"I Have a Snake in My Boot" - Drunken Hallucination

 

The Riddleberger Boot.

In Pixar’s classic film, “Toy Story,” the lead character, Woody (voiced by Tom Hanks), is a child’s cowboy doll with a pull-string voice box.  One of the stock phrases elicited by pulling his string is “I’ve got a snake in my boot,” which is repeated several times throughout the movie franchise.  Fans have been debating the meaning of the cryptic expression since the original “Toy Story” debuted in 1995.

Without an opportunity to ask them directly, it is impossible to divine what the screenwriters had in mind in using the expression.  It is, however, a fact that the expression was a common idiom during the 19^th century, said to have originated in the American West, which makes it a suitable line for a talking cowboy doll.

“Seeing snakes” or “seeing snakes in one’s boots” was the mid-19^th century equivalent of “seeing pink elephants,” a stereotypical drunken hallucination.  “Snakes” and “Snakes in one’s boot” slowly gave way to increasingly fanciful and colorful animal hallucinations near the turn of the century, and were largely displaced by “pink elephants” by the early 1900s.  For more detail on the transition from one idiom to the other, see my earlier post, “The Colorful History and Etymology of ‘Pink Elephant.’”[i] 

The remainder of this post focuses on look at a couple early examples and explanations of the idiom not available when the earlier post was published, and a forgotten drama that played out on the floor of the United States Senate, but which was erased from the official records.  The incident involved a drunken, one-term Senator from Virginia named Riddleberger who was thought to have had “snakes in his boots.”

Western Origin

In a book of reminiscences of the life of the American humorist, Artemus Ward, an Englishman named Edward P. Hingston recalled an incident aboard a steamboat on the Ohio River in about 1862; the “Major Anderson, United States mail-packet,bound for Louisville.”  Ward had made some seemingly nonsensical comments about George Washington visiting Greece, “Blue Greeks” and “Blue Aegean brigands, dead before their breakfast!”  A fellow traveler wondered what his ramblings meant.

“Mercy me!” cried the lady. “The poor fellow is out of his mind.  Has he no friends with him?  He is much to be pitied.”

“It is nothing, madam,” replied one of our party; “nothing, I assure you.  He usually wanders in this way when he has snakes in his boot.”

“Snakes in his boots!  And has he got them now, cried the lady, rising quickly, and recoiling from the man whom she had just been regarding with tender pity.

“He has, madam.  He’s apt to see them now and then, but –- ”

An outcry of terror from the sympathetic lady led to a scene of confusion, in the midst of which the gentlemen passengers made their way to the forepart of the saloon, while some of the ladies took refuge in their state rooms.

At that time I was not better informed than the lady I have referred to, as to the meaning of the phrase, “Snakes in his boots.” On inquiry I found it to be the western idiom for delirium tremens, and it was explained to me as a curious physiological fact that the hard drinkers of the south and southwestern states, are apt to imagine that their boots are full of snakes when they themselves are suffering from the mental hallucination produced by excessive intemperance.

Edward Hingston, The Genial Showman, Being Reminiscences of the Life of Artemus Ward and Pictures of a Showman’s Career in the Western World, London, J. C. Hotten, 1871, page 30.

Equal Opportunity Snakes

If a man could see “snakes in his boots,” a woman in a similar state might see “snakes in her stockings.”

Her husband had brought home a barrel of hard cider.  Late one evening she concluded that she wanted some of it.  Having no other way of getting the coveted beverage, she inserted a straw in a gimlet hole in a barrel, and helped herself to the apple juice. 

When she retired that night her rest was broken by visions of “snakes” twining, coiling, squirming and twisting around her stockings, which she believed she still had on.  She said it was exciting.  Bit snakes, little snakes, old snakes, young snakes, green snakes, red snakes, yellow snakes, striped snakes, black snakes, double-headed and double-tailed snakes, all there, and about 14,447 of ‘em trying to twine themselves around her stockings.

She would start up in affright, only to see the snakes vanish up the chimney.  When she would lie down the circus performance would begin again and a whole menagerie of snakes would begin their contortions. 

After wrestling with them about a dozen times she got out of bed about 1 o’clock, dressed herself and went to getting breakfast, finding it impossible to rest in bed in peace and comfort.

She has foresworn hard cider, and talks of joining the temperance lodge.  She does not wear striped stockings.

