City Festivals :: :: University of Virginia Library

a well-spread table, covered with culinary débris, and surrounded with queer-looking people, of various colors, sizes, and weights. Proprietor at head of the table.
Proprietor.
First we'll have a little song
From a veteran freak, who long
Up and down the country went,
With a museum side-show tent.
From the waving woods of Maine
To the sultry Texas plain;
From Atlantic billows cold,
To the western Gate of Gold;
While the circus raved and roared
To augment its treasure-hoard,
Making, with its giddy swirl,
The spectators' heads to whirl,
And with giddy thoughts affected,
With all wisdom disconnected,
He, apologist of lore,
In his tent's half-open door,
Stood, and, with an eloquence
Ciceronic and intense,
Begged the crowd to come inside,
Where, in pages opened wide,

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Nature's wondrous curio-books
Would reward their eager looks,
And would give—by tact designed—
True instruction to the mind.

SONG OF THE SIDE-SHOWMAN.

Oh, I am a showman old,
And I am a showman bold;
I stand outdoor an hour or more,
And point with pride to the things inside,
As I beseech, in eloquent speech,
That the crowd will see what things there be
Of those that stay in the far away,
And not forget Instruction's debt:
They laugh at me, and they chaff at me,
And I pay them back with the sudden crack
Of the lash of a word; and if they're stirred
To give me a fistic stroke
In pay for my little joke,

“Hey, Reub!

“Hey Reub!” is the show-man's war-cry; and he is bound in honor to rush to the support of any of his comrades who by this means indicates that he is engaged in pugilistic conflict with some member of the general public.

Hey, Reub! Hey, Reub!” says I;
They come from far an' they come from nigh.
“Hey, Reub! Hey, Reub! Hey, Reub!” reply,
An' each for each is ready to die.

Oh, I am a showman old,
Uncommonly large and bold!
I stand outside with a gesture wide,
And speak up loud to the credulous crowd,
And tell what we desire 'em to see,
And maybe cut orf an inch o' the dwarf
And add some lies to the giant's size,
And tell in what part of Australia's heart
Was the wild boy born we caught one morn
With his woolly head in a Kansas bed!
The whole o' the truth I've told from youth,
Whatever betides, and more besides!

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An' ever if unbelief
Is apt to bring me grief,

“Hey, Reub! Hey, Reub! Hey, Reub!” says I;
They come from far an' they come from nigh.
“Hey, Reub! Hey, Reub! Hey, Reub!” reply,
An' each is ready for each to die.

Oh, I am a showman old;
Perhaps you never was told
Concerning the row I sing of now,
A-circusin' late in Texas State:
Right in the crowd a fellow allowed
That cousin to me was the Chimpanzee.
I took a shy at his nearmost eye,
An' down he went like an egg in Lent!
His friends laid out to knock us about,
But 'twasn't a go—this whippin' a show;
We cleared 'em up, like flies in a cup—
I'd almost bet some lie there yet!
There wasn't a minute to spare
'Fore all our crowd was there!

“Hey, Reub! Hey, Reub! Hey, Reub!” says I;
They come from far an' they come from nigh.
“Hey, Reub! Hey, Reub! Hey, Reub!” they cry,
An' each was ready for each to die.

Proprietor.
Here's a toast which I would give:
Long may all the short folks live!
Just a little room they take,
But a noise in th' world they make.
Who should take this toast to-night,
But our freaklet, General Slight?

Indian Chief
(aside).
Why did pale-faced squaw let loose
Round here her old-man pappoose?

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THE DWARF'S RESPONSE.

Reason that I'm here to-night
No one here can help but know;
Plain to all discerning sight:
Didn't grow.
Some who overgrew are here,
Some whose growth developed queer;
Some that grew themselves in ways
That from business stand-point pays;
All my charms are negative;
How I've grieved the fact was so!
Though I just made out to live—
Didn't grow.

Ate as much as any child,
Climbed and tumbled high and low;
Still my friends in pity smiled—
Didn't grow.
“He will take a start next year,”
Mother said, with half a tear;
Father growled, “Beyond a doubt,
Have to knead and stretch him out.”
(Being a baker, he compared
Body, if not head, to dough.)
Still the people downward stared—
Didn't grow!

