When Erasmus praised Folly, it was only by making Folly advocate her own cause. After all, her pleading neither recommends her cause, nor says much for the wit of the pleader. Folly, in the abstract, has been denounced alike by Scripture and ancient heathen sages. “All men are fools,” was once a received text. Over the text, some have laughed, some have cried, and upon it, or its equivalent, divines have preached sermons now mirthful now melancholy. “If I wish to look at a fool,” says Seneca modestly, “I have not far to go. I have only to look in a mirror.” A sharper saying still was once uttered by Rhodius, a physician of Marburg, who had adorned the front of his house with full-length portraits of all the lawyers and doctors in the city, himself in the centre, and all in the dress of the professional buffoon. “You have a large number of thorough fools painted on your walls,” once remarked a passer-by. “Ay, ay,” rejoined Rhodius, “but there are still more who pass this way and look at them.” He was something of the opinion of Schuppius of Hamburg, who used to remark that in this world, the fools outnumbered the men; and the Emperor Maximilian II. delicately expressed a similar sentiment when he observed that every young fellow must be pulled by fools’ strings, for seven years, and that if, during that time, he forgot himself for an instant, he had to re-commence his seven years’ service. This potentate distinguished the dullest of his counsellors by the title of the King of Fools. On once addressing a prosy adviser by this title, the gentleman neatly enough replied, “I wish, with all my heart, I42 were King of Fools; I should have a glorious kingdom of it, and your Imperial Majesty would be among my subjects.” The “Fool” was not the exclusive possession of a Sovereign King. In course of time, wealthy individuals prided themselves in their own jesters, as ladies of the last century did in their black foot-boys and monkeys. Counts, Cardinals, Barons, and even Bishops had their professional makers of mirth. In France the Fou du Roi was an official title, and Champagne is thought by some to have enjoyed the monopoly of furnishing his Gallic Majesty with a new Fou du Roi en titre d’office, when the old one died. The profession, in most Courts, survived the name; and the office has been exercised by many gentlemen who, perhaps, little thought of the duty they were performing. The office has not seldom been filled, as I have before remarked, by the Court poet; and the well-known epigram on Cibber, the above fact being considered, has a happy application.
The term itself however has often been mis-applied. Thus Charles the Simple was no fool, but a man of extraordinary simplicity of mind and feeling. So Homer, when he called Telemachus, Ν?πιο?, a fool, or “silly,” did not employ it as a term of reproach, but one of endearment.
The term “fool,” “fol,” “fou,” is said to be of Northern origin. Every language, however, or nearly so, has an original word expressive of the office.
Some French writers deduce the term Fool,—that is their own word Fol or Fou,—from the Game of Chess. In the French game, the pieces which we call Bishops, are called “Fous;” and in anciently carved sets are represented in the fool’s dress;—hence the saying of Regnier in his 14th Satire:—
“Les Fous sont aux échecs les plus proches des Rois.”
Thomas Hyde, in his ‘De Ludis Orientalibus,’ lib. i. 4, does away with this derivation by remarking that the chess term Fou or Fol is derived from the eastern word Phil, an “Elephant;”—he43 adds that two figures of this animal were always to be seen on the old boards; and that they had the oblique move of our “bishops.” This is no doubt true. The line of Regnier, however, indicates the place of the “Fou,” not only at chess, but at Court—namely, always near the King. The dignity of the latter, however, was preserved by a simple arrangement, namely, the ranking as “fool” or of deranged wit, every one who ventured to utter to his superior a disagreeable truth. As for a closer connection between kings and fools, it is marked by Rabelais, who observes that wearers of crown and sceptre are born under the same constellation as the wearers of cap and bells.
And this office, it is to be observed, was partly in fashion as being a good sanitary system; “Laugh and grow fat” is a popular saying, with much philosophy therein. “Laughter,” says the Prussian Professor, Hufeland, “is one of the most important helps to digestion with which we are acquainted; and the custom in vogue among our ancestors, of exciting it by jesters and buffoons, was founded on true medical principles. Cheerful and joyous companions are invaluable at meals; obtain such, if possible, for the nourishment received amid mirth and jollity, is productive of light and healthy blood.”