The Daily Review (Wilmington, North Carolina), December 1, 1875, page 3.

Senatorial Snakes

Harrison Holt Riddleberger served as a United States Senator from Virginia for one term, from March 1883 through March 1889. “Prone to depression and excessive drinking, he held a reputation as an eccentric and even engaged in two duels on the same day.”[ii]  His reputation as a hard drinker inspired a cartoon of his boots, with snakes in ‘em, in a mock-article about footwear fashions.

Senator Riddleberger of Virginia has achieved the glory of giving his name to a popular style of boot not wholly unknown before his time, but which he wears so uninterruptedly that they have become inseparably associated with his personality.

The San Francisco Examiner, April 15, 1888, page 9.

As an example of the humorous nature of the article, another image from the same piece was a visual representation of the set-up to a then-current, viral joke.  The shoes supposedly belonged to a fashion maven named Evander Berry Wall, who was popularly known as the “King of the Dudes.”   At that time, the word “Dude” generally referred to young, high-society swells with more money than brains; Anglophiles who affected English accents and took their fashion and social cues from British aristocracy.  The joke? His pant-legs are rolled up – because it’s raining in London, hardy-har-har!!!

The model feet were resting on the sill . . . .  The day was fair and the sidewalks as dry as Berry himself [(“dry” was a joke about Berry Wall’s reputation as a social drinker)], but it will be noticed that his trouser-legs are turned up.

If, standing on the dizzy summit of the Tribune’s tall tower, you should shout through a trumpet an inquiry as to why Mr. Wall turned up his pantaloons, all New York would drop other employment and scream back at you: ‘Because it’s rainin’ in Lunnon, yeh know!”

Then all New York would giggle before returning to work.  Everybody in the metropolis knows this joke and uses it daily, without paying royalty to the venerable inventor.

The San Francisco Examiner, April 15, 1888, page 9.

A third cartoon from the same item is “cheesecake” (although not then known by that name[iii]) with an assist from a muddy day!  Va-va-va-voom!!!

The ladies (--bless ‘em!) are more obedient than men to [fashion] authority.  Their feet in San Francisco are shod precisely like their sisters’ in every other civilized city.  Here, as in New York, Washington, Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg and London, the winds of heaven and the mud of earth combine to afford opportunity to beauty, and the weary heart of the male wayfarer, who keeps his eyes open, is cheered and strengthened by the vision.

The San Francisco Examiner, April 15, 1888, page 9.

Riddleberger Bitten by His “Snakes”

Senator Riddleberger’s drinking habits contributed to a little known incident in which the Seargeant-at-Arms of the Senate wrestled a Senator to the floor of the Senate and physically dragged him from the Senate chamber.  In the interest of “its own dignity,” the Senate quickly “expunged from the Congressional Record all reference to the scene,”[iv] which may account for the fact that references to the incident do not appear in biographical sketches of the former Senator’s life and career.  For his part, Senator Riddleberger believed he had been wronged and wanted everything on the record.

The Evening Star (Washington DC), March 6, 1889, page 1.

Despite the almost instantaneous revisionist history by the Senate, the scene of the crime can be reconstructed because it was reported in the following days, and the Seargent-at-Arms involved in the expulsion gave a detailed account of it a few years later.   

One account alluded to his drinking, without addressing it head-on – “the trouble was aggravated by Mr. Riddleberger, whose condition was as bad from a total abstinence point of view as it has been at any time in his official life.”[v]  Another account was more direct – “Senator Riddleberger was in a state of gross intoxication.”  But the danger was real – Riddleberger was known to carry a firearm at all times, even on the floor of the Senate.

Riddleberger was a Republican who could muster Democratic votes, and had helped a number of his fellow Republicans secure plum appointments.[vi]  But in the closing days of the term, his final deal fell through.  His reputation as a drinker reportedly helped sink the deal.

  The republican Senators, with the exception of two or three interested in the deal, were wholly in opposition to the scheme, and a number of democratic Senators became disgusted at finding themselves placed in the attitude of followers in Mr. Riddleberger’s uncertain footsteps. . . .

It is extremely fortunate for Mr. Webb that the bargain was not carried out.  He could not afford to hold a District Commissionership as the direct representative of Senator Riddleberger and his bottle . . . .

Evening Star (Washington DC), March 4, 1889, page 4.

The rest of the session was chaotic.

IN A BLAZE OF DISORDER.

