| The Modern Comic Newspaper. The Evolution of a Popular Type |
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| Written by Administrator | |
| Saturday, 30 January 2010 | |
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TO-DAY in England, where realists, outside of the Society of British Artists, are as yet so small a minority that they count for nothing, it is a mark of culture to prefer the past to the present. Perhaps, unconsciously, science has encouraged this preference by teaching, as a basis to all study, that the knowledge of what has been is the explanation of what is. One must be a Ruskin or a Pre-Raphaelite Brother to dispute evolutionary truths. But it is unfortunate that so often interest in earlier social and moral intellectual and natural conditions lessens that in their existing developments. The student who begins by analyzing sun myths, mediaeval morals, and savage customs, because of their relations to Christianity and civilized society, but too likely ends by caring more for the affairs of pre-historic Aryans, Middle-aged Italians, or contemporary cannibals, than for those of his fellow countrymen. The cultured man who studies the art, literature, and life of earlier generations, gradually loses all pleasure in the things that are still about him. To enjoy fields and woods, and the sweet scents and sounds of summer, he must go back to Sicily with Theocritus. To find a fitting heroine for his song he must resurrect a Fausta or a Messalina, a fair mediaeval sinner perhaps, but none later than a patched and powdered belle of the eighteenth century. Giotto and Botticelli are the standards for art; Villon and Herrick for poetry; the Borgias and Roman emperors for morals. Men would worship at the shrine of Cotytto or Astarte, and be redeemed from modern virtue; women would dress like Veronese or Gainsborough beauties, and be reclaimed from modern fashion. To use Mr. Rose's figure of speech in the "New Republic," "the cultured of to-day linger so long in the boundless gardens of the past, that they forget to enter the house of the present." Consequently the house, or rather their apartment in it, is bare and without signs of life. Or, to drop figures of speech, the present age, as reflected in the works of the educated classes, has but a negative character. Though the passion of the past was as strong during the Renaissance as it is to-day, then it confined itself to one definite period, now it embraces all bygone generations; then it came from a real love for one particular phase of culture, now it is rather a contemptuous indifference to the modern world. The creations of the Renaissance were as strongly marked as were their classic models or Gothic abominations. Most of the books written, pictures painted, and buildings erected during the latter half of the nineteenth century, are distinguished by nothing but authors', artists', and architects' indifference to the age in which they live. It seems as if so-called modern culture was gained only at the expense of positive character in its literary and artistic expressions. For this reason it is not so difficult to sympathize with Mr. Ruskin's regret that all children must be taught their fathers were apes and their mothers winkles. It is but too likely education for the masses will destroy whatever is peculiar to the thoughts and beliefs of the masses of to-day, just as the railroad is rapidly reducing costume and customs to uniformity. However, the people, for all the modern schoolboards and public school systems, are, practically speaking, still uneducated. Moreover, from stern necessity as well as small knowledge of the past, they continue to live in the present. Therefore, the expression of their mental or moral attitude, whatever may be its intrinsic merit, is of more value relatively than the representative work of the educated. However it may be ignored to-day, the Greens of posterity will prize it because of this relative significance even more than poems like Mr. Swinburne's "Atalanta in Calydon" or pictures like Mr. Burne-Jones' "Mermaids and Sybils." The people, of course, do not find the definite means of expression of the educated. As a rule, they do not write books and criticisms and newspaper leaders, paint pictures, or design the houses and churches they often build. Indeed, only occasionally in the past — as in the sculptured grotesques of the Middle Ages — have they expressed themselves in concrete forms. But the beliefs and amusements they have unconsciously evolved have always in all times been the true reflection of their character. To know what a man believes and laughs at is to know the manner of man he is. The wild witch revels of the Brocken reveal the rebellious spirit of mediaeval slaves as clearly as could the most eloquent jeremiad. The jests of Pulcinello expose the absurdities of Neapolitans better than would a serious analysis of their failings. All such developments, so long as they are not immediate products of the present, are recognized as legitimate studies. A Michelet is honoured for demonstrating the full meaning of the witch legend; a Maurice Sand for recording the history of masks and buffoons. But the faith or fun that is the outcome of the age seems to the cultured too vulgar and commonplace for serious consideration. And yet the English people of to-day have beliefs and amusements — despite Mr. Besant and the Beaumont trustees — as important in their significance and relations as Aryan sun myths or Brocken revels on the one