Went to school and joined my class—
Toed a crack and joined a row;
Teacher croaked (the grim old ass):
“Couldn't you grow?”
Tried to join in sports and games—
Never got beyond their names.
Though ten winters I could see,
Four-year-olds would bully me;
Stretched and ate, and o'er and o'er
Swelled, frog-like, but 'twouldn't go;
More I undertook, the more
Didn't grow.

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Fell in love—as who has not,
With love flitting to and fro?
But the same's a dreary lot,
Till you grow.
Daily had to stand and see
Angel skyward creep from me;
Smiling on me from on high,
Pity in her distant eye;
Begged of her to wait a while
Ere she took another beau;
Answered, with a pitying smile,
“Darling, grow!”

So the world kept leaving me;
Till folks said, “Why don't you grow
Up from small to greatest; see?
Join a show.”
Now I find that people pay
To see what they spurned away;
Now I think my purse would buy
Some who towered above me high;
She who “sacked” me as a lad,
Now's my dearest, tallest foe;
Married me, and says she's glad
Didn't grow.

[Subdued applause.
Proprietor.
Here looms a giant, eight feet long,
Appropriately mild and strong.
Scorch with thy burning tongue the toast:
“Honor to him who grows the most!”

The Giant withdraws his feet from a position somewhere on the other side of the table, unpacks his legs, stretches gradually toward the ceiling, steps back two or three feet, frowns fiercely upon the company, and proceeds, in a thin, piping voice:

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THE GIANT'S STORY.

The giant business isn't the thing at all
It used to be when I was somewhat small;
It's overdone, like every honest labor,
For any one an inch above his neighbor,
Tries hard to stretch to revenue-drawing length,
And coin up all his surplus into strength.
“Don't try it” is three words of good advice;
A giant earns his living over twice!

We have to stand and let the gaping crowd
Stare like a clock, and think of us out loud,
And ask us questions 'bout ourselves, till I
For one, am almost half-inclined to lie!
They grin us down with manners unrestrained,
Like as they would an elephant that's chained;
And every similar way they try to guide us,
Except to feed us peanuts and to ride us.

They ask us if the bulk in us they see,
Descended to us with our pedigree;
If when we're sick we suffer greater-wise
Than people of the regulation size;
How much per day or week our landlords charge;
If all our family are likewise large;
Being five times heavier than most human earth,
If we weighed forty-five pounds at our birth;
And other things, which, like domestic strife,
Look better in the depths of private life.
They make of every day a burden fresh,
A hundred times as weighty as our flesh.

They watch us when we walk to get the air,
The shouting kids pursue us everywhere;
They ask us if we still are growing tall;
How it affects things round us when we fall;
They play us tricks of different size and shape,
Then, dodging deftly 'twixt our legs, escape;

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They ask is our maternal friend aware
That we have stepped into the open air;
And so we inconvenient hours must keep,
And walk at night, like people in their sleep.

But one of us, I always recollect,
Who made all people treat her with respect;
Her waist was fully fifteen feet around,
Her exhibition-weight six hundred pound.
And her home-heft, unpadded and sincere,
Would crowd five hundred, pretty middling near.

Though any chair she used, couldn't have a more
Unpaying contract than to guard the floor,
You never saw a form with willing grace,
You never saw a classic-moulded face,
You never saw a dame of high degree,
With any more true dignity than she;
There's only one man who, I ever heard,
Had cheek to give her an uncivil word;
And he ('tis hard that matters should go on so)
Was just the person that should not have done so.

I loved her—ain't ashamed to say it now;
She didn't me—God bless her, anyhow!
She had more solid sunshine in her eye,
Than I've discovered so far in the sky;
She held more information in her looks,
Than ever I have found in all the books;
She had more sympathy in voice and touch,
Than many folks who weighed a fifth as much!

I loved her—ain't ashamed to say it now;
She didn't me—God bless her, anyhow!
Perhaps she thought that happiness wouldn't seek
A family that contained too much physique;
Perhaps she let sweet pity get the start,
And found her judgment cornered by her heart;
I won't decide; I only know she strewed
Her young affections on a skeleton dude.

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(I came near, in the midst of my dejection,
To breaking every bone in his collection!)