Walter Scott, when discussing, in a note to ‘Ivanhoe,’ the question whether Negroes were known in England at the period of that romantic story, cites an instance, whereby he not only establishes an affirmative, but proves that the professional jesters were of value to their patrons in other ways besides exciting their laughter and improving their digestion. “John of Rampayne,” he tells us, “an excellent juggler and minstrel” (words implying the professional jester), “undertook to effect the escape of one Andulf de Bracy by presenting himself in disguise at the Court of the King where he was confined.” For this purpose “he stained his hair and his whole body entirely as black as jet, so that nothing was44 white but his teeth. And succeeded in imposing himself on the King, as some Ethiopian minstrel. He effected by stratagem the escape of the prisoner. Negroes therefore must have been known in England in the dark ages.” When the joyous brotherhood could perform services of this nature we need not be surprised that prelates as well as princes entertained them, and that the Council of Paris, in 1212, in vain denounced churchmen who were worldly enough to maintain fools in their households.
The idea that fools were instituted in order to supply the wants of a free society is, perhaps, not so strictly true as that they were gradually allowed to go out of fashion because their licensed freedom of expression was calculated to lead to social liberty. At first, a sarcasm from an equal may have only been considered as an insult; “yet conversation,” says Southey, “wanted its pepper and vinegar and mustard,” and so Fools were allowed to make the seasoning. When freedom of speech became vulgar (that is, popular or general), the Fool, as such, began to disappear. The term is sometimes applied in a singular sense. Thus “Fools’ Pence” was the name given to a tax once levied on the astrologers of Alexandria, because of the gain of their own ingenious folly derived from fools.
It is to be observed too that people themselves have been as sovereigns who possessed their witty fools to teach them lessons of wisdom. Such servants of the public are to be recognised in Menenius Agrippa, when he taught the rebellious commons the respective duties of governors and governed, by repeating to them the apt allegory of “The Belly and the Members;” and in Themistocles, when, to the over-taxed citizens who wished to introduce a new element into the government, he wittily told, how once a fox entangled in a bog, was soon covered by flies who sucked nearly half the blood out of his body. A hedgehog who came near, politely offered to drive the flies away. “No, no,” said the45 sly yet suffering fox, “if these be driven away who are well-nigh glutted, there will come a new, hungry set, ten times more greedy and devouring.” Another sample we have in the case of Sertorius, who showed how much wit was better than strength, by citing the case of two men who were set to see who could get off the tail of a horse in the shortest time. One pulled at the whole tail, and pulled in vain. The other easily conquered by taking the tail of his horse and plucking out the hairs, one at a time. There was very much of this sort of instruction imparted by “fools” to princes, and by enlightened men to people, when prince and people equally objected to have their prejudices bruised by the bitter balsam of advice.
In the courts of princes and the houses of wealthy men were to be found fools of various sorts, according to the taste of the lord. Some were coarse, rude, licentious fellows. Others were refined of speech, acute of observation, quick at repartee, of much learning, and of great memory. Others again were monstrous deformities, or beasts of stupendous appetite, to contemplate whom was very good mirth to melancholy lords of evil digestions and twisted minds.
Some princes chose not to be in the fashion at all, and to keep no retained fool at their Court. Charles Louis, Electoral Prince of the Rhine, was one of these. “How is it,” asked a friend, “that your serene greatness does not keep a court fool?” “Well, it’s easily accounted for,” answered the Prince; “when I am inclined to laugh, I send for a couple of professors from college, set them at an argument, and laugh at their folly.”
More than one German prince either feared or despised the “learned fool.” Fl?gel tells us of one, near whose castle lived a reverend pastor who, because he knew a little of the Hebrew grammar, of which no one in the vicinity knew Aleph from Gimmel, thought himself a prodigy, and all the rest of the world, asses. He never preached a sermon46 without impressing on the bumpkins the advantages of being acquainted with the Hebrew grammar; and half the lords in the country went to hear him as fool-general of the district. It happened that, on one occasion, the chief lord went to the church, to stand godfather to the schoolmaster’s child; and as the noble gentleman was a bachelor, it became the duty of the pastor, according to custom, to examine him as to his religious principles. We have all heard of the too-polite English vicar, who, churching a countess, said, “Lord, save this lady, thy servant;” and of his equally civil clerk, who, not to be outdone in politeness, responded, “Who putteth her ladyship’s trust in thee!” It was some such courtesy that was paid by the pastor to his lord. He would not, as with common peasants, try him in the Catechism, but inquired, with a sort of dignified familiarity, “Young Sir, may I ask you, what you are?”
