I remember first, with pardonable pride, that it was generally conceded that I was the best “broke” horse in the history of the ring. There seemed to be a vein of harmony in the feeling existing between Mr. Melville and myself. Nothing ever made me nervous or shy. I trusted my master implicitly and I was as accurate and certain in my movements when he was turning somersaults or leaping through fire rings or balloons as when we made the preliminary canter. My broad, muscular back was ever waiting for him to alight just where he planned. Many said much of the credit for his feats was mine. Modesty prevents an expression on my part. We toured America a season and were everywhere received with warm approval. Then we set out for England. Bessie, a fine, gray horse, also from New Hampshire, accompanied us. She was a wonderfully intelligent animal, and the only horse, I understand, who ever was trained to trot in the circus ring. She used to circle the ring at a forty gait, with our owner doing all sorts of tricks upon her back. Poor girl, she died in Hamburg and I missed her sorely for years.
Our itinerary, as I recall it, was about like this: From London to Hamburg, to Russia, to Poland, to Liverpool, to France, to Holland, to France again, to Belgium, back to Hamburg, returning to London and Liverpool, once more in Hamburg and then aboard ship for our native country. Here we visited all states and territories, toured Mexico and passed on to Cuba. Ten years were consumed in our travels and nowhere did we fail to achieve emphatic success. It is a record I contemplate with a feeling of great elation, and which I have heard circus men say is entitled to unique distinction. We gave eleven private matinees before the royal family of Russia, and some of the prominent persons who witnessed our performances during our professional career were Grover Cleveland, President of the United States; the late Queen Victoria of England and her son, the present king; the Marquis of Salisbury, prime minister of England and the great leader in the House of Commons; Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany and his wife and their son, Prince Fritz; the late Prince Von Bismarck, the “man of iron;” the late Count Von Moltke, field marshal and chief of staff of the German Army, one of the world’s greatest soldiers; President Carnot, of the French Republic, since assassinated; Queen Emma of Holland and her daughter, the present queen; King Leopold of Belgium; the last three Emperors of Russia, Alexander I., Alexander II., and Nicholas II; and Francis Joseph, emperor of Austria, and his accomplished wife who was later stabbed to death. What other lowly horse ever helped to enthrall the attention of such a galaxy of notables?
Many ludicrous and many sober incidents of my eventful circus life come to my mind. I was in many train wrecks. Once my car caught fire on the journey from St. Petersburg to Warsaw. There were four of us in the place and I was the only one to escape alive. Martin Welsh, my devoted friend, helped me to safety. Again, when twenty-five horses were packed in one of the circus cars in Indiana, it rolled down an embankment. I was one of five to emerge unhurt; most of the others had their necks broken. I remember, too, when I was thrown with four carloads of equine companions into the Ohio river. It happened on a Sunday run from Cairo, Ill., to Detroit, Mich. Many were drowned or perished from exposure. I floated about eight hours before being rescued and never felt any ill effects. Mr. Melville and I were on the steamer Stork which became waterlogged during the trip from Hamburg to England. We were nine days at sea, and I passed most of the time in water above my knees. I was ready for the ring when we finally landed.
I am sure that I have travelled more miles in my life than any other horse ever born and have displayed through it all more hardihood than any, save perhaps Mayfly, whose famous career has been recited many times in circus camps. He antedated me many years. They tell of his standing trip of one hundred and ninety days from Sydney, Australia, to Valparaiso, Chili, and his subsequent rough overland journey to various parts of the republic and back again to the Pacific Ocean. Then he was taken by water to San Francisco, a three months’ trying experience, and later around the southern continent to New York. It was enough to wreck the finest constitution, but he never flinched. He and his sister, Black Bess, were of pure Arab extraction, and some of the finest horses in California to-day date their parentage from them. As bareback performers they have had few superiors.
Then I remember, too, many renowned animals of my time. The Russian horse Zib, who was poisoned in Mexico, achieved fame more for his tricks than his ring exhibitions. Dan Rice’s horses Excelsior and Excelsior, Jr., although both blind, were wonderfully intelligent. Obeying their master’s directions, they would grope to a pedestal, place the left foot on its staff, bend the right leg gracefully and incline both ears forward as if in the act of listening. How often have I, in an adjacent ring, seen the veteran clown turn proudly to the audience and heard him announce: “Mark well the beauty of the curve of the right leg, which strikes the eye of the sculptor. Horace Greeley calls them the horses with souls of men!” Levi J. North’s horse Cincinnatus was probably the first “dancing” equine, and Stickney’s Tammany was the best jumper that ever came to my knowledge. Wicked Will, owned by Spalding and Rogers, eclipsed most animals in difficult feats of various kinds. Rarey’s horse Cruiser, although never a circus performer, was invaluable to his owner in horse “taming” exhibitions, and seemed to execute his duties with human intelligence.
Thus I live again the days of old and unfold the roll of my eventful history. My thoughts travel fondly back to the scenes I am to behold no more, and my heart throbs with emotions excited by their reminiscences. I remember those gone to their rest and shed a tear to their memory. For myself, only ignominy and mental anguish. I, who have been an honor to my birthplace and an ornament to my race, wearily await the final summons. In the array of names of illustrious circus horses, may my memory be cherished faithfully is the hope of miserable
Tom Keene.