Heaven help her, then! he just let fly his growth,
And made her earn a living for them both!
He took to drinking, with enthusiasm fresh,
And didn't take any pains to curb his flesh;
And bigger every day he steady grew,
Until he hadn't a single rib in view
(Except his wife; and she'd grown thin and gray
If business matters hadn't stood in the way).

Now each new pound of meat the scamp displayed,
Was so much money chipped off from his trade;
Each inch diminished his professional art,
And piled lead in the poor fat lady's heart.
And she'd have pined away, she was so blue,
If only she could have afforded to.

Of course, the meaner that the scamp became,
The more she loved him (they are all the same,
Little or big), and he put up some new
Mean specialty for every breath he drew;
And soon became, as any one could see,
A large museum of what he shouldn't be.

Heaven help her, then! it's hard enough, I know,
For light-built folks to stand up under woe;
But 'tisn't every one that has to bear
Five hundred pounds of sorrow, in a chair.
It weighed upon my sweet and scornful friend,
Until the floor-planks almost seemed to bend;
But if true pity could have brought her round,
She wouldn't have tipped the scales at twenty pound.
Still, she in her own manner pined away,
And grew a little heavier every day.

This dude dove into every sort of sin,
And lined his skeleton outside and in;

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Supported by his wife's industrious toil—
Oh, the scamp's coolness fairly made me boil!
It's very hard for any man that's human,
To see another man abuse a woman;
But awful hard his righteous rage to smother,
It's, when he hates the one and loves the other!

Till finally, one day, I spied a mark
Upon her neck—all swollen 'twas and dark;
And then I saw her sweet and mournful eyes
Were swelled with tears to half their usual size
(And her face being too large for actual need,
It made the eyes look very small, indeed);
And then I knew, what galls me in repeating:
He'd given his angel wife a first-class beating;
He'd struck and kicked her—fiends in fury lodge him!—
And she, being somewhat bulky, couldn't dodge him!

Murder was out; and nothing that could screen it—
I saw it all as plain as if I'd seen it!
And next time he nipped past my standing-station,
Strutting as if he owned the whole creation,
And the museum, and all the freaks there were—
Especially the body and soul of HER—
The hot steam of my hate grew so much stronger,
I couldn't endure the pressure any longer;
I collared him, spite of his puny groans,
And nearly shook the new flesh off his bones.

It made an interesting war-excitement,
Although the dude fool did not know what fight meant;
He limbered in—the little coward elf—
As if I was old giant Despair himself;
His heels flew up and nearly ripped in half
The sewed seams of the double-headed calf;
He hit the rope that strangled out the life
Of John J. Strong—the dude who killed his wife;
He broke a show-case, and brought down to grief
The handcuffs of a celebrated thief;

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He struck, and to the floor in ruins carried
A hung-up skeleton that wasn't married;
He made the monkeys' cage a casual call,
And furnished new excitement for them all;
He made a tune-box 'cross the room to roam,
That happened to be playing “Home, sweet Home;”
He sudden ran against, before he saw,
A Tipperary Injun and his squaw
(Whose savage souls straightway within them burned,
And so the greeting promptly was returned);
In short, being then in fair athletic trim,
I kicked the whole establishment with him.

The strangest part of all I now must say,
And, stranger still, it's generally that way:
This fellow's wife, that he'd used like a drum,
And marched her full half-way to kingdom come,
Defended him! And fell on me unbid
(And that meant something, weighing what she did),
And clapper-clawed me, till, she being done,
I had some thirteen bruises to her one.
(The dude stood by and saw this last occur—
Sponged even his vengeance on me out of her.)

In spite of all my rage and want of care,
He didn't seem a bit the worse for wear;
And made the judge believe 'twas all my fault,
And chuckled when they fined me for assault;
And his nibs said, “There's pity in this court
For one with such a large wife to support.”

She died, a few years later than this row;
Died loving him—Heaven bless her, anyhow!

Lecturer.
Now let Whale-oil Jim be heard
In a little lyric word.

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Whale-oil Jim
sings:

THE SPECTRE WHALE.

I'll spin you a tale of a spectre whale
That lives in the northern seas:
By night and day he swims, they say,
Wherever he haps to please.
He haunts a ship all through her trip,
Till stabbed by a luckless crew,
And then away, in the mist and spray,
He tows them out of view.

Then it's good-bye, shipmates,
A thousand leagues you'll sail;
Sing—hey—shipmates,
You've caught the spectre whale!