hand, or as Atellanæ Fabulæ or Commedia dell'Arte on the other. Furthermore, the student, by tracing the course of these modern developments, would be better able to understand similar growths in the past. The subject is a large one; to study it fully would be to study the history of the people. It is only possible within the small compass of a magazine article to consider one phase of belief or of amusement, and as the present is an over-serious age, it may be more profitable to choose for the purpose a form of recreation rather than a form of faith. It will at least prove that while the few — the saving remnant perhaps Mr. Arnold would call them — seek from earlier generations motives for tears or laughter, the many find plenty to laugh at in their own times. The examination of popular recreations shows that there has always been a strong though unconscious need to personify common and usually not very laudable instincts of human beings, and to set up the consequent personifications to public laughter. From this need has been evolved all famous characters or types — the Maccus aud Pappus of the ancients, the Arlecchino and Pulcinello of the Italians, the Scapin and Pierrot of the French, the Hans Wurst of the Germans. It is a curious fact that man is never so much amused as at his own expense. The reason these types made him laugh was because they were the reflections of his own moral shortcomings. Had they personified his virtues, he would have found them dull. Therefore their history, as George Sand has said, is not merely a study of certain grotesque and farcical developments, but that of real character, which can thus be followed in its growth and changes for better or worse from the most remote antiquity to our own age, by an uninterrupted tradition of humorous fantasies, radically serious enough, like everything that strips and exposes the miseries of the moral man. It seems as if Democritus only laughed to justify the tears of Heraclitus. If more definite knowledge of Maccus and Pappus was to be had, the philosophy of Rome might be better understood. As it is, they, like ruins on the Palatine and statues from the Tiber or the Campagna, are chiefly useful as subjects for the disputes which often seem the real, if not nominal, end of modern archaeologists. In the Italian masques, their legitimate descendants, not only the national character, but its every modification in town or province, was reflected. It was to satirize the pompous pedants of Bologna that the Dottore was invented; to set up to ridicule the parsimony of Venetian merchants Pantaleone was given a place in the Commedia dell'Arte. Brighella was as quick and active and witty as the people of the upper town of Bergamo; Arlecchino as lazy and stupid and ignorant as those of the lower town. Pulcinello was the witty, slow, maccaroni-, dolce-far-niente-loving Neapolitan. There is scarcely an Italian city that did not, early or late, contribute its jester to the national comedy, just as to-day there is scarcely one that does not send its representative to the head-quarters of the Carnival. The list is interminable — Cassandrino and Caviello, Scapino and Scaramuccio, Spavento and Tartaglia, Rugantino and Stenterello — one might fill pages with their names. This very multiplicity is far more typical of the country than Pulcinello, usually looked upon as the great national masque. For all the military and naval proofs of the unity of Young Italy, she is even now a nation only in name. Sicilians already clamour for Home Rule; Neapolitans are for ever on the point of revolution. It is therefore characteristic that in the old days, when there was as yet no talk of unity, each city within its walls was as independent in creating laughter as in making laws. While the Italian Yorick and M. Magnin have to their own satisfaction showed their learning in establishing the true origin of Polichinelle, neither has disputed his position as a popular French type. What he is, is of much more importance than where he came from. If he did inherit his humps from Maccus, his peculiar jollity and wit, his gasconnades, his gallantry, his scepticism, above all, his freedom of thought and speech, are French, not Roman. He is a loyal caricature, not merely of Henry IV., as M. Magnin finds him, but of Michelet's Gaul. Like all French or Gallic free-thinkers, from Pelagius to Voltaire, from Voltaire to Renan, he is his own guide in religious as in secular matters. He fears God but little, the Devil not at all. He laughs alike at the orthodox and the reformer. In a word, he is noble in his independence or base in his anarchism, according as he is judged from a conservative or a liberal standpoint. Of course he is gallant; he would be no Frenchman if he were not. But though somewhat of a rake, it is his boast
It is equally of course, that he makes a joke of everything. "The fault to which the character of this " (i.e., the French) "nation most verges," says Kant, "is the tendency to trifling or (to express it by a more courteous expression) to levity. Matters of weight are treated as jests, and trifles serve for the most serious occupation of the faculties." In the caricature the fault is exaggerated, not modified. Pierrot — the original, and not Gaspard Deburan's creation — is also a Gaul to the heart's core, as amorous as the ancient barbarians who overran France, and the modern Frenchman who delights in the Petit Journal and the Vie Parisienne. He, too, is a worshipper at the altar of the Goddess of Lubricity.