The Fiftieth Congress Comes to a Sensational End.

SENATOR RIDDLEBERGER ARRESTED.

He insists on Obstructing the Senate’s Proceedings and

Finally Telegraphs His Resignation to Virginia.

Ingalls Loses Patience.

. . . Even before the report had been disposed of, Mr. Riddleberger was on his feet endeavoring to interpose a motion to proceed to executive business.  The presiding officer, Mr. Ingalls, took no notice of him at first, but finally recognized him, put the motion, and declared it lost; whereat some of the gallery spectators laughed.  Then several private bills were passed.  In each instance there was an attempt at objection or interruption by Mr. Riddleberger; till finally, he was notified by the presiding officer that he would not be recognized further. . . .

In the meantime, Mr. Riddleberger, who had left the chamber, again made his appearance and informed the presiding officer that he had just telegraphed to the governor of Virginia, his resignation as a senator because he could have no recognition from the presiding officer.  He was not awaiting an answer which would relieve him from the responsibilities of his position.  He had found that a Republican senator from Virginia could not be recognized by the president of the senate pro tempore.

Pittsburgh Daily Post, March 4, 1889, page 1.

The presiding officer ordered him to take his seat; he refused; the presiding officer ordered the seargeant-at-arms to “see that the orders of the chair are executed”; Riddleberger complied – but then got back up.  In a few minutes, the sergeant-at-arms and an assistant “had Mr. Riddlbeberger in charge and led him out of the senate chamber into the nearest cloak room.”[vii]

It all sounds very neat and tidy – but from the Sergeant-at-Arms’ perspective, the incident entailed more danger and excitement.

“The most exciting and critical moment in my life was near midnight, March 3, 1889, when I arrested Senator Riddleberger, of Virginia,” said Sergeant-at-Arms of the Senate Hon. W. P. Canaday.

“The person of a Senator is scared in the eyes of the law and the constitution,” he continued, “and no rule or regulation of the Senate authorizes the arrest of one of its members. . . .  I reminded Senator Ingalls that no power was vested in me to arrest a Senator, but he replied:

“‘You are authorized to preserve order, and to obey the presiding officer of the Senate.  When you are called upon, you will do your duty.’ . . .

“I then ordered Captain May, who is stationed in the Senate lobby, to enter the chamber and take a seat back of the boisterous Virginian.  Scarcely had Captain May taken his position, when the grim, distinct, determined order came from the chair:

“’The sergeant-at-arms will preserve order.  He will remove the Senator from Virginia from the chamber.’ . . .

“Immediately I grasped his arms from behind to prevent him from drawing a revolver which he always carried, and Captain May assisted me in lifting him bodily out of the chamber into the cloak room, the door of which was directly back of his chair.  He grasped the desk with both hands, muttering: ‘You have no right to arrest me,’ but we shook loose his hold, carried him into the cloak room, laid him upon a sofa, and kept him there.  Until the day of his death he never again entered the Senate chamber, and I am heartily sorry that his exit was so ungraceful. 

“We kept him there in the cloak room for three or four hours.  Finally he agreed to go to his hotel and remain there, and we permitted him to depart.  During his arrest his language was violent and somewhat profane, but none of it was heard in the Senate. 

“I have always regretted that it became my duty to perform that task.  Senator Riddleberger was one of the brightest and best young men I have ever known, but he fell in with wrong advisers and unsuitable companions after he came to Wasington, and his public career ended in a cloud.”

“Were you not fearful of personal injury on that momentous occasion?”

“Most assuredly, Senator Riddleberger always went armed, and he defiantly said that he would kill me if I undertook to arrest him.  Although not entirely in his right mind, he knew that I had no real authority to arrest him, and he intended to resist.  Hence I took him at a disadvantage and unawares, and his revolver was never drawn; but I was looking for it, and my nerves were strained until the dropping of a pin, almost, would have startled me.

I was complimented afterwards by nearly all the Senators, for the quiet and successful manner in which the arrest was made, but I hope never to receive congratulations again for any work so disagreeable as that was.  It was dangerous, but the most disagreeable part of it was that Senator Riddleberger was a good man at heart and a gentleman whose native abilities commanded respect and admiration.  The Republic was just one hundred years old when the first Senator was arrested, and I hope it may be many hundred years before a similar scene is enacted.”

The Daily Times (Davenport, Iowa), February 17, 1891, page 1.   