I'll weep you a song of Captain Strong,
A seaman tall and bold;
He swore he would slay that fish some day,
And boil him in the hold.
But just as soon as the first harpoon
Within his flesh was set,
They started away for Nowhere Bay,
And maybe are sailing yet.

Then good-bye, shipmates,
Your friends they wonder and wail;
Swim—fly—shipmates,
You're caught by the spectre whale!

I'll laugh you a song of Peter Long,
A first mate short was he;
He swore if he'd fail to catch the whale,
That Satan's he would be!
But first we knew, it opened to view
Its mouth so wide and strong,
And caught him fast, and that was the last
We saw of Peter Long.

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Then good-bye, shipmates,
You'll take a Jonah-sail;
Soft lie, shipmate,
Your berth, the spectre whale!

I'll heave you a word of Nicholas Bird,
A foc'sle liar was he—
Showed part of the tail of the ghost's own whale
That he killed in '53.
He finally said, “When I am dead
My ghost will give him a try,
And that I say is the only way
The spectre fish can die.”

Then fare you well, shipmate,
For if you did not lie,
Too much truth to tell, shipmate,
Is just as bad, or nigh.

We grappled the man by a sudden plan
(A struggling fish was he)!
And, begging his ghost to perform its boast,
Flung Nicholas in the sea.
And oft at night he is seen by the light
Of the miracle-loving moon,
To chase the whale, through calm or gale,
With the ghost of his old harpoon.

Then good-bye, shipmate,
And if your ghost should fail
Itself to die, shipmate,
Perhaps you'll catch the whale.

Lecturer.
Here's the young discouraged wight,
Who, one afternoon or night,
Hoping that his life, sore blighted,
Could, by wronging it, be righted;
Thinking, if for sorrow's sake,
He his sad career might break,

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Through some fate it might be mended,
From the mammoth bridge descended,
And, by guardian angels guided,
Head-first in the water glided;
Through the awful danger skimming
Like a truant boy “in swimming.”
Let him now, in private glory,
Tell once more his public story.

[The Bridge-jumper arises amid wild applause, not being a freak by birth, hence not having displayed sufficient attraction to arouse envy. He is an inoffensive little fellow, with an exceedingly sad face.

THE BRIDGE-JUMPER'S STORY.

Oh, who can tell what spirit brought
To earth that firebrand Suicide,
Or whose insanity first taught
The art to those whose courage died,
And lived again in coarser thought?
The selfish crime doth still abide,
And murders mortals far and wide.

Oh, who describes the dark despair
That falls in floods upon the heart,
And drowns in blood the healthy care
That breeds employment's cheerful art;
Then clogs the tempest-shrieking air
With terror's swiftly-flying dart,
To force the frenzied brain apart?

Oh, who can count the many woes
To which the lonely crime is traced?
The lovers false, the genuine foes,
The staining lash of foul disgrace,
Gaunt poverty's heart-weakening blows,
Red dissipation's prizeless race,
And lunacy's uncouth embrace?

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Oh, who can tell the thoughts of him
Who knows that in a second's time
His earthly eyes must stagger dim,
His soul desert the earthly clime—
He hopes life's lamp once more to trim,
He fears, to plunge through depthless slime
And drag the fetters of his crime?

He knows not whether pitying friends
May meet him at the shattered door,
And with their kindness make amends,
For fate, of what has gone before,
And aid the mercy Heaven extends
To stanch his pain-charged spirit-gore,
And soothe him sweetly evermore;

Or whether he be doomed to bear
The finger-tip of cruel scorn,
And in the silent spirit-air
May hear the words, “A coward born!”
As, followed by a new despair,
O'er roads beset with poisoned thorn,
He runs a race of rage forlorn;

Or whether, o'er his troubled soul,
Oblivion as a mercy creeps,
And guards him out of care's control
Within its broad, mysterious deeps;
And thus while years above him roll,
He free from pain and pleasure sleeps,
And time's deep ocean o'er him sweeps;

Or whether from this plunge of fate
He sinks in valleys red with fire,
Inhabited by fiends of hate—
New cruelties their sole desire—
Who hope their sufferings to abate
By helping hell's demoniac ire
To make his sufferings yet more dire!