This is his highest ideal of pleasure. That he says what he thinks, and knows no social distinction is likewise a part of his Gallic inheritance. Valet or peasant, as the case may be, he has sprung from the people, and typifies the independence of the individual as it exists among them rather than among the educated classes and acknowledged rulers. With him it seems born of a simplicity akin to that of Sancho Panza, and an imbecility not far removed from that of the earliest Arlecchino. He is the opposite of Scapin, the quick-witted, the lively, ready with his repartee and skilful in intrigue. Half the humour of the old English clown was the outcome of his stolid stupidity; all the fun of the French Scapin results from his natural vivacity. Capitaine Fracasse is not merely Spavento under another name. It is a little difficult to point out the distinction. Every nation since the days of Plautus has had its harmless swaggering cowards, its braggarts, who fight with eyes shut. But in Fracasse there is something of the genial boasting and struggling between cowardice and vanity of a Tartarin, for example. In Fracasse, to be sure, the cowardice usually conquered. He called it magnanimity, however, and thus satisfies his vanity, which of the two qualities is the most genuinely French, and which in the Provençal is much the stronger. In certain respects, if not in broad outlines, Daudet's hero would be a very good successor to the old Capitaine. Parisian editors and French ministers still fight duels; France, like other European countries who believe an ounce of prevention better than a pound of cure, has still her large standing army. But, on the whole, even Frenchmen have now other than military ideals of heroism. Fracasse, when he could be induced to any combat, fought his fellow-man; Tartarin fights the Alps. These French types are but four of many. Some passed into the plays of Molière just as the characters of the Commedia dell'Arte, did into the comedies of Goldoni. All were exaggerations of French vices and weaknesses. It would be interesting but entirely apart from the present subject to determine why it was the northern nations produced so few, if any, of these masques of the theatre. Robin Hood and his company, and Tyll Eulenspiegel, popular as they were, can hardly be ranked with the Italian and French stage jesters. But the point here really is, What was made by these nations of the characters they borrowed from other countries? In Germany Pulcinello became Hans Wurst, coarse and plain-spoken as the Reformers, introducing his buffooneries and scurrilities into the gravest discussions. In England he was transformed into the wife-beating, brutal Mr. Punch, whose performances, dear to British youth, French writers have declared would send little French children screaming into their nurses' arms. The special province of the old masques and buffoons, as popular types, was the stage. Caricature and burlesque would be more than useless if they were not publicly heard and seen. In mediaeval days song and sculpture answered the purpose to a limited extent. It was on the stage, however, that the largest audience could best be secured, until the invention of newspapers. These exert a far more extended influence than was ever possible to theatrical performances. People go to them for the peculiar fun and pasquinades that once were to be had in greatest perfection in the theatre. Even in Italy, the home of Pulcinello and Arlecchino, papers begin to take their place. Venetians laugh less often at Pantaleone or Facanappa than at the unpronounceable oracle which speaks to them through the paper bearing its name. Romans have practically forgotten Spavento or Matamoras while they read the news from the Capitan Fracasse. In Florence the Diavolo Rosso is no mean rival to Stenterello, consequently, as a rule, it is in newspapers and not on the stage modern types have their greatest success. It was in Charivari the famous Robert Macaire figured to such good purpose over thirty years ago. "A compound of Fielding's 'Blueskin' and Goldsmith's 'Beau Tibbs,'" Thackeray describes him, and goes on to say:—
A caricature of the clever impudent roguery, in his time too common in France, as his companion Bertrand was of stupid roguery, he was, moreover, the mouthpiece for all reflections on "prevailing cant, knavery, quackery, humbug." As Thackeray concludes, we are not to judge of the French nation by Macaire, " but upon the morals and the national manners, works of satire afford a world of light that one would in vain look for in regular books of history." It is to be feared the disappearance of this French rogue was not the sign of that of the French sins and extravagances he ridiculed. In Fliegende Blätter, Dr. Eisele, and his pupil, Baron Beisele, were introduced to the public. The former was for Germany what the Dottore was for Bologna. In the home of professors their weak as well as their strong points are best appreciated. As during the Middle Ages men's faith was so firm they could afford to laugh at religion, so in a country like Germany learning is held in such profound respect it can be ridiculed without danger. A professor, to fulfil his chief end, must have pupils. And so Dr. Eisele was accompanied