MANY people think that because the clown wears a grotesque garb and indulges in silly antics, that he is a buffoon all the time. They are very much mistaken. Like humorists, we take our profession very seriously, for it has traditions of real greatness.

I never quite understood this so much until I had an experience in Boston. We usually stay there a week, and this gives us a chance to get around and see the city. One hot June afternoon I was taking a street-car ride out towards the suburbs. It was so sultry that few people were stirring. For a time I had the car all to myself. Then a very dignified old gentleman came aboard and sat down next to me. We rode on in silence for a time until I made some remark about the weather. I am inclined to be friendly. We got to talking. Finally he asked me what my business was.

“I am a circus clown,” I replied.

He looked amazed. Then wiped his glasses, gazed at me, and remarked:

“It’s extraordinary. I thought you were a minister.”

Perhaps the white string necktie that I always wear fooled him, as it has fooled many other people. They seem to think that a clown should be grinning all the time or ready to turn a somersault.

I found the old gentleman very entertaining. He said a little later on:

“My friend, your profession is a thousand years old, and you may well be proud of it.”

This interested me immensely, and I asked him to tell me where I could find out some facts about its origin.

“If you will read your Roman history you will find much to enlighten you about the beginning of your work.” Then he told me that he was a professor at Harvard, and soon after he left the car.

The next day I went down to the Boston Public Library and got some Roman histories. Although I found nothing about clowns, there was a great deal about pantomime, which I have always held was the real forerunner of clowning. Pantomime dates back to the Jews and early Egyptians. The early Greek drama partook of it, and it was introduced into Rome during the reign of the Emperor Augustus. MÆcenas, Virgil, Horace, and Ovid, and other great literary men of the period, enjoyed the work of the pantomimists. The early pantomimes, so I discovered, expressed love or the exploits of the gods and goddesses. At one time the Romans went mad on the subject of pantomimes. Nero was one of the most ardent patrons. When he asked Demetrius what gift he most wanted, that worthy answered:

“A pantomime, because it needs no interpreter.”.

The pantomimist spoke a universal language, because he talked with his hands. The Roman pantomimist worked in the great open-air theaters, and also in the homes of the rich. In the latter places he was called upon to carve the meats, which he did with many flourishes. Thus he made himself both useful and ornamental. In later years, however, I might add that the clown has lost his ornamental features. The Roman pantomime died with the decay of Roman glory, and it was not until the fifteenth century that it was revived in Italy

Then it was that the original predecessor of the clown of to-day made his appearance in rude plays in the character known as Arlecchino, who was a blundering servant. Originally he combined loutishness with great cunning. Out of this name developed the word Harlequin, which became very popular in France. The Harlequin wore a black mask, had a cocked hat, and wielded a bat. This bat was the original of the modern slap-stick so much used by clowns and low comedians.

As the pantomime developed, Harlequin surrounded himself with characters. Of course there had to be a woman, so she was introduced in the shape of a pretty servant, who wore tights. She was Colombine. The girl had to have a father, so he became Pantaloon, who wore baggy trousers. A fourth figure was also needed. Here is where the first real clown came in. He was the servant to Harlequin. He, too, wore baggy trousers, had a peaked hat, and was supposed to be always getting into trouble. You can now see the connection between Harlequin’s clown and the circus clown of to-day.

Pantomime found its greatest vogue in England, where it was introduced early in the eighteenth century at the Covent Garden Theater. A manager named Rich first brought it out. He devised a pantomime play in which Harlequin appeared as the lover of Colombine. Her father (Pantaloon) opposed the match; thereupon Harlequin abducted her, with the aid of the clown. The clown introduced many ludicrous effects.

The pantomime plays grew into tremendous popularity in England. They were given at the holiday season before immense crowds. The greatest managers found them necessary to good business. Even Garrick became sponsor for it. It was he who introduced Signor Giuseppe Grimaldi, father of the “Immortal Joe,” the greatest clown the world has ever known. I am proud to belong to the profession that Grimaldi adorned. The father played Harlequin for a long time in the London pantomimes. Joe early appeared with his parent. His first part was as monkey, when he was three years old. He was attached to a chain, and his father used to whirl him around by this chain. Once the chain broke, and little Joe landed on the stomach of a stout gentleman who sat in the front row.

When Joe grew up he abandoned the Harlequin part, and became the clown. He took off the spangles and fancy colored diamonds that were always a part of the Harlequin costume, and dressed in white with pantaloon trousers. He whitened his face, and then put on patches of red. He looked more like a lubberly boy, who had been caught eating jam.

With the ascendency of Joe Grimaldi the clown took precedence over Harlequin, and has had it ever since. But it was due to Joe’s great genius. He was called “The Garrick of Clowns.” His first triumphs were in “Mother Goose.” He did not depend upon acrobatic feats for his success, but on genuine humor. His antics were side-splitting. He became a national figure. Lord Byron was his friend, and Charles Dickens used to come to see him each week. Later, Dickens edited his Memoirs, which I regard as a remarkable tribute to a clown’s thoughts. When Grimaldi was out of the cast all London sulked. He was as necessary to Covent Garden as was the great John Kemble himself. Yet he was only a clown.

It is said of Grimaldi that he felt his work so keenly that as soon as his performance was over, he retired to a corner and wept profusely. He was a man of tender heart and generous impulses. There is a story about him which has been handed down by many generations of clowns. It goes on to say that once Grimaldi became very ill and despondent. He went to consult a great London specialist. The great man looked him over, and then remarked:

“Go to see Grimaldi, and laugh yourself well.”

The clown looked at him sadly, and replied:

“I am Grimaldi.”

The art of exquisite clown fooling died in England when Grimaldi passed away. The London managers had to create a substitute, which they did after a fashion, with elaborate scenic spectacles. The clowns that followed were acrobats. Agility took the place of humor. There are traces of this in the clowning of to-day.

Of course, in any consideration of the origin of the modern clown you must reckon with the king’s jester. You have only to turn to the pages of Shakespeare to find how highly he was regarded. Every court had its fool, and he was often the wise man. In King Lear are the words:

“Jesters do oft prove prophets.”

Jacques was a philosopher, and Touchstone a great personage.

I have known king’s jesters in the American circus, but their art was too fine to be appreciated by the multitudes, and they had to give way to the more popular form of clowning. It took years of thought and study to be a Shakespearian jester.

Although the historical facts about the origin of the clown are fine and imposing, I somehow prefer to remember the legend about it that I heard as a boy in France. It was told me by an old clown in Normandy. As he related it to me, it went on to show that the little daughter of a wandering mountebank once dreamed that she saw her father with whitened face, peaked hat, and baggy white pantaloons, performing before a great crowd, and that everybody was laughing and applauding. It was such a vivid dream that she told her father about it. He was deeply impressed, and adopted the costume, thus appearing as the first white-faced clown.