It’s interesting to think about what stands out when I look through collection catalogues or items from auctions. Some items catch my eye because they are beautiful, funny-looking, striking, shocking or unusual. And then there are others that make me stop and look because it is evident that they hold a wealth of information on a variety of subjects; they provide a sort of condensed, multi-stranded history lesson.

This teething ring owes its existence, among other things, to the Commedia dell’arte (see Punch, derived from the original Italian Pulcinella character), colonialism (see ivory ring and mother of pearl handle) and industrialisation (see 19th Century machine pressing and stamping of silver). In fact, we should go back further: it probably also owes its existence to the Atellan farce of the Romans, and the hilarocomedies or Phlyax plays of Greek colonies in the 4th century BC. These details please me enormously; they are tiny invisible threads joining dots and weaving time, creating satisfying repeat patterns in the cloth of history.

I came across this item at the V&A Museum of Childhood, having specifically set out to look for Punch and Judy-related toys or puppets. For a while now I have been interested in the Commedia dell’arte, and I was keen to seek out something relating to the world of Punch and Judy, as a localised derivation of it in Britain.

Looking at it, at first I flinched, imagining tender baby gums rubbing against the ornate sharpness of the Punch figure. It is very different from the soft leather doll that Gussie Decker designed in 1903 for this purpose, described in its patent as “unbreakable and incapable of injuring infant children” and advertised as “very fine to chew on when teething”.

After a basic search, I saw that this style of teethers was quite widespread in the 19th Century, at least this configuration with the ivory ring and the silver figure, plus or minus a mother of pearl handle.

According to the V&A information provided, by the 19th century, Punch and Judy were used “as decorative motifs on a range of household items”. It continues, “In 1841 the magazine Punch, or the London Charivari was established, named after the comic and anarchic character of Mr. Punch whose image appeared on its cover.” So, it was easy to find several other teething rings featuring Punch, though I couldn’t help smiling at this comic and anarchic character being chosen for a baby’s teether.

Take a look at these three 20th Century rattles from an auction page – one described as Mr Punch, another as a George V teddy bear, and another rattle in the centre, which if you look closely, appears to have tooth marks. I did wonder whether these silver teething rings were ever used at all or whether there were symbolic gifts given at christenings and not meant to be practical objects. It is possible that many were not intended for use, but I have now come across several that seem to have been chewed at some point – babies born with a silver teether in their mouths. 

I briefly explored the world of early teethers and rattles and learnt that this design is an evolution of sorts from coral rattles, often referred to as corals and bells (there are some in the previous link). According to Marcia Hersey (see her book here) these started to appear in the 15th century, at least judging by portraits of children (see a 17th C portrait here) You can see a variety of designs in this page about an exhibition held in Antwerp in 2010 entitled Corals and bells. Some of these teether stick/rattles also included whistles, like this one.

I came across a wonderful advertisement published on the 17th of March 1884 in Auckland, New Zealand, for a place called Montague’s Fancy Bazaar and all the wonderful things it sold. You can scroll right down to the bottom under ‘Fancy Goods’, where where it mentions selling ‘babies’ corals and bells’:

“Gold and Silver Chains, Lockets, Necklets, Brooches and Earrings, Studs, Links, Suites, Ladies and Gents’ Rings, Wedding Rings and Keepers, Greenstone Ornaments, Babies’ Corals and Bells, and an assortment of novelties too numerous to mention.”  

I found this interesting, because initially I had assumed that these teethers or rattles were only owned by the very wealthy, but the advert here seems to indicate they were more widespread than that.  

I was delighted when I learnt that three hundred and sixty years prior to the exact date on which I finished this drawing, on the 9th of May 1662, Samuel Pepys recorded in his diary that he had seen a show at Covent Garden:

“[…] Thence to see an Italian puppet play that is within the rayles there, which is very pretty, the best that ever I saw, and great resort of gallants.”

A couple of weeks later, on the 23rd of May 1662, Pepys went along again, this time with his wife.

“[…]After it was done, my wife and I to the puppet play in Covent Garden, which I saw the other day, and indeed it is very pleasant. Here among the fidlers I first saw a dulcimere played on with sticks knocking of the strings, and is very pretty.”

That particular show was put on by a Bologna-native called Pietro Gimonde, otherwise known as Signor Bologna – you can just imagine the English delight at pronouncing this, some of the more adventurous daring to rolling the r in Signor for an added European thrill.

According to P. Highfill, E. Langhans and K. Burnim in A biographical dictionary of actors, actresses, musicians, dancers, managers & other stage personnel in London, 1660-1800 (p. 189), Signor Bologna was a puppeteer who lived from 1662-1688:

“Bologna so pleased Charles II that the King gave him a gold chain worth 25 pounds and a gold medal as a reward.

 […]

Pepys usually referred to these entertainments as Polichinello, though perhaps after Bologna’s initial introduction of the character of Punch to England, the nickname, under various guises and spellings, was used for all puppets, regardless of who operated them.

Signor Bologna was performing in France at the St Laurent Fair in 1678, and there he advertised the use of “changes of scenery and numerous machines”. He may have returned to England in August 1688, in the poem The Theatre of Compliment of that year is the phrase, “And here’s Punchinello shown thrice to the King”.

I found out about Punch and Judy’s 360th birthday when I saw a social media post by the wonderful Pollock’s Toy Museum about a special Punch and Judy paper toy theatre booth they have created in commemoration of this special date.

There is a great article on the history of Punch and Judy on the V&A website, which covers lots of ground, including controversies regarding Punch (he beats Judy on a regular basis), Punch’s squeaky voice and how it is produced (a swazzle), different ‘cousins’ of Punch around the world, and his evolution in Britain. Punch and Judy shows in the UK still exist – it is easy to find videos of little one-man shows performed at seaside towns in front of children.

I suppose I should come clean and confess that I am more interested in Pulcinella than Punch, because he is part of the bigger, more complex phenomenon of the Commedia dell’arte. I have been attracted to its archetypal characters for a good while now and am (rather slowly) working on a project based on them.

One of the aspects I am captivated by is the vast array of possibilities that Commedia dell’arte allowed for, even within its set pieces. Reading about it you get a sense of it being a living thing, popular in the real sense of the word. Is it possible to miss something that was long gone before I was born? Of course, there are traces of it left, and it is fascinating to see how many playwrights evoke its spirit, both at the time and in later centuries. But still, I experience something akin to nostalgia when I read about it.

For reasons I can’t quite put into words, I think what most delights me is that the archetypes are not disguised with different names depending on the play or plot – their names stay the same, recognisable, larger than life, and unapologetically archetypal. Pulcinella is Pulcinella, to a king and to a cleaner.

It makes me want to wave frantically and point contemporary film and television writers in the direction of the Commedia dell’arte themes and plots, saying, ‘Look! Here is the material and structure you are looking for! This is timeless, made for adaptation, malleable, rich, exciting, and deliciously ruthless and unprecious!’ It is as old as time and as new as time, thoroughly tried and tested, and yet different with every iteration.

It feels so at odds with our lives now, for many reasons, but I am curious to see what would happen if we brought back the Commedia dell’arte, to noisily collide with our world. Because, really, that’s the way to do it!