by the noble Baron in his travels through Germany. Almost always, like Macaire and Bertrand, they appeared together. But the name of these newspaper successors of the old masques is legion. In England alone there is a goodly number. In Punch, types like Mrs. Ponsonby de Tomkyns, Postlethwaite and the Cimabue Browns have been represented from time to time; in Fun the British Workman was long a well-established character. A dozen other examples will be recalled at once by any one who has looked into the comic papers of late. Punch, Fun and Judy themselves fulfil to a certain extent the functions of the old masques. But, within the last twenty years, there has arisen a new English character, which is a more genuine creation of the people than Punch, more real than Judy or Fun, possessing a more marked identity than the British Workman, appealing to a much less limited class than the Cimabue Browns, Postlethwaite, or Mrs. Ponsonby de Tomkyns, and therefore having already a stronger hold upon the public at large than any of these, all of whom it promises to outlive. This character is Ally Sloper.Even Englishmen of culture must have noticed everywhere on news' stands a paper called Ally Sloper's Half Holiday. If they have glanced at it, it has probably been to pronounce it vulgar and to wonder who bought it. It must be admitted it is not elegant or cultured in tone. The text is not literary, even if Ally Sloper does pose as the Eminent Litterateur; the jests and smaller illustrations have no particular merit or have been laughed at before; the front page drawing, extremely clever as it is, is not to the taste of Punch subscribers or Du Maurier admirers. The paper is pre-eminently a publication for the people. And herein lies its greatest excellence. It is because Ally Sloper appeals to the masses, to whom Mrs. de Tomkyns' social troubles and Postlethwaite's ideals — phases of fashion of the few — would be so many riddles, that he has gained his present ascendancy, and will probably retain it. The old masques achieved popularity because they typified infirmities and absurdities based, not upon fashion, but upon human nature, and were in sympathy with the unlettered majority as well as the cultured elect. A prince and a peasant could laugh at the stupidity or intrigues of Arlecchino, or at the fears and stinginess of Pantaleone. And in like manner the human follies, personified by Ally Sloper, can not only be appreciated by the audience to whom he particularly addresses himself, but also by the men and women who enjoy the humours of Mrs. Ponsonby de Tomkyns and Postlethwaite, could they forget for a moment their artificial refinement. As a reflection of the people who laugh at him, his moral value is no less than that of the Italian or French masques, and, therefore, were he not funny, his relative importance and significance should, to the student of men, outbalance stupidity or vulgarity. The story of his rise and development and the analysis of his character would for this reason alone be worthy of record. But he has, moreover, all the interest that must necessarily belong to an original creation — whatever it may be — in this age of imitation. Even those whose prejudices against the present are strong would be repaid by the study, since in tracing his growth to its very origin the evolution of the old masques and buffoons can be more readily understood. Well-known as are the relations of Arlecchino and Brighella to the lower and upper town of Bergamo, of Pantaleone to Venice, and so on, the manner of their first appearance and immediate cause of their establishment as characters in the Commedia dell'Arte are not so easy of explanation. But Ally Sloper is such a recent creation the process of his development can be examined in all its stages. The examination shows that in his case the personification of failings was as unconscious as the need of which it was the result. His introduction to the public was a chance; his growth from an insignificant beginning into a popular type, a case of the survival of the fittest. A drunken good-for-nothing, blind to his own absurdities and shortcomings, he commenced his career as the hero of a penny dreadful which, unfortunately for its author, had but little success. Whether the latter thought the public at fault or whether his power of invention was limited, it would be difficult to determine; but certain it is that the same hero, under the new name of Ally Sloper, soon tried his fortunes a second time, now, however, not alone but in company with Judy's weekly jesters. The success or failure of one particular comic picture or jest in a weekly paper is not as easily or as soon discovered as that of a book. It was impossible to know if Ally Sloper's second reception was more cordial than his first. But it was thought worth while to give him a third chance, then a fourth, a fifth, a tenth, a twentieth, even a hundredth. No protests being made, he was finally as regularly established on Judy's staff as Arlecchino or Pulcinello was in the Commedia dell' Arte. Though other characters appearing at the same time died a natural death, he gained new life with each number. Though other jests grew old with repetition, his follies never lost their first