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And who can tell how long he thought
And brooded o'er his deadly scheme,
And webs of fact and fancy wrought
To make the project easy seem;
And his weak muscles courage taught,
By his despairing spirit's scream,
In daylight's thought and midnight's dream;

And who can tell, when the frail cord
That holds his life once loose is thrown,
And helplessly he rushes toward
The unescapable unknown,
How suddenly is now abhorred
The death he sought in moments flown; ...
If life once more could be his own!

If yet again he could but try
This world's rough tangle to make straight!
A hundred methods meet his eye
To open rescue's gilded gate;
A thousand griefs that, when so nigh,
So heavy—now have little weight;
Could he but live, now 'tis too late!

And all the pages of his life
Turn, rustling, in his opening brain:
The love, the hate, the peace, the strife,
The hope, the grief, the loss, the gain;
Once more disease's hiltless knife—
Once more the joy of banished pain;
The good, the bad, the true, the vain;

He lives a lifetime of despair
Between his dying and his death;
As, crucified, he lingers there,
A loud voice drowns his burdened breath:
“Mercy in earth or heaven or air
Is not for him who blasphemeth
Against God's image!” Thus it saith.

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So when I leaped from yonder span,
In death my burning soul to lave,
Hot demons through the spirit ran,
And held me as their suffering slave.
A long eternity began;
And every instant was a grave,
That pain, instead of slumber, gave.

An instant may be made a year;
A second's thousandth million part
May be an age of pain and fear,
Whose every moment probes the heart;
And many heavens or hells can here
Be lived, ere for the land we start,
Whose borders know no earthly chart.

God brought me back; 'twas thus that I
Once more life's honeyed air could sip;
He somehow heard my silent cry,
Recalled me in the deathward trip,
And brought me back once more to try,
With streaming face and pallid lip,
Eternity's apprenticeship.

This trembling world doth not contain—
However deep, however wide—
Enough of sorrow, fright, or pain,
Or woe unknown, or grief untried,
Or frost of heart, or fire of brain,
Or anything—to drive or guide
My steps again to suicide!

I stand before the gazing throng,
Not for the paltry gain of purse:
To pray them not from shame or wrong
To fly to evils that are worse.
And hoping, as my race among,
This hideous story I rehearse,
That God may stay the selfish curse.

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Proprietor.
Doleful tale is that, indeed!
Let us all take wholesome heed,
Striving not to lose our lives,
Till the proper time arrives.
And, meanwhile, for order's sake,
Let each listener now awake,
While a story sweetly flits
From the Bearded Lady's lips.

[The Bearded Lady rises shyly, throws back some masses of raven hair, parted in the middle, grooms a luxuriant beard and mustache with eight tapering fingers, blushes slightly, and proceeds.

THE BEARDED LADY'S STORY.

When woman out of man was made,
Where she in ambush had been laid;
When, with Heaven's wisdom for a guide,
She crept forth from her husband's side,
Part of him, yet not all his own,
A dream of flesh and blood and bone
(And ever since has been, 'twould seem,
His cherished and evasive dream,
And—as I hardly need to mention—
The constant bone of his contention);
When, thrilled with intuition's lore,
She looked the situation o'er,
And saw how weak she was, compared
To him who with the world she shared;
Saw how each gesture of his hand
Her goings and comings might command;
Saw how, Heaven's purpose to fulfil,
Her motions leaned upon his will;
She made her mind up, that same hour,
That she must wield a different power;
That she must gain her motives' length,
By indirect and subtle strength.
And, glancing in a pool, saw she
Was so much handsomer than he,

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She beauty's cord might round him tie,
And thus the lack of strength supply;
And so she made, with motive good,
Herself as handsome as she could.

Indeed (although I've sometimes thought
My thought oft thinks more than it ought)
I've thought sometimes that half the reason
She coaxed young Adam into treason
Against Divinity's command,
To take the apple from her hand,
Was her prophetic vision, staring
At herself, gorgeous dresses wearing,
When fig-trees, other trees, and all
The birds and beasts would come at call,
And by the aid of artists clever,
Would make her handsomer than ever.
Flounces and ribbons are a prize
In any regular lady's eyes;
And good appearance, in her heart,
Of good religion is a part.