 A Final Riddle(burger)

Q: When Riddleberger left the Senate, why could no one could fill his shoes?

A: Too many “snakes in his boots.”

---

[i] Early Sports ‘n’ Pop-Culture History Blog, “The Colorful History and Etymology of ‘Pink Elephant,’” https://esnpc.blogspot.com/2014/08/the-colorful-history-and-etymology-of.html, August 20, 2014.

[ii] EncyclopediaVirginia.org, entry, Riddleberger, Harrison H. (1843-1890). https://encyclopediavirginia.org/entries/riddleberger-harrison-h-1843-1890/

[iii] For more information on the origin of the expression, “Cheesecake,” referring to revealing photographs of women, particularly of their legs, see my earlier post, “Shipping News and Starlets – a Revealing History of Cheesecake.” https://esnpc.blogspot.com/2019/03/shipping-news-and-starlets-revealing.html

[iv] The Evening Star (Washington DC), March 6, 1889, page 1.

[v] Pittsburgh Daily Post, March 4, 1889, page 1.

[vi] Pittsburgh Daily Post, March 4, 1889, page 1 (“There is not one of the Republican officers of the senate who does not owe his position to Riddleberger’s vote, and now that they have no further use for his support they treat him as no member of the body has been treated in a long period of years.”).

[vii] Pittsburgh Daily Post, March 4, 1889, page 1.

Boxing Elephants - John L. Sullivan Joins the Circus

 

In March of 1891, a zookeeper in Philadelphia sparred with a kangaroo nicknamed “John L.,” named after the “famous pugilist,” John L. Sullivan. [i]  That kangaroo “fight” in Philadelphia may have been the earliest known public exhibition of boxing a kangaroo[ii], a full four months before the earliest known boxing kangaroo matches in Melbourne, Australia.[iii] 

Curiously, however, those early boxing kangaroo bouts appeared several years after a report of a boxing match with a much larger exotic animal - an elephant.  Coincidentally, that “fight” also involved a “John L.,” but not the elephant, whose name was “Charlie.”  Charlie’s opponent was the actual John L. Sullivan, the heavyweight champion of the world from 1879 to 1892, the last of the bare-knuckle champions and first champion with gloves under the Marquis of Queensbury rules.    

 

"Sullivan in the Ring," The Boston Globe, June 24, 1888, page 19.

John L. Sullivan Joins the Circus

Sullivan was the biggest name in sports at the time, and the circus was a major influence on American pop-culture.  For one brief, shining (or not so shining) moment, these two heavyweights of early sports and pop-culture came together in a “squared-circle” within a “sawdust ring.” 

Three years before the first reported kangaroo boxing matches, the real John L. Sullivan returned home from Europe and joined the circus, where he reportedly boxed an elephant.  Those reports may have been fake news, however – circus hype (what did P. T. Barnum say about suckers?). 

The Boston Globe, June 24, 1888, page 19.

But he did join the circus, if only briefly, or rather the circus joined him.  Sullivan purchased a one-third share of the John B. Doris Circus.  He devoted one paragraph of his autobiography to the subject.  

After that I formed a partnership with John B. Doris, the circus man, and Milton Dray.  Our combination included a travelling circus of well-known acrobats and tumblers, and lady and gentleman riders of the sawdust ring.  Jack Ashton and I appeared in a sparring bout at each performance.

John L. Sullivan, Life and Reminiscences of a 19^th Century Gladiator, Boston, J. A. Hearn & Co., 1892, page 204.

John B. Doris, The Washington Post, March 28, 1909, page 5.

His circus partner, John B. Doris, was a self-made man who ran away from home to join the circus at the age of 14.[iv]  He rose from “candy butcher,” to candy concessionaire of the Forepaugh and John O’Brien circuses, and eventually to circus owner of one of the largest circuses of the day.

In the year of 1863 a lanky, lean, hungry individual left Albany for Syracuse, N. Y., with exactly $3.14 in his pocket, to join the Dan Rice circus. . . .

This interesting character, who was recently in Washington as the advance representative of May Robson, in his day acquired as great a reputation as a white tent magnate as P. T. Barnum, James A. Baily, W. W. Cole, Adam Forepaugh, or the Ringling brothers ever aspired to.

The Washington Post, March 28, 1909, page 5.

But when Sullivan joined his circus in June of 1888, Doris was down on his luck.  He had left St. Louis a few months earlier with less money than he had started with twenty-five years earlier – his circus gone, auctioned off to the highest bidder.