“Certainly,” said the noble godfather; “I am a fool!”
“Oh fie!” whispered the pastor; adding aloud, “I mean, what is your belief?”
“Well, my belief is that you are as great a fool as I am.”
“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed the pastor, who remembered his knowledge of the Hebrew grammar; “that cannot be.”
“Ay, but it is so,” said the noble catechumen. “The biggest fools are always the last to acknowledge the fact.”
And thereat, all the grand and the common people present burst into a loud laugh; and the courteous godfather shook them again by the observation, that no fool at Court was ever half so pleasant a fool, as a fool in a cassock!
The Court, however, would seem to have had the advantage, for there, it was popularly said, were always to be found two fools,—of whom, the Prince treated one just as he pleased; and the other treated the Prince just as it pleased him.
Some writer, since Epictetus, who was among the first to call man the solitary laughing animal, has remarked that47 “brutes never make themselves ridiculous; that is the peculiar prerogative of man. The former, in their strangest vagaries, act according to nature; while the latter, in trying to go beyond her, render themselves contemptible in the eyes of others, just in proportion as they excel in their own.” Notwithstanding this, the practice of Wit and Jesting was once no unprofitable profession. The profession changed, and the practice was modified. Professor Miller, in his ‘Historical View of the English Government,’ comes to the conclusion that jesters and the ludicrous pastimes of former ages were exploded “by the higher advances of civilization and refinement,” which contributed also, he thinks, “to weaken the propensity to every species of humorous exhibition.” But, he adds, “though the circumstances and manners of a polished nation are adverse to the cultivation of humour, they are peculiarly calculated to promote the circulation and improvement of wit.” The full passage may be found quoted in Sydney Smith’s ‘Lectures on Moral Philosophy,’ in one of which he combats the Professor’s assertion, by maintaining that as civilization improves the mind, true humour is better appreciated under a high than under a low degree of civilization. Idle and illiterate nobles under the latter, could enjoy the coarse jokes and tumbles of the professional jester, but idle people who are also intellectual people “must either be amused or expire with gaping.” The humour that will be acceptable to these civilized yawners must be, we are told, “of a different complexion from what would pass current in more barbarous times; it must be the humour of the mind, not the humour of the body. It must be devoid of every shade of buffoonery and grimace, and managed with a great degree of delicacy and skill. Civilization improves the humour, but I can hardly allow that it diminishes it. I am strongly inclined to think there will be more humour, more agreeable raillery, and more48 facetious remark displayed between seven and ten o’clock this evening, in the innumerable dinners which are to be eaten by civilized people in this vast city, than ten months could have produced in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth or Henry VII.” This is very high authority, and even to express a doubt of it may seem justly to expose him who entertains the doubt, to a charge of presumption. Let the great men of the respective periods be reckoned, and it could hardly be proved that the “Table Talk” of the age of Elizabeth was not as brilliant as that of her cherished successor, Victoria. Take, for instance, the reign of Queen Elizabeth, when “Fools” had not yet disappeared from Court, and I think it will be conceded that at the Cabinet or general dinners of such Prime Ministers as Bacon, Burleigh, or Sackville, the company was likely to be as good, the wit as genial, and the humour as genuine, as at any of the banquets,—Cabinet, general, or “fish dinner” at Greenwich,—which have been presided over by the Victoria Premiers, Melbourne, Peel, or Russell, Derby, Aberdeen, or Palmerston. Then, as for the better taste of our higher civilization, it is not favourably illustrated in the national love for Christmas pantomimes, the Fool’s portion of which has neither wit nor decency, but is dull, dreary, and disgusting; but which seems, nevertheless, to be as generally venerated by this highly polished nation, as the horrid Bel and the hideous Dragon were by the elegant Babylonians.