This being truth, you'll easy know
Why 'tis that woman suffers so,
When nature takes a sudden whim,
And tricks her out in masculine trim,
Making her (if a little pun
Just slipped in here for my own fun
Won't lower me in your regard)
Mustached and bearded like her pard.
Some, lotions use, to stop its growth,
And peel off skin and whiskers both;
With tweezers uncombined with ruth,
Some draw them like an aching tooth;
To keep their dreadful secret sure,
Some surreptitiously procure
Razor and soap—sly, honest plan—
And meet the trouble like a man;
But each must always watch and doubt,
For fear their hair will find them out.

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One such as this I knew of well
(Although her name I'd scorn to tell,
For not alone does queer old Nature's
Quaint mind have whims about our features;
We bearded ladies gossip smother,
And always stand up for each other):
This lady was a teacher fair—
A principal; and with great care
Watched close a school, it would appear did,
Composed of several girls, unbearded;
And strove, she said, they might not stray
One hair's-breadth from the narrow way.

But several neighboring student-boys,
Debarred by her from social joys,
Which they fallaciously deemed due
(The girls concurring in that view),
Marked slyly as their mischief's own,
This razor-wielding chaperon;
And in a sneaking manner then
Resolved to beard her in her den;
And on one Halloween they stole
A large and lurid barber-pole,
And, more in anger than in wit,
Beneath her window fastened it,
In such unprecedented way
'Twould not be moved till noon next day—
A target for by-passers' questions,
And sly tonsorial suggestions.
In fact, the symbol, as it proved,
Could never somehow quite be moved;
It was a shame ridiculous,
To treat a bearded lady thus!

And still if she, I can but say,
Had just let Nature have its way,
And not clipped off the strands it spun,
But helped them, as she might have done,
She could have been a first-class freak,
And made more money in a week,

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Than in a whole scholastic year;—
But, then, we women folks are queer.

Until she moved some distance, where
Unknown yet was her face and hair;
And she, this guiltless shame above,
Could prosecute her work of love.
Her pupils day by day she taught
With precept kind and subtle thought,
And ne'er appeared with any trace
Of manhood on her thoughtful face;
Her mild, sharp practice not detected,
And, as she prayed, still unsuspected;
Although in various times and shapes
She'd several close hair-breadth escapes.
She did her work well as she could,
And all but rivals called it good.

And she had hoped to live her life
Alone, Industry's faithful wife;
And the staid, solemn comfort felt,
Of those to whom no man has knelt;
And who, no doubt, will e'er escape
All interference of that shape;
Was gathering fast the curious ways
That antique maiden life displays;
And settling down, the strands to weave,
Of a long quiet winter eve.

When, presto! came a comely man,
Who, by well-laid heroic plan,
And Love's sly, sinless, treacherous art,
Found means to trap her virgin heart!
And with imperious methods bland,
Humbly petitioned for her hand.

What now? Love promptly took the field,
And wildly pleaded her to yield;
Tired loneliness its woes enlarged,
And humbly begged to be discharged;

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Old age peeped at her—most in sight—
And holloed “Yes!” with all his might;
Ambition made a lively speech,
Wherein he did not fail to reach
A rival maid her lover knew,
And artfully had held in view;
And Comfort—sweet her voice did blend—
Said, “Let me be your friend, my friend!”
But tired Despair, with hopeless frown,
Pointed a fateful finger down,
Where 'twixt the lovers had been laid
A sharp and fiercely gleaming blade;
And that was, as you'll easy guess,
A razor—mirror of distress!

What should she do then? Wed her lover?
Then he The Secret might discover,
And every sympathy refuse,
And she his scared affections lose.
And if she firmly answered “Nay,”
Then she would lose him anyway.
And so for weeks she vacillated
Whether to be or be not mated.

At last a bright idea occurred:
She wrote The Secret, every word,
Enclosed it to him in a letter,
And felt disconsolate, but better.
Then, like a prisoner mystery-fated,
She for his answer watched and waited.

She waited well; a week went by,
Also her hope of quick reply.
She waited long; a month appeared,
But brought no reference to her beard.
And 'twas a campaign every day,
Through student ranks to fight her way—
To train youth's talent into art,
Pipe off the gushes of the heart,

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And proffer pearls of greatest price
In golden caskets of advice;
The tune of others' heart-strings taking,
The while her own were slowly breaking;
And, treading life's rough pathway o'er,
Shave regularly as before.