In the spring of 1887 [(actually 1888)], John B. Doris, the Albany boy of 1863, who was reputed by showmen to have made a million dollars in the interim, left the fair grounds at St. Louis with one silver dollar as his sole worldly possession.

The Washington Post, March 28, 1909, page 5.

 The circus fell a victim to competition in Texas last summer, and the drouth, which made the people poor.  It had made no money before it went to Texas, as it had a bad habit of getting into territory already covered by rival shows.  It had disastrous experience in twelve States before it got into Texas.  It managed to crawl into St. Louis last fall in a disfigured condition and go into the hands of a receiver.

An Assortment of Chariots.

Cages and Contents For Sale.

Miscellaneous "Property."

The American Hercules' Outfit.

 St. Louis Globe-Democrat, February 24, 1888, page 4.

Without an elephant or tent to his name, John B. Doris needed investors to reignite his circus career.  He found them through his brother-in-law, a Boston theatrical manager named John Stetson, and John L. Sullivan’s once-and-future manager, Pat Sheedy. 

Doris and Stetson were married to sisters of a family of circus equestrians, Ella and Katie Stokes.  Ella was still performing in the ring with her husband, John B. Doris, whereas Katie had left the ring years earlier after breaking both of her legs.  Ironically, her accident would make her a fortune.

Few girls have the luck of Katie Stokes.  She had a bad fall, broke both her legs, and had to give up the white tents forever.  When she recovered sufficiently to walk about she went on the stage at a salary equal to about one-tenth of what she had been drawing.  She proved an indifferent actress; but manager John Stetson, of Boston, fell in love with her and made her his wife.  That fall in the ring made Katie Stokes’ fortune.

The Independent-Record (Helena, Montana), April 5, 1893, page 7.

Katie’s husband’s fortune grew out of several lucrative Boston-area businesses. 

John Stetson, in addition to owning the Police News and the Globe Theater and running a bar-room on Essex street, a loan office on Washington street and a big pool-room at the West End, has lately purchased a large interest in the Boston Herald, giving him practical control of that paper.

Memphis Avalanche, May 16, 1888, page 1.

Pat Sheedy had been Sullivan’s business manager before his trip to Europe.  Sullivan made the trip under new management, but went back to his old manager after his return.  It was Sheedy who made the deal with his friend, John B. Doris.  The negotiations nearly fell through over Sullivan’s salary demands, but compromised, giving Sullivan an ownership stake and a share of the profits.

Doris, the circus man, wants John L. Sullivan to travel with his show, but he holds that the attraction of John L. and a slugging partner would be worth only $500 a week, while Sullivan thinks $2,000 the proper figure. . . . Mr. Doris of circus fame is a friend of Sheedy, and perhaps John will spend the summer traveling with his show.

Springfield Reporter (Vermont), May 18, 1888, page 1.

The negotiations . . . promised to fall through, but it is understood that Sheedy’s influence brought about a compromise by which John L. Receives a generous share of the profits.

The Buffalo Times, May 22, 1888, page 1.

They reached a compromise, giving Sullivan a one-third share of the circus and any profits.

 

Sullivan Spars with an Elephant?

About a week before their first show, a “reporter” drummed up interest in the circus with a tall-tale about John L. Sullivan sparring with an elephant.  It was almost certainly silly circus hype, but it is worth a good laugh.

The elephant in the story was named “Charlie,” likely a nod to Charlie Mitchell, whom Sullivan had fought to a draw in bare-knuckle, heavyweight title defense in France a few months earlier.

Then Mr. Sullivan and myself descended, and he and Charlie put on the gloves – that is, Mr. Sullivan adjusted one on Charlie’s long nose, and then put them on himself.  I expected to see some fun.

The elephant, while sparring for points, laid his proboscis across the region of the diaphragm, which Mr. Sullivan told me was his way of saying “No hitting below the belt.” 

John L. let fly an under-hand cut, but Charlie parried, and, striking his antagonist in a playful mood right across the nose, drew first blood.  In the absence of William Mahoney, who could have done it with more pugilistic éclat, I modestly sent the men, or the sparrers, to their respective corners. 

Although the elephant had won first blood, I though he acted a trifle groggy, and as official timekeeper, scorer and referee, I ordered him a half-pint of brandy, in a little sugar and water.  He tossed it off in one Round. 