About the middle of the sixteenth century, the favour which official jesters enjoyed at Court and in noble houses,—far beyond that granted to more worthy men,—excited the disapprobation of many observant commentators. There was then no better way of amusing an aristocratic company on a dull evening, in a dreary castle, than by having the fool into the hall, and allowing him full license to attack old and young, married and single, lovers and enemies. Sir Cockscomb delighted in scandal, and he sometimes, nay very49 often, told stories which made the matrons look down at the keys hanging from their girdles, the maidens hide their faces as best they could, and the noble gentlemen laugh loudly and fling commendations at the jester.
Some of this gentry, on whom their uncultivated betters depended for amusement, appear to have been a species of mountebanks, often performing tricks which are only now accomplished by parti-coloured “artists” in equestrian circles. The fool who could most wonderfully distort his body, squint most horribly, turn his face to his back, and bend himself as if he were made of nothing but one wonderful series of joints,—such a fool was accounted next in merit to his witty cousin.
And, if the fool pleased everybody,—on the other hand, it was necessary that everybody should please the fool, at least if he had business that he wished should prosper with the fool’s master. Access to the latter was chiefly to be had through Sir Knave, a word from whom was often most effective in bringing about conclusions. The fool often sat near his patron at table when philosophers stood humbly in the background, and courtiers laughed servilely at the jokes, good or bad, made by “Cap-and-bells” at their expense.
At Courts where several fools were retained, the master of his company felt as much above his followers as an old Drury tragedian above a Dunstable actor. He strutted like a peacock, and thought himself an elephant, when he was only an ass. There was great diversity, however, among them. Ordinarily, a clever lord preferred a clever fool, and the dull lord, who could neither read nor write, found the same sort of retainer a necessity. Thus the fool of merit, according to his profession, was the ablest man at Court; and his superiors in rank were his inferiors in intellect. As Swift remarks, “In Comedy, the best actor plays the part of the droll, while some second rogue is made the hero or fine50 gentleman. So, in this farce of life, wise men pass their time in mirth, while fools only are serious.”
Greatly respected as was the privilege of the fool to speak the truth on all occasions, whoever might wince under it, the unrestrained use of such a privilege often brought the merry speaker in danger of cudgel or dagger. There is a story of a fool at a continental Court, in early days, who stirred up all the wrath that could be contained in the heart of the Lord Chamberlain, by so exact an imitation of his voice, and so sarcastic a description of his character, as to excite roars of laughter in every soul in the banqueting room, from the sovereign beneath the da?s to the scullion at the door, waiting for the dirty plates. The angry Chamberlain encountered Sir Fool an hour afterwards, when he communicated to the latter his intention, at fitting opportunity, to see if a few inches of his poniard could not stop the loquacious folly of the other for ever. The merry-andrew flew to his princely master, and sought protection for his life.
“Be of good heart, merry cock!” said the prince; “if the Chamberlain dares run his dagger into your throat, his throat shall be in a halter the day after. I will hang him as high as Haman.”
“Ah, father!” cried the jester, “the day after has but promise of sorry consolation in it. He may thrust his knife between my ribs tomorrow;—and couldn’t you hang him the day before?”B
Some describers of old court manners assure us that there was often more wise and profitable counsel to be found under the cap and bells of the jester, than under many a mantle which hung from the neck of venerable statesmen. Fl?gel, on the authority of Don Sylvio di Rosalva, says this was especially the case in Spain. It appears to have been also the case in other places, for when a Venetian ambassador, endeavouring to dissuade Louis XII. from making war51 against Venice, spoke of the wisdom of the Republic, Louis replied, “J’opposerai un si grand nombre de fous à vos sages, que toute leur sagesse sera incapable de les résister.”
Under another method of expression, Erasmus utters a similar sentiment. He points out that the wisest men have been the worst governors of states; that the greatest orators were the most easily put out of countenance; and that the most able statesmen had fools for their sons. Tully’s son, Marcus, we are told, was a fool, although he was bred at Athens; and the children of Socrates had more of their mother than of their father. Pericles was a great man, but his two sons were known by the unpleasant appellation of Βλιτομ?μαι, or “Boobies.” A similar name, indeed, used to be applied to the whole people of Brabant, of whom it was said, “The older they are, the greater fools they are.”
