The sad death of poor George Ryan, last week, who broke his neck in the ring, tryin’ to turn a triple somersault, calls to mind the fact that other acrobats have fallen victims to their ambition in attempting this feat.
Until within a comparatively recent time even a double somersault was considered a very great thing, alike by circus folk and by the public. It requires a good deal of practice in a good deal of nerve and involves a good deal of risk.
One of the very first men to attempt this double somersault was a clown and acrobat by the name of Tomkinson, who was connected with Franconi’s Circus. Franconi managed the Hippodrome in New York about twenty years ago. Tomkinson announced the double somersault as the great attraction of his benefit night, and the house was crowded–packed to the doors. The crowd was so great that some people fainted. There was the usual programme of a circus show and then came the double somersault.
The ringmaster came forward and made a more than usually highfalutin’ speech and Tomkinson came forward and made more than the usual bow; then he went backward, and then upward on the sharp inclined plane, at the end of which was the spring-board. At this time you could have heard a pin drop on the floor in that vast house.
Suddenly there was a tremendous rush and a lofty bound, followed by a rather slow revolution of the body. Tomkinson turned round once, and people conceived the idea that it would only be a single somersault and a failure. But in the last seven feet or so Tomkinson went round the second time, and alighted staggerin’ on his feet. Then a roar and a cheer went up from the crowd that was said to have been heard a block distant. Men rose and yelled, women waved handkerchiefs, and Franconi himself rushed up to Tomkinson, and in his enthusiastic French way kissed him.
The feat made the fortunate acrobat and clown a great man for awhile, but nobody would bother about it to-day.
The next step in double somersaultin’ was introduced by Costella, a noted acrobat, some twenty years ago, who was the first to leap a double somersault over horses. He leaped over two horses, and that was regarded a tremendous thing, though now it would hardly create a ripple of excitement in a small town. Then, John Amor improved on this again, and went two better, and this “four under head,” as it were, made John the boss gymnast for a season. John Amor, by the by, was a fellow townsman, I believe, of Dan Rice’s, and traveled with his circus for awhile.
Up to this time there had always been a great deal of space and fuss necessary to a double somersault. The performer had to have plenty of space to run in, and plenty of space to spring from, and plenty of space to land in, and there was a tremendous spring just before the somersault, but after a countless number of experiments one of the Garnella Brothers managed it so as to dispense with all this space and fuss. Instead of a preliminary spring on a board, he stood still on the shoulders of his younger brother, and throwin’ himself into the air turned twice round, and then alighted on his brother’s shoulders. This was three times less sensational and ten times more difficult than the ordinary double somersault, but for that very reason it was regarded with the greatest admiration by all circus people who understood its difficulties. It never made its deserved impression, however, on the general public, who of course couldn’t have the slightest notion how difficult it was.
This was carryin’ the double somersault as far as it could go, and then the ambitious circus acrobats commenced to figure on the possibilities of a triple somersault. Nothing could be more difficult than this triple somersault, because the performer has to leap exactly at a certain angle with exactly so much force as to give him space and time and strength enough to turn over three times, while nothin’ can be more dangerous, for the simple reason that by the time the body has turned over twice it becomes utterly unmanageable by the man that belongs to, and is completely at the mercy of chance durin’ its third turn. Anythin’ it hits against in its wild revolutions or that hits against it, may, by the shock, stun it, and then the head bein’ heavier than the feet, as a rule, the tendency is for the head to strike the ground first, in which case the certain result is a broken neck.
Spite of all these difficulties and dangers, (in fact, because of these very things), a number of attempts, most of ‘em endin’ fatally, have been made to achieve the triple somersault.
The first man to announce a triple somersault was a performer in Van Amburg’s show, some forty years or so ago. The announcement caused a great stir in all amusement circles and attracted a tremendous crowd. The man who attempted the feat was a great favorite with his fellow performers, and they did all in their power to dissuade him from undertakin’ it. Even Van Amburg, the manager, himself joined in their entreaties at the last moment, although it meant the loss of prestige, probably of a great deal of money to himself. He said he was perfectly willin’ to go before the audience and announce the withdrawal of the triple somersault, and take his chances of refundin’ the money to those dissatisfied, which is a mighty hard thing for any manager to do, almost as hard as the triple somersault itself. But the performer would not be persuaded. He had perfect confidence in himself, and, while thankin’ everybody for their kindness, persisted in makin’ the attempt. So the programme was carried out amid a big flourish of trumpets. Every care was taken in the preliminary arrangements, Van Amburg overseein’ ‘em in person. The performer came on smilin’, and after a hearty handshake from the manager, and a volley of cheers from the spectators, made the hitherto unattempted leap. It was literally “a leap into the dark,” the darkness of death, for in the third turn the poor overconfident fellow fell on his head, struck, of course, the ground violently, and was picked up broken-necked.