At last, one eve, a package came,
That bore her chaste baptismal name,
In a loved hand she knew so well!
And—let me now its contents tell:
A brush of rare and dainty mould;
A shaving-cup of purest gold;
A razor, in whose haft of jet
Large diamonds and pearls were set;
A hand-glass, whose fine ivory frame
In ruby letters bore her name;
And other things, such as form part
Of amateur tonsorial art;
Whose terms I cannot call to mind,
Using no utensils of that kind.

But maybe you have not surmised
The treasures she most dearly prized:
Her first love-letter! which contained
This flood of passion unrestrained:
“Dearest of maids! I now unfold
A secret until here untold:
When those wild students basely reared
A monument unto your beard,
Thus laying on your shrinking soul
A large ten-dollar barber-pole,
I was the barber, and reveal it,
From whom the scamps bought leave to steal it.
But seeing you bore with such sweet grace
Those coarse allusions to your face,
How bravely you ignored the slur,
How patient, meek, and kind you were,
And yet how like a stricken deer
You fled in grief, if not in fear,

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I loved you deeply, and pursued;
Found, met, loved better still, and wooed.
Your facial gifts I loved—not braved;
Besides, you see, my mother shaved.
And, life being made financial summer
By uncle's death (a cold-snap plumber),
My being's sole object, I confess,
Is your joy, peace, and happiness.
Knowing the fact your letter stated,
Still for your word I hoped and waited;
And see you now one whose sweet heart
Would nothing keep from me apart.”

They married; and, in checkered cheer,
Lived happily for many a year.
She proved a solace in his life—
A faithful, kind, instructive wife;
And he from earth's rude contact saved her,
And every morning neatly shaved her.

Proprietor.
Moral: let the truth prevail,
Though the heavens and earth may fail;
Though for love's endearments pleading,
Love lies wounded, sick, and bleeding.
Nothing holds, in age or youth,
Like the firm, old-fashioned truth;
Nothing long can stand in place,
If truth be not at the base.

Lecturer.
Truth! a curio that is worth
All the others on this earth.

The Disabled Baloonist
(who has made five hundred and sixty-seven successful ascensions, and one unsuccessful one).
Truth! the only star whose ray
Shines the brighter when 'tis day!

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Dwarf.
Truth! though sometimes small to see,
Greatness hath her home in thee!

Giant.
Truth! whose strength in field or town,
Tears all worthless structures down!

First Albino.
Truth! a maid whose eyes sincere,
As the mountain brook are clear!

Indian Chief
(aside).
Truth! Humph! Ugh! A great big mound,
Where no white man's scalp is found!

The Sword-eater.
Truth! whose blade of brightest hue
Cleaves the false and spares the true!

The Juggler.
Truth! whose oft-secreted ball
Comes up finally top of all!

The Armless Man.
Truth! in genuine fabric shows,
Made with fingers or with toes!

The Faster.
Truth! a table thickly spread,
Where all hungry may be fed!

The Snake-charmer.
Truth! on whose magnetic arm
Serpents wind and do no harm!

Bearded Lady.
Truth! when I to live, must lie,
Guardian angels, let me die!

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[A footstep in the hall. The door opens with a bang; a large, resolute, but frightened-looking woman enters, and glares sharply up and down the room. The Bearded Lady creeps under the table.
Frightened but Resolute-looking Woman.
Lost! Lost! Lost! My husband's lost!
On my lonely bed I've tossed,
Fighting desperation's power,
Waiting for him hour by hour,
Till suspense paled into fear.
Say, freaks, is not my freak here?
Do admit me to him, pray!
Prayers shall for my ticket pay!
Or if he has cut the show,
Tell me where he said he'd go,
So I there no time may waste,
And through other haunts may haste!
[She catches a glimpse of the Bearded Lady under the table.
There he is—cheek, lip, and chin;
Drunk once more, as sure as sin!
[Hauls him from under the table by hair and beard.
Stagger! for your road is broad!
Oh, you hair-faced, bare-faced fraud!
Here's your shawl and bonnet, see?
Now, sir, travel home with me!

[She leads him away, somewhat sobered and very much subdued.
Proprietor.
Beat that, any one who can!

Indian Chief.
Humph! the chin-scalp squaw's a man!