As every fashion has its detractors, so the fashion of fools could not escape the censure of those who did not care to be in the mode. The Emperor Henry III., surnamed the Black, could never comprehend the use of a court fool,—a licensed scoundrel, his Majesty said, who often obtained for his nonsense rewards that had never properly been showered on the benefactors of mankind. Frederick Barbarossa had an insurmountable dislike for court fools and proud courtiers. Nevertheless he had both about him; and one of the former, on one occasion, did not hesitate to risk his own life, in order to save that of his imperial and not over-grateful master. Several other Teutonic potentates shared in this distaste for the cockscomb wearers,—perhaps, because they could not tolerate unpalatable truths; and Christian I. of Denmark once sharply remarked, on a presentation to him of several court fools, that he was not in want of such things, and if he were, he had only to give license to his courtiers, who, to his certain knowledge, were capable of exhibiting themselves as the greatest fools in Europe.
Fools were free to speak before there was a liberty of the52 press, or even a press at all. But it was Frederick William I., King of Prussia, who placed his fools under censorship. They dared not speak without thinking, which, time out of mind, has been the privilege of your fool; and if their wit offended against good manners, they ran good chance of a whipping. It was probably to hold the freedom of the sprightly corporation in check that Philander von Sittewald invented and described the Hell of Fools, which he is supposed to have visited. The locality, we are told, was like the cellar of a palace, which was crowded with Zanies, condemned to hear for ever, and to burst with envy at, each other’s jokes. The retribution and the sarcasm are equally severe. The severity of the former is only inferior to that developed in another German idea, whereby, in the next world, all inefficient clergymen are condemned to read all the bad sermons ever printed in this.
We are not without instances in which the offices of preacher and fool have been exercised by the same individual. In the seventeenth century there was a preacher, named Schwab, at one of the German Courts, who was as much skilled in laying a cloth for dinner as in the construction of his sermons. These were never serious, but they were sometimes long. When the latter was the case, the not too pious Prince would interrupt the preacher in full career, and without waiting for the blessing, would roar aloud, “John, John, get ye down and lay the cloth!”—a command which met with a joke, by way of benediction, and instant obedience.
John evidently had not the fool’s license of speech, or he might have improved the occasion. And this reminds me of a passage and an illustration in Osborn’s Letters to his Son, which have reference to this very subject, and are well worthy of being quoted. “’Tis not dutiful,” says Osborn, “nor safe, to drive your prince by a witty answer beyond all possibility of reply; it being more excusable to appear rich53 than wise at the prejudice of one in superlative power, who have their ears so continually softened by flattery, as they easier bear diminutions in their treasure, which they look upon as below and without them, than in wit, handsomeness, horsemanship, etc., which their parasites have long made them believe are inherent in them. This, a carver at court, formerly in good esteem with King James (I.), found to his prejudice, who being laughed at by him for saying the Wing of the Rabbit, maintained it as congruous as the Fore Leg of the Capon, a phrase used in Scotland, and by himself here, which put the King so out of patience as he never looked on the gentleman more. The like I have been told of a bishop who, being reproved for preaching against the papists, during the treaty with Spain, replied, he could never say more than his Majesty had writ. ‘Go thy way,’ quoth the King, ‘and expect thy new translation in Heaven, not from me’—meaning he would never better his see. This humour makes these terrestrial gods more auspicious to fools than those Solomon saith are able to render a reason.”
There are instances, too, where the remark of the wit, or the professional jester, has enlightened while it amused the monarch. We have such an instance in the case of one of the Kings of Persia who wished his people to enjoy the benefits of instruction. Schools were established, and amongst others, the court fool commenced to learn spelling. But we are told that at the very commencement of his progress, at the first junction of syllables and vowels, he opened the Koran, and pointed out to his Sovereign the passage in which Mahomet forbids the payment of impost to the kings of the earth. The fool’s vigilance kept the people in ignorance and under taxation.
