CHAPTER VII.
Formulation of the Jest—Editorial Treatment of Stories—Sophisticated Versions.
THE literary formulation of the Jest, though it seems to be a matter which should go without saying, is, on the contrary, an aspect of the inquiry which presents itself least of all to the mind of the student. The best artificial anecdote in point of structure is apt to be edited material, and does not come to our hands, as a rule, ipsissimis verbis, or in the stage of raw unmanufactured goods. For jokes are customarily delivered by the author rough, as it were, from the quarry, and before they are admissible into type have to undergo certain occult scientific processes known to experts—have to pass through the alembic.
The cue having been given, it does not demand much analytical acumen to discern in the majority of entries in a jest-book the hand behind the scenes, the artist’s touch. It becomes fairly easy to detect the fact that the joke, whatever it is, has not reached the pages which it is intended to enrich direct from the lips of the utterer, but has been in the finisher’s laboratory. Something in the texture of the sentence, or maybe in the wording, seemed to call for amendment. There are cases where, by rounding a corner or sharpening an edge, the dramatic beauty of a mot is enhanced beyond common credibility.
This species of manipulation is one from which originals are calculated to suffer in the ratio of their linear extent; or, in other words, the briefer a jest is, the less likely it is to encounter the transforming or embellishing agency of an editor in ambush. Such monosyllabic flashes as Theodore Hook and Douglas Jerrold were accustomed to discharge on the spur of the moment afford a certain likelihood of being pure from the makers; and, so far as Jerrold at all events is concerned, there are many still living who were absolute earwitnesses of some of his happiest efforts in this way. His perception and grasp were almost electric in their rapidity; and the evenings at the Club, of which he was the co-founder and glory, must rank among the pleasantest recollections of such as had the good fortune to be present.
A curious article might be written, if such a thing were feasible, on the progress of jests and allied productions from the mouths of the authors to the printed page, with a view of the strange scientific processes employed in adapting the rough material for publication. Men of wit are, as a rule, not men of letters, or even persons of literary training and experience; and the prima stamina or germs of their most felicitous utterances and most interesting anecdotes are always apt to require the hand of the rédacteur. There is almost inevitably something in the first draft or skeleton of a bon-mot, or a choice piece of gossip, which a critical eye will detect as inimical to its popularity, as well as to the reputation of the conteur. The editor is the middleman between the manufacturer and the public. He knows better than the former what he really meant, and better than anybody what the latter will find palatable. As genuine sherry is too bitter to be used without a blend, so the ipsissima verba of the ocular oracle are most frequently treated as a nucleus or a cue; and the upshot is a description of mosaic, in which the respective claims of wit and editor are no longer apportionable. The fruitful outpourer of good sayings may have ceased to rank among living celebrities, and the scintillations of his genius are gathered into the workshop; or, if he scatters his treasures during his life, like a prodigal, among his familiars, it is a marvel if there are not one or two deft hands waiting to dress the nuggets for the market, and even to wrap them up so adroitly, that their own father would scarcely recognise them! If the strict truth could be ascertained, there are hundreds of jokes floating in the social atmosphere, which bear to their actual makers a relationship cognate to that between Dame Partlet and the duckling.
Even the merest quips and puns, however, are not exempt from the profanation of the garbler. He mars them, not in the stealing, but in the transcription or report. He is joke-proof, or he misses the point by a hair. He builds an arch, and does not see that he has forgotten the keystone. This criticism holds good both of Jerrold and Charles Lamb, two men who have never been surpassed in their astonishing mastery of the mot in its real meaning and compass. Yet some of Lamb’s happiest hits have been robbed of their vitality by the neglect on the part of his biographers of that nicety which is so imperative in the registration of these casual traits. To omit, alter, or modify a single word is nothing less than sacrilege and death—sacrilege to the author and death to his performance. “Oh,” the culprit on conviction may tell you, “the gist is the same; there is no substantial difference.” Let him take his discretion back. Is a common carrier to foist changelings upon us?
