The circus always comes to town with a flourish. There is a grand street parade. The dozen elephants and sixteen camels follow the band wagon, and then comes the cavalcade, gentlemen in court costumes and ladies in rich trailing robes with jaunty hat of gay ribbons and feathers flying in the breeze. The lion tamer is in the cage with the feeble animals that he keeps stirring up with his whip; the clown in his little chariot with his trick mule, affords amusement to the children along the line; then the snake charmer rolls by fondling the slimy reptiles, and after that comes a procession of red wagons with trampish drivers in red coats, and perhaps there are some grotesque figures on top of the wagons. At the rear some enterprising clothier has an advertising vehicle. That is about all there is to it, if we add the Undine wagon that has a place sometimes at the head and sometimes in the middle of this "gorgeous street pageant." Still it goes from one end of town to the other, scaring horses and creating the greatest excitement among the circus-going public. The $10,000 beauty "gag" that worked so successfully last season when Adam Forepaugh claimed to have paid that amount to Miss Louise Montague, a variety actress, for merely appearing in the street parade, riding on a howdah high upon the back of his largest elephant and for participating in the grand entree at the opening of each performance. Barnum tried to make some free advertising for himself this season by announcing that he would pay $10,000 to the handsomest man and $20,000 to the handsomest lady, but he was shrewd enough to see that the scheme would not bring him back $30,000, so he allowed it to fall through. This subject of costly beauties recalls an incident that took place in a Western theatre. At the house in question an actress was performing who, in times gone by, figured as the faithless sweetheart of an eminent sport in that very city. That gentleman hearing that his light of love was about to appear in a new line visited the theatre to see for himself whether or not it was really she. The memory of past troubles caused him to drink rather more than was good for him, and when he took his seat in the parquette near the stage, he was in a great measure incapacitated from acting with coolness and judgment. He believed he recognized the woman as the one who had caused him so much sorrow and trouble. His feelings got the better of him, and standing up in his seat he exclaimed:-- "You cost me $25,000, you cost me $25,000, and I'll cut your d--d heart out!" This outcry brought one of the members of the company to her assistance, armed with a property revolver, and the air was full of war and rumors of war until the police arrived. The $25,000 victim was led out and the play went on. [Illustration: TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAR BEAUTY.]