I had heard of men in the ring being “put to sleep,” and I was sort of afraid of the elephant after his bout with the brandy, as it has a record for putting men to sleep when it is in its fighting weight.  I felt a load of responsibility upon me, and desired to have the matter over with as speedily as possible, particularly so since John L., instead of rallying, seemed to be winded.  Stepping into the centre of the ring, I called out “time and windup.”

Thereupon both contestants went at it again, and for a time it was give and take.  Suddenly the fighting ceased, and both contestants shook hands and retired.  I asked what this meant, and Mr. Sullivan told me they had decided to call it a draw, to which the elephant assented, saying that the fog had interfered with the official continuance of the game.

As we were about to depart Mr. Sullivan apologized and remarked that perhaps I would like to put the gloves on.  Now, if there is one thing more than another that I enjoy it is a half hour’s practice with the gloves.  I felt that this was the proudest moment of my life to see this day the things I had seen, and to be honored as I had been honored.  How many men before me had waited to see this day, and had not seen it?  I said that as Mr. Sullivan had been so kind and courteous to me I should not care to cause any estrangement, if perchance, I the heat and ardor of the contest I happened to punish him a trifle more than perhaps I had intended.

With the elephant, though, I was not constrained by any such compunctions of conscience, I put on the gloves feeling that I would make that mammal’s bones sore in about three shakes of his clumsy proboscis.

And so with this feeling in my breast I stood before him, contemplating how I would carve him when time was called.  Exultingly I approached him and began to mentally recite the famous Latin boast of M. Julius Caesar.  But, gentle reader, why cause me further pain or open up a wound I thought forever healed? Read the rest of this dark chapter in the picture and then consign this unhappy episode to oblivion.  It is a sorrowful phase in my life’s history, and I frequently try to drown it out; but no matter how heavily I load up, like Banquo’s ghost, it will not down.

The Boston Globe, June 24, 1888, page 19.

The real circus was not as advertised.  There was a dog act, a contortionist and some trick riders – but no elephants.  A description of the show portrays something more like America’s Got Talent than the greatest show on earth.

 First two men, one dressed in pink and the other in blue, came into the ring.  One of them took a 10 foot pole and stood it on his chin, while the other clambered to the top end and sat there until the spectators got through applauding.

After a few more thrilling feats by the men in pink and blue the big –up himself entered the ring leading a white stallion, which pranced around and kept time to John L.’s whip and the music of the orchestra.  Then John made the horse waltz and kick up his heels and lie down.  They were both loudly applauded.

Some more gymnasts came in a tumbled over one another.   They were followed by a juggler dressed in scarlet tights, like Irving’s “Mephisto.”  He threw knives into the air and caught them by the handles, kept half a dozen balls a flying and performed many other wonders.

Alice Stokes rode bareback on a white horse in a most graceful manner.  She is a modest little woman, but her skirts are none too long.

The one feature of the performance, which is “along worth the price of admission,” was Professor Burton’s pack of dogs.  In they scampered all at once, yipping and yelping and barking – poodles, terriers, hounds, spaniels and commonplace dogs.  Every one jumped on a chair, and the most satisfactory part of the show began.  Their capers and antics and knowing looks, the way they would leap from their chairs, frisk around, cut up some dido and then return solemnly to their seats, only to spring down again, - were just too amusing for anything.  The little white poodle knew his business.  He paid no attention to the black poodle, who is the clown of the troupe, and follows his white brother around pretending to imitate his tricks.  The fun came when the dogs began to jump over a table, one after another, like sheep going over a fence.  Chairs and tables were piled up until they were 10 feet high.  Over these too, the dogs sprang like kangaroos, but the white poodle carried off the honors by the ease and gracefulness of his leaps.

When the dogs were gone, an exceedingly handsome young woman came into the ring, accompanied by a handsome young man.  Her name is not down on the bills, for there are no bills, but she is Venus and Hebe and Aphrodite and all the other goddesses in one – or rather would be, if she didn’t pose and smirk so terribly.  The way she twisted her loving limbs around her neck, rolled over and over, turned somersaults backward, jumped up and cracked her heels over her head, was enough to make a person afraid every minute that she was going to break some needful bone in that beautiful body.

But she didn’t.

She got up and smiled all over the tent, wrapped some sort of a white fluffy cloak around her marble shoulders, and disappeared into the dressing room.