May we not reasonably conclude that there was once considerable dignity attached to the office of fool, seeing that many ancient families bore the insignia of fools in their arms? The chief of these was the family of Briesach, long54 since extinct; and indeed I only know one house now existing whose crest seems to intimate some connection with the old jester, or some love of “short, brilliant folly.” I allude to the House of Orford (Walpole). The crest is a male bust, on whose head is the old official fool’s cap, rising from a coronet. The motto also seems to bear reference to the circumstance; for Fari qu? sentias, “Speak what you think,” was exactly the injunction suited to the court jester.
It must, however, be observed that even the jester, licensed as he was, could not always do this without watching his opportunity, and the license at one court was different from that at another. It was just the same regarding courtiers and their homage to sovereigns. As Chesterfield reminds his son, it was respectful to bow to the King of England, but at that time it was rather a rudeness than otherwise to bow to the King of France.
And now let us contemplate the outward presence of the official fool. From the oldest period, the jester is represented bald, and wise men, monks at least, adopted the fashion. They shaved their heads, like fools, says Agrippa, in his discourse on Vanity. The fashion, however, was very ancient. The Greek Gelatopoios (laughter-maker), the Mimes, and the Moriones, are never represented otherwise but bald.
As with the natural, so with the artificial covering of the head, the fools and the monks followed, or nearly followed, one mode. The hood attached to the cloak was the covering for a fool, with an addition signified in a remark of Erasmus, that the Franciscans only wanted asses’ ears and bells, to look like fools by profession. The Franciscans would seem to have intended some such profession, for they called themselves Mundi Moriones, or Fools of the World. And it was not an unusual thing to meet with highly religious persons who styled themselves, some, “God’s Fools,” others, “Christ’s Fools.” Thus, in 1382, Conrad von Queinfurt,55 a priest, prays in his epitaph, “Christe, tuum Mimum salvum facias!” As a jester would address a sovereign to have mercy on his poor fool, so did Conrad address Christ. This fashion was adopted by Homagius, in 1609; when that pious personage called himself, “Fool in the Court of God,” or “God’s Court Fool.”
The ass’s ears further distinguished our ancient and merry friend. The Vice in old English plays wore a fool’s cap with ears, a long jacket, and at his side a wooden sword. Learned men have looked into Greek, and found there the origin of this word Vice. But, as far as it signifies this dramatic fool, Fl?gel’s derivation of it, from the old Frank word Vis (phiz), a face, a mask, may be accepted. Visdase, another old word for fool, is derived by Ménage from “Vis d’ane” (ass-face), and Vizard is a known term amongst ourselves for the mask or counterfeit representation, usually comic, of a face.
This derivation seems more satisfactory than that given by Upton, who tells us that “Old Vice was a droll character in our old plays, accoutred with a long coat, a cap, a pair of ass’s ears, and a dagger of lath. This buffoon character was used to make fun with the devil; and he had several trite expressions, as, ‘I’ll be with you in a trice. Ah, hah, boy, are you there?’ etc.; and this was great entertainment to the audience, to see their old enemy so belaboured in effigy. Vice seems to be an abbreviation of Vice-devil,—as Vice-roy, Vice-doge, etc., and therefore called, very properly, ‘The Vice.’ He makes very free with his master, like most other Vice-roys or Prime Ministers, so that he is the devil’s Vice, or Prime Minister. And,” adds Mr. Upton, “this it is which makes him so saucy.”
In that dialogue of which Erasmus is the author, called the ‘Franciscani,’ Conrad, the monk, asks Pandocheus, “Are not fools dressed otherwise than wise men?” “Well,” says Pandocheus, “I do not know which dress would be most suitable for you; but you only lack long ears and56 little bells, to look like the fools themselves.” “Ay,” replied Conrad, “we have not those adornments, and we are plainly fools as regards the things of this world; if we are what we profess to be.” “I know nothing about that,” rejoins Pandocheus; “but I do know that there are many fools, with elongated ears and tinkling bells, who are far wiser men than they who wear the whole insignia of a doctor.” He even goes so far as to assert, that there were some who outdid the University philosophers in their lectures, and who, of course, were twenty times as amusing;—the cockscomb outdoing the doctoral hat.
