The jokes of Nanni, son of the Spider, for a long time formed all the history, literature, and amusement of Negro circles. A thousand times over have his tricks been told and acted, in a semi-dramatic way, to delighted groups of swarthy listeners beneath the African moon. I may notice that the story-teller has always been a greater favourite in Africa than the mere jester. I remember, indeed, having read of one potentate, the Kaffir chief Tshaka, or Chaka, who would tolerate neither, at his horridly solemn court. On one occasion, however, and in full council, a merry fellow gave utterance to a frolicsome thought which he could not repress. It succeeded admirably,—gloomy king and grave counsellors were thrown into the most convulsive hilarity. When they had all recovered, the chief, pointing towards the jester, showed his grateful sense of a rare delight, by exclaiming, “Take that dog out, and kill him; he has made me laugh!”
To make his patron laugh was the especial and variously-rewarded vocation of the jester whom I now proceed to introduce to my readers. The English Court Fool was a very peculiar fellow, and in the history of some members of the order of Motley, in this country, there are incidents unparalleled in the history of the official jesters of any other nation. Let us see whence they came, as well as who they were.
ENGLISH MINSTREL AND JESTER.
All writers who have taken the ancient English minstrels for a subject, agree in stating that the old Saxon invaders of our land brought with them bards, and a profound reverence for the bards themselves and the art they professed. These highly-esteemed personages were rhyming historians, chroniclers, theologians, and philosophers. They held the key, or, what was the same thing to them, men believed that they held the key, of many secrets appertaining, not only to earth, but heaven. They were mighty personages in their day; but they could not withstand a ray from the Star of Bethlehem. When the Saxons became Christians, or at least professed Christianity, the vocation of the old, mysterious, rapt, inspired bard, with his eternal memory of the past, and his prophetic view into a long future, was entirely gone. He had been a sort of god, and he became a mortal who sang for hire. The Jupiter of yesterday was now, in most cases, and in most men’s eyes, only a Jupiter Scapin.
In most cases, but not in all; for, such as were scholars among the bards devoted themselves to the cultivation of poetry. There were others, like the early German jester who remarked that he did not know the Lord’s Prayer, but only the tune of it. They had more music in their souls,—such as the music was, and such as their souls were,—than religion. These turned minstrels, and sang and played for a reward.
With the superior class above noticed, I have nothing further to do; but have to keep companionship with the hired minstrel,—or the itinerating minstrel, who exercised his vocation for bread. The latter was not altogether wanting to the Anglo-Saxon, previous to the period of their conversion. The native gleeman who then exercised his welcome office, is described by Dr. Lingard, in his ‘History and Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church,’ as being a minstrel who was “either attached to the service of a particular chieftain, or wandering from place to place, and subsisting on the bounty of his hearers.” Mr. Eccleston, in his ‘Introduction to English Antiquities,’ describes the gleeman as all-important to the in-door life of the Anglo-Saxons, before whom he “sang, played, danced, and performed sleight-of-hand tricks for the pleasure of the company.” This would hardly seem to show that the gleeman was, as some have asserted, of a higher grade than the common minstrel of later years. It is certain that he was the popular minstrel of his day; his songs were sung in castle and farmyard; and when the great St. Adhelm was sensible of a call to preaching, and was desirous of getting together a congregation, he knew no better method than to assume the character of the gleeman. Thus accoutred, harp in hand, he would station himself at some cross-road, or at the corner of a bridge, and rattle forth a series of popular songs on passing and popular subjects. He soon drew an audience around him; and when he had fairly got them into a train of attention, he would gradually slip away from his comic songs and lively airs on the harp, and fulfil his office of Christian missionary, with as much success as he had played that of the vivacious gleeman.
There is another legend, showing how the guise of the minstrel was assumed for a different purpose. The legend to which I allude is that of Alfred entering the Danish camp in this false character, and spying out the weakness of his enemies, while he amused them with his songs to the harp. The story is altogether apocryphal, and was never heard of in Alfred’s time, nor till two centuries had elapsed since his death. It is certain that Alfred could not have safely entered the camp as a Saxon; and if he found admission as a Dane, his accent would have betrayed him as a spy. It has been suggested, that if he ever went at all, he went as a mimus, or buffoon (a word which had already been applied to minstrels), and that he amused his fierce enemies by the ordinary tricks, tumblings, and other performances of the jester.
For, in course of time, minstrel and buffoon came to be terms of much the same signification. This we find by another popular legend, which is supposed to have very little truth for a basis;—namely, the legend which tells of the faithful Blondel de Nesle, minstrel to King Richard I., seeking for his captured master, and discovering him by means of a song, sung outside the prison, to which the royal captive answered from within. Whether this story be true or not, it was accepted as truth at an early period, and in ‘Les Soirées de Guillaume Bouchet,’ we find, as a comment upon it, the following query:—“I just beg to ask you, if the wisest man in the world could have done more for his master; and if this buffoon of a minstrel (ce boufon de ménestrier) was not of more profit to King Richard, his lord, than the wisest scholars at court.”
For a long period, the minstrel seems to have been very well paid for the exercise of his art, at least in presence of royalty. At the marriage of the Countess of Holland, daughter of Edward I., every king-minstrel present received forty shillings! This guerdon, represented in modern money, would be not much under as many pounds sterling in value. The above was, perhaps, an exceptional occasion; but even the ordinary guerdon, of twenty and thirty shillings for a single night’s attendance, shows at what an early period the musical profession was exorbitantly remunerated;—for the individuals here alluded to were actual cantatores, and not mere joculatores.