Bob Stickney, the old-time bareback rider, came in on a brown steed, and rode around the ring a few times with his old-time nerve and daring.  He doesn’t look as if he had been riding bareback in a circus tent for 30 seasons.

The “big fellow” and Jack Ashton then punched each other for four rounds in a scientific manner, sitting down to puff and blow at the end of each round, and he show was over.

While Messrs. Doris & Sullivan do not offer as many attractions as their leviathan contemporaries, Barnum and Forepaugh, yet their show is by no means a “snide” one.

Boston Globe, July 17, 1888, page 5.

But despite the faint praise, the people didn’t come, at least not in the numbers needed to keep the circus afloat.  Their first show was on June 25^th.[v]  Trouble surfaced on July 7^th.

BLUFFED BY SULLIVAN

The Way in Which He Got the Best of a Norwich Sheriff.

Norwich, Conn., July 7 – At the conclusion of the evening performance of John B. Doris’ and John L. Sullivan’s circus here there was a great rush of the athletes and employes over a greater portion of the city in search of a sheriff to serve an attachment on Sullivan and Doris’ property, claiming arrears in salaries.

A party of eighteen arouse the residents of Laurel Hill avenue in their efforts to locate Deputy Sheriff Storey, who was finally secured and accompanied the party to the circus lot, where Sheriff Joab Rogers and a large crowd had preceded them.  Sheriff Rogers from the top of a wagon warned John L. not to move the property.  After parleying for a time Sullivan reached for the sheriff, who weighs about 180 pounds, caught him by the collar with one hand, and gently set him upon the grass.  Rogers called for the arrest of the pugilist, but no one present dared to make the attempt.  The proprietors effected an arrangement with the employes, and the show left the city at an early hour the next morning.

The Oshkosh Northwestern (Wisconsin), July 7, 1888, page 1.

Sullivan was out of the circus business two weeks later.

SULLIVAN GETS OUT.

Boston’s Pride no Longer a Partner in the John B. Doris Circus.

Boston, July 21, - The John L. Sullivan-John B. Doris Circus Combination no longer exists.  It was dissolved to-day by mutual consent.  Whether it was owing to the big fellow’s waning popularity, or the inferior show is not known, but the fact is patent that the circus did not pay.  Even here, where both men are so well known, an audience of more than a few hundred, the majority small boys, could not be gathered together.

The Brooklyn Citizen, July 21, 1888, page 2.

John L. Sullivan’s circus has gone to pieces and the performers are unpaid.

The United Opinion (Bradford, Vermont), August 3, 1888, page 1.

 

After the Circus

Sullivan returned to the boxing ring, fighting only two more matches.  He retained the bare-knuckle championship, knocking out Jake Kilrain in July 1889, in the last bare-knuckle heavyweight championship fight ever contested.  He lost his Marquess of Queensbury championship to “Gentleman” Jim Corbett by knockout, in New Orleans in September 1892.

Doris never owned another circus, but he was soon back presenting circus-type entertainment, operating two dime museums in New York City.  He opened his first dime museum in Chelsea at 351 Eighth Avenue in October 1888, and a second at 2286 Third Avenue in Harlem in November 1889.

 The New York Clipper for Annual 1891, New York, Frank Queen Publishing Company, 1891, page 101.

One of the acts to appear on opening day of his first dime museum was “Millie-Christine, the Two-Headed Girl,” conjoined twins with whom he had a pre-existing professional relationship.[vi]

DORIS’S MUSEUM.

John B. Doris, the well-known circus manager, opened his new dime museum at 351 Eighth avenue yesterday.  The leading attraction was Millie Christine, the famous two-headed girl.  Miss Christine has two heads, four legs, four arms and one body.  She is considered one of the greatest living curiosities. 

The Evening World (New York), October 30, 1888, page 3.

Millie-Christine (as they were frequently called), shown here about twenty years earlier.  Smith, J. P. (ca. 1866) "Carolina twins," Millie and Christine. , ca. 1866. [Photograph] Retrieved from the Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/item/2012650233/.

 

Actual Elephant Boxing

John L. Sullivan, the heavyweight human, may not have boxed an elephant while traveling with the Doris Circus that summer, but “John L. Sullivan, the pugilistic baby elephant,”[vii] did participate in elephant boxing exhibitions that same year.

There may have been boxing elephants in Britain as early as 1879.