The cockscomb which surmounted the headpiece of the fool, is too familiar to require description. Its antiquity however is undoubted, since Lucian describes, in his ‘Lapith?,’ the appearance of a jester with closely-shorn head, except at the top, where it was left in the form of the “comb” which decorates the head of the cock.
The fool carried a stick, staff, or club, which, according to Fl?gel, was originally nothing more than the plant (Typha Linn?i) which grows in marshes, and which was commonly known as the fools’ club, or sceptre. It was afterwards usual to furnish the jester with one made of leather, something in the shape of Hercules’ club, with a loop to hang it from the arm. It was such an emblem of his vocation as this that a fool once received from his lord, with the command never to give it up except to a greater fool than himself. Some months after, the donor fell ill, the doctor visited him frequently, and the latter being asked on one occasion of his leaving the house, what he thought of the patient, roughly answered, “He’ll be off soon; he won’t stop here long.”
The fool heard the words, ran into the stables, and seeing no preparation for departure, shook his head as if perplexed. The next day, he heard a similar remark from the doctor,—again looked into the stables, and observing all quiet there, went up to the chamber of his sick master.
57 “The doctor,” whispered he, “declares that you are going to leave us. How long will you be away, master mine? a year?”
“Longer, much longer, merry friend,” said the lord. “So long, that coming back is out of all question.”
“But I see no preparation in the stables—”
“No, nor elsewhere!” groaned the sick man.
“Then I beg to give you my club,” said the jester; “for if you are setting out on a journey which you know you must make, and from which you also know you will never come back, and all this without getting anything ready for it, assuredly, master, you are a greater fool than I. But, perhaps, it is not too late for remedy.”
It is said that the poor fool’s words touched the rich man’s heart, and that the latter, by prayer, prepared for his own journey; and by will provided for the comfort of those of his kin and household who were to tarry here, till summoned to tread the same inevitable road.
The club and the fool’s whip are supposed by some to have descended from the old wooden sword of the comic actor. To these two succeeded the slender staff with the fool’s head delicately carved at the top, which remained one of the signs of his office till the office itself had passed away. The broad frill was probably not adopted by the fool until the exaggeration of fashion had rendered it ridiculous. It still lingers round the necks of Scaramouch, Pierrot, and others of the family “Stultorum.”
Lastly, a fool was only half a fool without his bells. To show whence this ornament was derived, Fl?gel has ransacked libraries, and displayed a stupendous amount of learning to remarkably little purpose;—if that purpose were, to determine why they were worn by jesters. It is going to a period more than sufficiently remote, to say, that golden bells hung from the robe of the Jewish High Priest, and not for ornament only. They told of his presence; they58 rang man to thoughts of God; they rang away all the ill words that had fallen from human tongues; they represented the divine shadow; they warned men of death;—these and a hundred other significations have been found in the golden bells of the solemn High Priest.
Further, the Eastern kings, and especially the Persian, were as famous for the bells they wore as the lady in the ballad about Banbury Cross. It was but the other day that the ex-Queen of Oude was received by our own Sovereign Lady, when the head-dress or crown of the former was remarkable for its number of jingling ornaments, which sounded like bells. Christian bishops early adopted this mode, and for many centuries subsequent to this, the pictures of some of the greatest personages, male and female, royal and noble, represent them with bells of fine fashion, attached to neck-chains, bracelets, or girdle. Knights wore them on their armour, ladies on their zones; and people who were in the very highest of the mode attached them to their shoes. When this was the custom, the continual jingle at tournament or ball must have been deafening; and, what was worse, if cavalier and demoiselle bethought themselves of taking a quiet walk together beneath the oaks in the woods, every rustic near was made the confidant of the pleasant matter, as far as bells could do it. The folly of this was so patent, that we cannot wonder at fools mounting the bells in their caps.
