The History of Court Fools. Dr. Doran
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 the 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 rich 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, long 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 quæ 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, 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, Flögel’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’âne” (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 and little bells, to look like the fools themselves.” “Ay,” replied Conrad, “we