freshness. While this continued success presupposes his merit as a comic character in the beginning, it depended mainly upon the fact that he was made a reality rather than an abstraction. He was given a name; his features never varied from week to week. He might have been called anything else with the same results. The name itself, if in a measure appropriate, is of small consequence. Scholars may dispute the origin of the word Arlequin, for example. They may prove its derivation from Achille de Harlay, or from Harle or Herle; but it is more than likely that, as in the case of Ally Sloper, its use as the name of the jester was a mere accident, arising from the desire to secure his definite personality. The features of the modern type, however, were less accidental. They had to a certain extent to correspond to his character. The bald head and abnormally large nose spoke as clearly of dissipated habits as the gin-bottle peeping from the old man's pockets. But no features could have appealed more strongly to the human sense of ridicule. An exaggerated nose has always been a recognized element of the comic, as is proved not only by old Roman gems, Pompeiian frescoes, mediaeval grotesques and modern valentines, but by the part it has played on the stage. Roman mimi and Italian and French masques never tired of wearing it, because people's enjoyment in it never ceased. The Venetian Facanappa, the French Gaultier Garguille, Giangurgolo Pulcincllo, and as many more, made it their one most marked feature. Therefore, with Ally Sloper it was not only an outward sign of an inward infirmity, but a conventional symbol of his comic functions. His costume answered the same double purpose. The old battered hat, the bulging umbrella, the stock tied carelessly behind, the shabby coat with the gin bottle ever in the pocket, expressed his good-for-nothingness, and were ridiculous in themselves. Shabby and disreputable though they were, his clothes did not detract from his reality. They now seem gross caricatures, but so do the finest gowns and bonnets, coats and trousers in old-fashioned plates. Like Arlecchino's and Pulcinello's costumes, originally they were not out of keeping with those of the day. It is easy to fancy just such an old man as the Ally Sloper of the early pictures shuffling along the Commercial Road or the New Cut. Thus figuring again and again with the same name, character, features and clothes, he began to seem less an imaginary than a real person. In the end the chief humour in the story told of him was his personality. As with the imbecile mistakes of Arlecchino, the cowardice of the Capitaine Fracasse, the pedantry of the Dottore, so with his disreputable drunkenness: it would not have been so funny in any one else. People did not weary of the monotony in Ally Sloper's absurd career, because they learned to welcome him as an old friend. Beginning by laughing at the adventures of which he was the hero, they finished by laughing because he was the hero of the adventures. They looked forward to his latest scrape or newest departure with an interest in him personally not unlike that with which devoted Conservatives might follow in their newspaper the political tactics of a Lord Randolph Churchill. And so it came to pass that, as Frenchmen at one time counted no play complete that had not its Pierrot, and as Florentines still hold the presence of Stenterello to be essential to every comedy and tragedy, so Ally Sloper in a few years became as indispensable a figure in Judy as the old lady herself. It was a strong proof of his increasing hold upon popular favour when the space allowed him in her columns no longer seemed sufficient. But three or four years after his first appearance a series of Sloper books was begun, and his personality was accentuated by making him their editor. Just as Punch, having secured a certain standing, is still accepted as a comic paper, so Ally Sloper, having established his reputation as a humorist, was successful in his literary experiments even when he was a trifle dull. It is but fair to add there is not much to reproach him with on this score. In turning over the back numbers of Judy, of which these books are chiefly republications, the wonder is the jest could be so well sustained. The establishment of Ally Sloper's Half Holiday as a weekly paper in 1884, seventeen years after his creation in Judy, marks an era in his career. His ability to stand alone on his own merits puts him at once on a definite footing as a rival to Punch, Judy, and Fun. He may be said with this event to have achieved his growth, and to have ceased becoming to be the great modern jester or popular type of England. This positive stage having been reached, he could be given greater license in many ways. His personality was now strong enough to be an attraction in itself, and there was no danger of lessening interest in him by heightening the caricatures. In the Half Holiday the bald head and nose have been exaggerated until they are little more truthful to Nature than the hooked nose and pointed hump of Punch. For a like reason the hat and umbrella and stock have never been modified by fashion; moreover they can be occasionally laid aside. Mr. Punch sometimes wears a silk hat and