The next attempt in this terrible line was made by a splendid fellow, a William Hobbs, the champion leaper of his time. Hobbs was travelin’ with Howe and Cushing’s circus, along with Levi J. North and other well-known performers. He took it into his head that he could do a triple somersault, practiced for weeks, and finally said he was ready. The feat was announced and the house was packed. Billy Dale, a famous acrobat and equestrian, who was a great friend of Hobbs, tried to dissuade Him from it but to no purpose. He shook Billy’s hand heartily before rushin’ on, said “Ta-ta, Billy,” and a few moments afterward his dead body lay at Billy Dale’s feet.
After all, perhaps Billy Dale was, of the two, the one to be the more pitied. Hobbs died in a minute or so. Dale lived years afterwards, to die a lingerin’ death for years–blind and worn out.
The John Amor who I have previously mentioned tried his luck at this triple somersault and lost his life. He hit his forehead and died of concussion of the brain.
At last an American performer called Turner managed to turn a triple somersault. The strangest thing about this was that this Turner was not a particularly skillful or powerful chap, not so clever as any of those I have just mentioned who got killed in doin’ this feat; but luck was with him.
Then he tried his luck a second time and still he lived. This ought to have satisfied him. He had done twice what nobody else livin’ had ever done once. But some men are never satisfied. He made a vow to turn a triple somersault three times. He kept his vow and died in keepin’ it. The third time he broke his neck.
It has happened curiously enough that this triple feat has been performed by mere boys practicin’ with only a few spectators. Bob Stickney turned a genuine triple somersault when he was fifteen years of age, while practicin’ one afternoon in the old gymnasium on Fourteenth street.
Among those who saw him do it was Bill Stein, of Robinson’s circus. Stein says he was one of the three who held the blanket in which Stickney alighted. Stickney, of course, was tickled at his luck, but he wasn’t a fool and never tempted his luck again. He was offered big money to perform the feat again in public, but wisely distrustin’ himself, and valuin’ his life at more than filthy lucre, he refused the offer.
Billy Dutton, then a youngster, turned a triple somersault about twenty years ago. He was rehearsin’ on a very high and fine springboard, and he said that he felt just then as if he could do even a triple somersault. So he tried it and did it. John Lawton, the clown, was with him when he did it.
But he never did it again–no money could induce him.
Sam Rheinhardt, about fifteen years ago, when with Cooper and Bailey’s Circus, came very near doin’ a triple somersault and very near losing his life together. Sam had been doin’ double somersaults gracefully till they got monotonous, so he got rehearsin’ a triple arrangement. And one time he managed to get nearly through a triple turn when he hit the broad of his back and was picked up for dead. He wasn’t dead, however, and lived long enough afterwards to run a popular sportin’ saloon. But he was partially disabled. He was perfectly satisfied with his record of two and a half turns, and never tried to increase the record.
The saddest, most strikin’ case of all, to my mind, was that of poor Frank Starks, the well-known acrobat. Frank was very handsome, strong, manly chap, and very sensitive about money matters, the soul of honor. He had made it a point all his life never to take or touch any money about which there had been or could be any dispute–a splendid rule for every sportin’ man to follow.
One day somebody bet a thousand dollars that nobody could do a triple somersault, and Frank’s friends, confident in his skill, took up the bet for him. Frank was confident of success and practiced day and night to justify this confidence. The time came, and there was, of course, a tremendous crowd. Frank made the attempt and succeeded–at least his friends claimed that he did; but a few demurred. These said, what was true enough, that to make a perfect triple somersault a man must whirl round three complete times, and then alight on his feet, just as he started; whereas in Frank’s case, although he made three turns all O.K., he wound up on his back, or rather in a sittin’ posture. The great majority of the public agreed with Frank’s friends and backers that he had fairly won the thousand dollars for which he had worked so hard and risked his life, and the money was tendered him. But Frank had heard that a few soreheads protested, so out of an altogether mistaken sense of honor, he did a foolish thing. Ignoring his friends and the vast majority of the public, he took into consideration only a few gamblers, and on their account he risked his life again. He refused to take the thousand dollars under the circumstances, and, spite of the prayers of his friends, undertook the perilous leap a second time. “I shall light on my feet this time or die,” he said, and he died. He struck on his head, dislocated his neck and died in two hours–a martyr alike to an overstrung sense of honor and a triple somersault.
[Editor’s notes: The “George Ryan” referred to in the opening paragraph was George W. Ryan (real name Marsh), the lead acrobat of the S. H. Barrett Circus, who died while practicing the triple somersault in the summer of 1883.
The above column is closely derived from a section of John J. Jenning’s Theatrical and Circus Life, published the year before, in 1882.
The circus act being described was a feature of 19th century circuses, using apparatus that was hardly used afterwards. As the illustrations above suggest, the acrobats would run down a platform and jump onto a very large springboard, launching themselves extremely high and forward. As a stunt, it had more in common with contemporary motorcycle/monster truck vaults than with the vault used in modern gymnastics. It is likely that the high risk of injury led to the demise of this act in circuses.]
