side-show presents a most attractive appearance to the rural visitor, showing as it does upon huge banners the many wonderful sights to be seen within.
“As a means of collecting the followers, a platform is erected directly in front of the side-show entrance. In showmen’s parlance it is known as a ‘bally-hoo stage,’ where, as promised the multitude, these free exhibitions are given.
“Fearing that there may be a few stragglers or sweethearts who have failed to keep up with the procession, and wishing to give them all an equal chance, the band is called outside, and with great strength plays its loudest and swiftest selections. Then the principal orator mounts the ‘bally-hoo stage,’ and striking upon a huge triangle enjoins silence. In glowing terms he describes the row of paintings, proving the truthfulness of his assertions by bringing out a few of the subjects and dilating upon their merits. After this there is another ‘hurry up’ tune, and then pandemonium reigns supreme, as from their elevated stands the ticket-sellers, each trying to outdo the other in lustiness of tone, proclaim the price of admission—ten cents. Very few resist the eloquence of the orator and the cries of the ticket-sellers, and in a short space of time the outside workers have a chance to rest their lungs, as nearly all have passed inside.
“In the old days of circus business the side-show was justly styled the annex or museum department, and contained only living curios and a performance of Punch and Judy. Of late years this has been greatly changed, there being such a scarcity of freaks of nature that vaudeville acts, and even minstrel shows, have been introduced to fill up this vacuum. The interior is in charge of a lecturer, who is usually either a magician or a Punch and Judy man, he thereby serving a double purpose.