frock coat like any other gentleman; Stenterello, so long as he keeps his queue, and the lines on his face, and has one front tooth missing, can figure as a modern Florentine. The more strongly caricatured were the features of Ally Sloper, the less dependent was he on his clothes for identification, while it was only more ridiculous to make him appear at appropriate seasons in Highland dress, or Eton collar and jacket, in boating flannels or racing jerseys. Only the gin bottle from the second step or picture has been always with him, on Scotch moors as in Eton cloisters, on the race track as on the Thames. And now also the circumstances in which he was represented had not, as at first, to explain his character; they had only to emphasize his absurdity. This was really the first sign of his development into a typical character. It is the privilege or function of popular types to move with all sorts and conditions of men. Punch is not thought to be more out of place in Parliament than on his little murderous stage. Pulcinello in Naples, and Stenterello in Florence, are at home in whatever society their manager sees fit to put upon his boards. All classes, high or low, are alike to them. Sometimes, indeed, the jesters have varied not only the rank of their associates but their own. Polichinelle, while he continued to be Polichinelle, in his good sense, his ready sally, his irrepressible laugh, could be Turk or magician, mason or Don Quixote. Now he was the lover, now the bridegroom, now the father. Thus each character widened his range of sympathies and multiplied indefinitely the occasions for laughter. Already in the later numbers of Judy, the presence alone of Ally Sloper was considered a joke, and consequently he could go anywhere and everywhere. Now he was on the battlefield during the Franco-Prussian war, umbrella and gin bottle flying in opposite directions as he ran at the first sound of the cannon; now he was in African wilds, a peacock's feather in his old grey hat, hobnobbing with savages. The more incongruous the surroundings the more humorous the jest. In the Half Holiday one week he is at Windsor or Marlborough House, congratulating or dining with princes; another, mingling with the unemployed in Trafalgar Square. To-day he is in the theatre making himself agreeable to ballet dancers ; to-morrow, on his way to church, prayer-book under one arm, his wife on the other. He is actively interested in all the affairs of the day. He observes each season with appropriate celebrations, and is always present at any public event or rejoicing. On Christmas Day he eats his plum pudding, on February 14 he receives his valentines. He drives down to Epsom Downs for the Derby, veil tied about his hat, luncheon in his hampers; he is the prominent figure at Hammersmith during the Oxford and Cambridge race; he is sure to row to Henley for the Regatta; he is the real sight of the Lord Mayor's Show. At the elections he is found in the midst of the riots; at the opening of Parliament he makes his maiden speech. Lord's Cricket Ground, Wimbledon, Margate, see him in turn. In his comprehensive interests he is not unworthy of the initials F.O.M. (i.e., Friend of Man), which, together with M.P., T.O.E., P.B., T.W.M., whatever these may mean, follow his name. Once a character is acknowledged as a jester, everything appertaining to him is accredited with a humorous value. The clown's whitened face is not his least witticism. And so, just as certain pious folk associate the idea of sanctity with even a thread from a saint's garment, believers in Ally Sloper could and can still see fun in the slightest possession attributed to him. Before he was two years old, the hat and umbrella had become standard jokes, as sacred symbols to his admirers, as Pulcinello's mask, Stenterello's queue, Harlequin's wand, to theirs. Even old broken combs, worn-out tooth brushes, raise a laugh when exhibited as his. This being the case, it is but natural that the members of his household seem beings of infinite jest. That he has a family is a matter of course. It is additional evidence of his reality, another occasion for laughter. Punch's chance of fun would not have been half so great had he not had a wife and baby to murder, and a Toby to run after him. Pantaleone might have been a bore had he not had two pretty daughters to play him false. A few of the Sloper connection are funny in themselves; others, like the old combs and toothbrushes, are only laughable because of their relationship to the chief jester; and still others are not ridiculous at all, but serve to point a contrast and stimulate the public interest by making a plot for the comedy. Ally Sloper's pretty daughter, Tootsie, and her lover, Lord Bob, though less romantic in name and the manner of their wooing, are nothing more than the modern Isabella and Leandro. There are twenty-two of these characters who take their place in the weekly drama of the Half Holiday with the same regularity with which Pantaleone, Arlecchino, Isabella and Leandro walked the boards together. It may at times be wondered why the characters and situations in the Commedia dell'Arte never varied; why one great actor after another became the Pulcinello or Pierrot of the old comedy instead