Aberdeen Journal (Scotland), August 27, 1879, page 2.

Forepaugh’s Circus featured a boxing elephant in the United States as early as 1885.  Unsurprisingly, the elephant’s name was John L. Sullivan.

 

Leader-Telegram (Eau Claire, Wisconsin), June 5, 1885, page 2.

 

The boxing elephant John L. Sullivan was also a novelty.

Leader-Telegram (Eau Claire, Wisconsin), July 21, 1885, page 3.

“John L. Sullivan” was featured in their show for several years.  The law of the “right of publicity” must have been much different at the time.

We have also the boxing elephant John L. Sullivan, who will spar four rounds with his trainer Adam Forepaugh, Jr. We have also a band of musical elephants and a rope-walking horse.

The Journal (Meriden, Connecticut), May 11, 1886, page 2.

Sullivan, the boxing elephant, created no end of merriment, and he deserves the soubriquet which his pugilistic tendencies have attached to him.

The Boston Globe, June 16, 1886, page 2.

Adam Forepaugh, Jr., inherits all the managerial capacity for his father.  His principal characteristic, however, is his peculiar ability to train animals, his latest triumph being the rope-walking ‘Blondin horse,’ and the boxing elephant, Sullivan, a performance of the most amusing character.

The Sunbury American (Sunbury, Pennsylvania), October 8, 1886, page 3.

“John L. Sullivan” even performed at a dime museum in Boston, the real John L.’s hometown, during the circus off-season.  But unlike the real John L.’s bouts which were mostly contested under the Marquis of Queensbury rules, the elephantine pretender fought under the “Marquis of Gooseberry’s” rules.

The Boston Globe, December 12, 1886, page 11.

And in the summer of 1888, a week before the Sullivan & Doris Circus gave its first performance and two days before the Boston Globe printed its fantasy about the real John L.’s elephant sparring, Forepaugh’s Circus placed an ad hyping an upcoming appearance in New England of his own “John L. Sullivan.”

Adam Forepaugh, Jr. . . . will also appear with his World-Renowned Troupe of Performing Elephants – the Quadrille, Musical, Pyramid, and Bicycle-Riding Elephants; “Picaninny,” the Clown Elephant; “John L. Sullivan,” the Pugilistic Elephant; and “Bolivar,” the Giant of Them All!

The Vergennes Vermonter (Vergennes, Vermont), June 22, 1888, page 1.

Whereas the real John L. did not live up to his circus hype, the elephant apparently did.

The boxing elephant, John Sullivan, caused great amusement . . . .

Burlington Clipper (Vermont), July 26, 1888, page 4.

 

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[i] “A Boxing Kangaroo,” The Cincinnati Enquirer, November 22, 1890, page 14 (citing the Philadelphia Record).

[ii] It is not clear from reports whether the sparring sessions were performed in public.

[iii] “Intercolonial Items,” Barrier Miner (Broken Hill, New South Wales), Page 3 ([By Telegraph.] “Victoria.  Melbourne, Friday Afternoon.  The latest thing in side shows is fighting the kangaroo.  The animal is trained to box, and to-day fought a man in the city.  He is a splendidly trained animal, and a challenge to fight anyone in the world has been thrown out.”).

[iv] Boston Evening Transcript, February 7, 1912, page 4.

[v] Sacramento Daily Record-Union, June 25, 1888, page 4.

[vi] Democrat and Chronicle (Rochester, New York), May 29, 1883, page 4 (“Millie Christine, the famous two headed girl, is in the big show of John B. Doris, free of charge.  She is the most wonderful human being that has ever lived, as she has two perfectly formed heads, four lower limbs and four arms.  She speaks, fluently, seven languages. Thursday, May 31^st, is Doris’ date in Rochester.”).  For more on the life of Millie-Christine, see, Joanne Martell, Millie-Christine: Fearfully and Wonderfully Made, Winston-Salem, North Carolina, John F. Blair, Publisher, 2000.

[vii] The Fall River Daily Herald (Massachusetts), June 23, 1888, page 1 (“Adam Forepaugh, Jr.’s great specialties also include the rope walking horse ‘Blondin;’ the somersault dogs, ‘Jack’ and ‘Rose,’ and pyramid-forming elephants, ‘John L. Sullivan,’ the pugilistic baby elephant; and the famous young trainer’s grandly thrilling thirty-horse bareback set . . . .”).