Indeed, they mounted them not only in their caps, but on every part of the body. This was especially the case in the fifteenth century, when the fashion of wearing bells was abandoned to the professional merry-men. The mode itself, too, would seem to have prevailed in the East. As late as the seventeenth century, Tartar princes seldom stirred abroad in their barbaric splendour without a little knot of quaintly-dressed “Chaouls,” or fools, running in front of the gorgeous company, at whose every step the bells attached to their shoulders,59 knees, elbows, ankles, etc., jingled merrily. The Chaouls excited the mirth of their rather moody masters by satirical songs as they went along. In this latter custom we find a trace of the old usage of the Roman imperial soldiery who, at the ovations of Emperors, enjoyed full license of tongue, and took advantage of the triumph of their lord, to pelt him in rude songs with sly, rather than censuring, remarks alluding to his known or supposed vices. Suetonius furnishes us with more than one example of this sort.
As it was said in the olden time that there was no feast without a Levite, so, at a later period, there was no festival without a fool. That the latter custom proved a lack of civilization may perhaps be seen in the fact, that among savage nations a somewhat similar custom prevails. In its extreme form we find it among the old Kamtchatkans, whose gala days were rendered doubly joyous by the performances of the jesters by vocation. One sample however of the jokes of these gentlemen may suffice. This consists in harnessing themselves to sledges like dogs; by their close imitation of which animal in every respect, they excited roars of laughter from their not too delicate audience.
The fools who bustled about on the tournament ground of our knightly forefathers, were less gross in their merriment. They were for ever busy, before, during, and after the contest. While it was raging, they performed the part of the ancient Chorus, making sharp remarks on the proceedings, now full of pity, anon exulting; and as ready to help a favourite knight to victory, as to tender succour to his foe when fallen.
The year 1480 was, in one sense, the very jubilee year of German fools. It was then that took place the famous tournament described by Marx Walther, at which were present not less than fifteen professional fools, in splendid but grotesque uniform. Two of these were mounted, and headed the respective companies of opposing knights, playing60 lustily the while on screeching bagpipes. It was their delight to raise the wildest screaming from these instruments, as the adversaries rushed to the combat. They might not hope to frighten the knights, but they often succeeded in frightening the horses; at which, loudly laughed the gentle company. Of the remainder of the grotesque children of folly, eleven were engaged in racing, leaping, tumbling, and wildly joking. The remaining two galloped about the arena, sometimes with young fools, sometimes young nobles, on their backs. These fought their mock tournaments; and as the fools went prancing to the charge and rolled over one another in the dust, amid volleys of jokes of every possible description, the spectators condescended to be amused therewith till sterner fighters took the scene, and the breath which had been wasted in laughter, was now held in suspense.
While the combat was proceeding, the most restless of the fools would perhaps try to seek repose with his head reclining on a tin pot, into which, as he remarked, he had stuffed a whole sack-full of feathers to render his pillow softer. When a knight was slain, the fool had at his service a brief epitaph: “Here you are, gentle Sir, quiet for once in your lifetime!” These jokes of the old arena descended to the clowns of the circus; and manuals of wit continue to make mention of their sallies.
The descent was natural enough. As noble lords and ladies patronized fools who figured in the lists, so common people welcomed them at their village festivals. Some districts kept their own fools. There were others who raised to that distinction any “poor natural” of the locality, out of whose peculiarities or infirmities it was possible to extract something to laugh at. In some places, fools were hired on great occasions, to amuse a company unable to amuse itself. In the sixteenth century this appears to have been the case at notable Greek weddings in the Levant.61 Schweigger describes the nuptial feast (at which he was present) in 1578, of a patriarchal protonotary with a certain Irene Moschini, at which all the jollity was produced by a Jewish fool and other hirelings of the like amusing vocation.
The Jews themselves employed jesters to enliven their own wedding feasts. This was the case in Silesia as late as the last century. The company sat gravely enough till the indispensable jokers and tumblers were introduced, and then the fun was of the oddest, if not most refined, sort. But the Silesian Jews were a simple people, unacquainted with the mendacity and dreariness of wedding-breakfast speeches. Their fools had full license to abuse truth, but not to be dreary.
In passing now to the fools of different courts and localities, I will, by the way, notice a class which may claim precedence, by right of sex. I therefore proceed to say a few words of the Female Fools.