of creating a new role. But people are naturally conservative in these matters, and never tire of favourite characters. No innovation was made because none was wanted. Ally Sloper's family, now it has been established, will probably not diminish, though it may increase in number In this respect, as in others, the English are the most conservative of men. Slow to understand a new joke, they are equally slow to part with one that has been mastered. The wit of the circus or pantomime clown is as old as his costume. This is the secret of his success. His audiences know when and where to laugh; they need not be bewildered by the unexpected. Consequently, nothing could be stronger proof of Ally Sloper's present assured popularity than the fact that he is rapidly taking the place of these old favourites. He has extended his field of action from the newspaper, the sphere of modern types, to the stage, that of the earlier typical characters. Hereafter he must be included in the history of masques and buffoons of the theatre. At the Surrey, the Standard, the Britannia, he was this year the principal feature of the burlesque, though, as often happened with Polichinelle, a different name was given him. By him pantaloon and the clown have been cast into the shade. But indeed the old pantomime is yearly becoming of less importance, while the burlesque is developing into the main performance of the Christmas show. The house to-day is comparatively empty when the famous company of other generations begins its round of mischief and magic. At Drury Lane last Christmas there was no columbine, and without columbine harlequin has lost half his power to charm. But after all they and pantaloon were originally foreign importations; their real character forgotten in their new home, and they can be allowed to go now that there is a genuine English creation to succeed them. In the circus ring, as well as on the stage, Ally Sloper promises to be retained as chief jester, the clowns of Covent Garden and Hengler's having borrowed his costume. At almost all amateur entertainments — of the people be it understood — at Jarley's wax-work shows, ventriloquist performances, masquerades, and fancy-dress parties, there is as sure to be an Ally Sloper as there must always be a Pulcinello to lead the Carnival revels. Since these popular types were always the outcome of a need to personify instincts, common to many men in the first place, but peculiarly distinctive of the town or country in which each was evolved, it remains to show that Ally Sloper in his moral significance, as in his actions, deserves to be ranked with them. His character presents none of the complexity and psychical problems that are the study of modern novelists, but is as simple and as easily analyzed as that of Pantaleone or the Dottore. In the words of the man who knows him best, namely his editor, he "is a person with a strong taste for unsweetened gin, whose delight it is to go about in all sorts of society, both high and low." But this friendliness or sociability, as has been explained, is less a characteristic of Ally Sloper than a necessity, in a type which to interest men must be represented not isolated, but holding definite relations with human beings. His love of gin, therefore, is his predominant passion. However often he may change his costume, or however much his later adventures may differ from those of early days, in which Ikey Moses, a swindling Jew, was his boon companion, the gin bottle always peeps conspicuously from his pocket. It is as responsible for his chronic state of poverty and shabbiness as it is for the unhealthiness of his features; and because it blunts his moral sense, it, and not natural dishonesty, is the real source of his unprincipled adventures. His rogueries are really the outcome of his intemperance, and not of a separate vice. In the Half Holiday, when it is no longer necessary to tell a story about him, he ceases to be dishonest. Furthermore, like the average Englishman, either from stupidity or an instinct of honesty, Ally Sloper is less ingenious in inventing crimes that deceive than men of other nationality or race. As a rule, his swindling schemes were suggested by Ikey Moses. But, however slow or stupid or unwillingly hampered by inherited tendencies he may be in the conception of ideas, he is earnest enough in his attempts to realize those of others. He has all the earnestness of a man convinced of his own importance, a conviction that, because of his deficient sense of humour, never deserts him. His seriousness throughout — even his editor has pointed it out — is his only other leading characteristic. It is quite as marked as his intemperance. To ignore it is to miss the principal key to his character. Ikey Moses comes to propose his tricks with a smile upon his face; he sees a humorous side to his villany, and enjoys it. But Ally Sloper listens and consents to the most villanous schemes with as much solemnity as if he were considering the evangelization of Italy or the conversion of the heathen. Ikey Moses, no matter what the result of his villany, would turn the laugh against the people he fools; Ally Sloper, were his folly successful, would still be more ridiculous than his victim. Half the fun of