The revision of jeux d’esprit for the sake of augmented effect may be more or less venial; and where the primary object is to amuse, and no vital chord is touched, the reduction of details to an intelligible and impressive shape is possibly a benefit to the public, which might not appreciate the account unground and unpolished. There are so many hazards and drawbacks attendant on vivâ-voce delivery; and the editor, after all, only stands to the humourist in a parallel relation to that which the reporter occupies towards parliamentary proceedings. He does not render them precisely as he had them from the speakers’ mouths, but as the latter would have given them if they had had the opportunity of correcting the proofs. It virtually amounts to an extension of the authority of literature over unwritten matter. The substance and the quantity are preserved, like liquid poured from a tankard into a saucer; but the component parts have changed places, and the record is drafted and printed for future use by a gentleman who considers that he is a finer judge of your meaning than you are yourself.
So far, so good. But we are instinctively led hence to the consideration of a different, yet allied, question—as to the frequent habit, on the part of narrators, from one cause or another, of positively tampering with the text of a saying, and falsifying the sense.
For it is by no means with non-essentials only that your special artist deals, or even with minor accessories alone. He holds his licence to extend to the finding you a new hero—one, possibly, who could never, in his most prophetic mood, have ventured to imagine himself in such a situation or in such company.
Sometimes it happens that in a comparatively late chap-book we detect a rifaccimento of an ancient legend.
At Glasgow appeared a small roughly printed tract in 1700, with the title of The New Wife of Beath, in which we are desired to believe that the text is “Much better Reformed, Enlarged, and Corrected, than it was formerly in the old uncorrect Copy”; and we are farther told that there is “the Addition of many other Things.” The preface adds that the “Papal or Heretical” matter in the former copy has been omitted in this second edition, leaving nothing to offend the wise and judicious, “not being taken up into a literal Sense, but be way of Allegory and Mystical, which thus may edifie.”
We have here, in point of fact, the story and adventures of Chaucer’s Wife of Bath subsequently to her dissolution; and we learn how, after a strange series of vicissitudes, including a visit to his majesty the Devil, who declines to take her in, our heroine finally propitiates Christ by a profession of faith, and is placed among the elect. It is a grotesque tissue of piety and blasphemy, presumably adapted to the Protestant ritual and taste by an anonymous son of the Kirk.
What the reformer suppressed we can only conjecture, since the anterior impression, with the Popish leaven in it, has not fallen under our eyes. In lieu of the Saviour, the Virgin was, perhaps, made the central figure, with the general costume of the piece to correspond. What he added it is easier to judge; for, looking at the archaic narrative of “the Countryman who got into heaven by his pleading,” we perceive that The New Wife of Bath is an amplification of the idea and scheme; and where the original middle-age story-teller was content with the ordeal of the Apostles and the First Person of the Trinity, his presbyterian follower thought it necessary to make the lady run the gauntlet of all the patriarchs and prophets, and even of our first parents, all of whom she triumphantly vanquishes, the concluding parley being with Christ Himself, who is made to come out on hearing the disturbance, and is overcome by her argumentative eloquence and confiding humility.
With the portentous absurdity of the whole notion, both in its succincter and more enlarged shape, we need not occupy ourselves. I merely adduced the circumstance as one of the numerous phases of my subject; for I presume that no one will seriously question its title to a place in the semi-jocular category.
Nothing is truer than the passage in Horace:—
“Multa renascentur, quæ jam cecidere ...”
In the mediæval story of the Man with Wooden Legs, who succeeds in persuading a stranger that his apparent loss was a positive advantage and blessing, there is a property of permanence; for, as recently as 1885, a boat was capsized, and the only one who escaped was buoyed up by his artificial limb. This was a recommendation overlooked by the early conteur, anxious as he was to exhibit the unsuspected superiority of a substructure not prone to casualties, and not only renewable at pleasure, but useful as fuel when discarded from active service.
