practice on the sawdust. The Circus is so entirely
changed from what it was some thirty or forty
years ago, as to be almost a new institution to
those who recollect the little mountebank
parties that used to pay an annual visit to the
village green, and delight the rustic sightseers of
agricultural districts by giving away an
occasional fat pig.

There was nothing in those times to be
compared to CHIRPER'S CIRCUS, in which I myself
have really served. The huge travelling Circus
of our day, such a one as that of the Brothers
Chirper, may be looked upon as a colony,
and the capital requisite to carry on a
profitable business may be guessed from the fact,
that about sixty horses are required to work
a large concern, besides a den of lions, a
brace of camels, and a tumbling elephant or
two, to say nothing of half a dozen ostriches,
a performing mule, a dancing bull, and a real
live deer with movable horns! Then, in
addition to a corps of about thirty male and
female performers, including of course the
inevitable Lion King or Queen, and no end of
acrobats, voltigeurs, and Amazons, there must
be a stud-groom, or "master of the horse"
(Circus people delight in fine language), and
under him a score of stablemen. Then, there
must be a tent-master and tenters, besides the
agent in advance, the members of the brass
band, the pair of bill-stickers, and the many
other wonderfully nondescript hangers-on, who
contrive to extract a living out of the concern.
While out "tenting," as it is called, some
ambitious showmen, not contented with the usual
slow style of getting on, and to obtain
additional notoriety, now indulge in a locomotive
to drag them from town to town: thus making
their grand entrée, preceded by what they term
a real fiery dragon.

The Messrs. Chirper were, so to speak, born
showmen, as they came into the world at Greenwich
Fair, and started in life with an exhibition
of white mice. They travelled the country with
all kinds of shows, growing from small to large,
until now they are wealthy men, with a bank
account, and the largest Circus on the road. Their
"Magic Ring," as they have christened it, is on
a gigantic scale, having all sorts of clever people
attached, to minister to the amusement of its
patrons, and it dispenses daily bread-and-butter
to a party of one hundred and fifty-seven men,
women, and children—if the young of show-
folks ever are children—who are dependent on
it. The Brothers Chirper, like most showmen,
are pleasant fellows, not overburdened with
the learning of the schools, but crammed to
repletion with the sterner acquirements of dear-
bought experience of men and manners. Like
all their class, the brothers are fond of
diamonds—one of them, showman-like, wears a
hoop of brilliants that cost three hundred
pounds. Why is it, I have often wondered,
that all showmen are fond of diamonds? The
show-folk are altogether a peculiar race, and,
like the fishermen of our sea-coasts, are not
prone to intermarry with other classes. I could
not help noting that in our Circus company,
forty-two of the persons engaged, were related
by blood or marriage to the brothers.

The behind the scenes of Circus-dom is a
quaint enough region, and of course a contrast
to the "front." There is always a slight soupçon
of that peculiar zoological aroma indicative
of the king of the forest. A great fire of coke
burns brightly in a large iron funnel, placed
in the centre of the vacant space (the extempore
green-room); at the curtained door, where
the company enter the ring; and round it, there
loiters a crowd of performers, grooms, &c.
Some of them have just made their exit from
the sawdust; others are making ready to go in.
The fire is of great use for ventilating purposes,
for there is always uppermost a strong perfume
of damp sawdust, wet litter, and horse-breath,
with a faint indication of bad drainage and other
horrors. The scene at the fire is motley enough.
The lazy black servant, habited in the gorgeous
oriental robe, is attentively chalking the pumps
of Mademoiselle Aurelia, the tight-rope dancer
and "ascensionist," who is adjusting her pink
skirts preparatory to taking her "turn." A
medical student is making hot love to Madame
Francatelli, the lady-devil rider, who, as the
bills tell us, "has been clothed with fame in all
the capitals of Europe and Russia." The funny
gentleman with the nodding queue, or tail-piece,
as he calls it, looking waggishly over his
whitened scalp, his nose buried in a pint of half-
and-half, is one of the seven great clowns of the
establishment—indeed, he is our leader—and
motley is certainly his only wear, or, to borrow
again from the bill, it is "that oracle of
pungent satire, Mr. Henry White, surnamed the
Modern Touchstone." One can easily surmise
that Mr. White must have just given birth to
something new in the joke line, and, in apt
confirmation of my opinion, he offers the ring-master
(that grand looking personage, elaborately got
up as a field-marshal, who is of course in the
confidence of the clown) the reversion of the
pewter pot. All round the fiery furnace, in
concentric rings, "the strength of the
establishment" crowd for warmth, and are only
at intervals disturbed in their banter by the
manager's warning bell, or the more than
ordinary bursts of laughter evoked by myself
or some other clown. In front, all is ablaze
with light and gaudy calico, and each acrobat
and horseman seems to excel his neighbour in his
leaps and bounds. The three hours of performance
fly rapidly away, as artist after artist bounds
into the ring. Trick acts, feats on the trapeze,
revolving corkscrews, descending mercuries, in
short, all the varied and puzzling acts of
contortion incidental to the modern Circus are
exhibited with a grace and dexterity, and with a
firmness of nerve, which never fail to astonish.

All is couleur de rose at night—an applauding
audience and smiling performers make the work
go off with spirit. In the daytime, the circus is
dark, cold, and miserable; the fiery furnace has
been carried into the centre of the ring, and
most of the corps are again at work, practising;