his adventures depends upon the seriousness with which he takes himself. It shuts his eyes to his absurdity and roguery; he is so unconscious of his dishonesty that he becomes almost honest. Like a genuine Briton, he takes his amusement as well as his work seriously. He has the reputation of being the most kicked-out man in Europe. But not all the kicks in the world can diminish his complacent self-respect. No one needs more than he the gift to see himself as others see him. If, then, he does realize the moral ends of a popular type, and sets up to public laughter the leading follies and failings of the people, it follows that a national vice of England is intemperance; a national characteristic seriousness. That this is the case few will dispute. It does not necessarily imply that every Englishman drinks more than is good for him and is preternaturally serious. The existence of Pantaleone does not prove stinginess in every individual merchant of Venice, where probably there has been more than one Antonio; nor that of Pulcinello indolence in every man and woman in Naples, that town being one of the most thriving in Italy. But these types deal with the weakness of the many rather than the strength of the few. As surely as parsimony was a failing among a class of Venetians, and laziness still is a Neapolitan shortcoming, so intemperance is the great curse of modern England, despite ingenious reasoners who would prove that only the drunken nations of to-day are the progressive nations, and to whom therefore England's drunkenness is a sign of her glory. If virtues were to be personified, an incomparably beautiful and noble Britannia would no doubt be evolved. But as the question now is one of vice, it cannot be denied that a long-suffering people, for whom the proposition to tax their drink is the signal to rise against a popular Ministry, is not inappropriately caricatured by a good-natured old man, whose first thought is his gin-bottle. But the national intemperance is so constantly insisted upon by moralists and political economists, to say nothing of Blue-ribbonites and total abstainers, that for present purposes it may be accepted as a fact without further demonstration. That to it is to be referred much of the poverty and good-fornothingness, genteel and otherwise, throughout the country, seems equally indisputable; and when Mr. Romeike has collected the answers to the questions in his circulars distributed to unsuccessful and, as he hopes, communicative Englishmen, it may be further established by much positive evidence. Indeed, this public-spirited inquisitor may then also be able to show that, with the people, as with Ally Sloper, the gin-bottle is responsible not only for poverty, but dishonesty as well. Englishmen themselves are too ready to admit their "dismal seriousness" to need Mr. Romeike to collect the proofs of its existence. It is so self-evident a truth that to set about proving it would be as useless here as to give a statistical demonstration that the number of public-houses in London is out of all sober proportion to the number of inhabitants in the same city. If this seriousness was maintained only in great affairs, its personification would be admirable rather than ridiculous, since to it is unquestionably to be attributed much of English greatness. But when it is adhered to in the lightest amusement as in the gravest duty, in the most absurd undertaking as in the most glorious enterprise, then it becomes the reason of the more obvious English follies. The real Englishman may not be quite stolid enough to submit to continual kicks with the Sloper indifference. John Bull is always eager to resent insults abroad. For that matter Italians and French, though they laughed at their Spavento and Capitaine Fracasse, never could be accused, as a nation, of cowardice. But wherever class distinctions are as rigidly marked and observed as in England, there is a tendency among the lower orders, especially those that are not at the very foot of the social ladder, to bear the snubs and even insults of their social superiors without the slightest diminution of self-respect. Indeed the more carefully Ally's Sloper's character is analyzed, the more certain it is that had England's worst enemies been bent upon turning her to ridicule they could not have hit upon a more appropriate caricature. Englishmen have done for themselves that which they would never have forgiven any one else for doing for them. Thus it is seen that in every way Ally Sloper fulfils the functions and requirements of the characters of the Commedia dell'Arte and of the types of all ages. It may perhaps be urged that he is not a creation of the people, since not they but a professional humorist is directly responsible for his existence. But it is really their acceptation of him rather than the cleverness of his creator that made him what he is. It can therefore truly be said that while the cultured of the present generation have been busy proving their powers of imitation, this unconscious evolution of a popular type has established the claims of the people to originality. Elizabeth Robins Pennell. The Contemporary Review, vol. 50, October 1886, pp. 509-23. |
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