The History of Court Fools

by Dr. Doran

The Court always thought better of them than the Church. “Actors and jesters,” says John of Salisbury (1160 circ.), “may not be admitted to the Sacrament.—Histriones et mimi non possunt recipere sacram Communionem.” And forty years later, there were some people who as much objected to marry their daughters to the King’s jesters, as the coachman of George II. did to his son marrying a maid-of-honour. One of the Pipe Rolls, supposed to be of the date of 1200, informs us that “Nicola, wife of Girard of Canville, accounts to the King for one hundred marks, for the privilege of marrying her daughter Maud to whatever person she pleases,—the King’s jester excepted—exceptis mimicis Regis. The mimici, whatever their exact office was, had as part of their duty, evidently, to amuse the King (John), and they would appear, from the reference made to them, to have been but a disreputable set of fellows. They were probably a sort of actors,—pantomimic, if not altogether dramatic;—for the descent of the ancient minstrel through poet and player to mere jester, is easy to be traced in the history of the profession in nearly every nation.

As I have but recently remarked, however, the minstrel proper, as well as he who joined gestas and joculatoria to his minstrelsy, was very much better paid than the clergy. Just so in the present day: we pay a tenore robusto a higher salary than the State awards to a general-in-chief or an admiral of the fleet, while a curate is more shabbily rewarded than the handicraftsman who makes his garments. To be sure, the “tenore robusto” can sing, while not one in ten of our curates knows how to read with effect. Perhaps, for some such reason, the minstrels of old had the advantage of the priest. Warton, in his second volume, notices the presence, in 1430, of a dozen priests and a dozen minstrels, at the festival of the Holy Cross at Abingdon. Both parties sang their best; but the clerics only received fourpence apiece for their pains, while the more lucky minstrels, who probably had some good jests for the Prior’s table, afterwards, received two shillings and fourpence each, and food for man and horse. Eleven years later, we are told of a feast held at the Priory of Maxtoke, near Coventry. Eight priests from Coventry were present, and half-a-dozen Mimi. The latter were players and jesters belonging to Lord Clinton, of Maxtoke. Well, priests and mimes sang, harped, and played, or sported,—the latter doubtless being the additional work of the “Mimi,” while the monks enjoyed themselves in the refectory. The Mimes received four shillings each, but the priests were supposed to be sufficiently well paid with just half the sum. Some such difference will be found by future examiners of court account-rolls regarding the payment of foreign and English singers of a very much later period. But, to return to the festival at Maxtoke, it is further to be observed, that the poor priests had no further compliment paid them, whereas the Sub-Prior invited Lord Clinton’s Mimi to sup with him “in the painted chamber,” and the chamberlain did honour to the occasion by putting eight massy wax tapers on the board. The incidents of this convent supper have not been recorded, but we may, without being uncharitable, judge them to have been of the jolliest aspect, with the Sub-Prior in the chair! At what time Lord Clinton saw his Mimi return to his castle, is not stated. The only further incident we hear of the conventual body at Maxtoke is, that for a sermon preached before its members by a travelling “Doctor Prædicans,” the Prior paid the preacher with sixpence! But, on consideration, that may have been as much as the sermon was worth.

If any doubt could exist of the identity of the minstrel and the jester, it might be removed by remembering that the jester alone had free access to the King, at any hour of the day or night, without let or hindrance, and without his being required to make previous application for permission. I believe no other official could enter the King’s chamber uninvited, unlicensed, or unannounced. Now I find the Serjeant Minstrel of King Edward IV. doing this, and on a very critical occasion. The King was in the North. The year was 1470; Edward had just quelled, or checked, the Lincolnshire insurrection, and he was passing his time in York, in gallantries and amusements, while Warwick was proclaiming Henry VI. One night his Serjeant Minstrel, Alexander Carlisle, rushed into the room where the monarch lay in bed, and bade him instantly arise, for enemies were abroad, and it would be well for him to be on the alert. We shall find a similar bold service enacted by the jester of William of Normandy, when we come to make record of the individual jesters, rather than of their profession generally. The above incident will help to show the identity of minstrel and jester; and the fact that Richard II., when he went to Ireland, had not only minstrels, but harpers, in his train, will serve to prove that the former was not identical with the latter. The minstrel, indeed, sang or acted, or did both, some Gest or story, from Scripture or romance. Hence probably the English term Jester,—originally the reciter and actor of some made-up poetical legend, with incidents added according to the taste of the hearers. The harper probably only accompanied the reciter of the Gest on his instrument.

It is not my province to narrate the history of the professional minstrel. It must suffice here to say, that they who commenced like gods, sank in course of time to a very degraded condition. The minstrels certainly belonged to the class of poor jokers about the time the law began to treat them as vagabonds. I can adduce an instance in the case of Richard Sheale, the author of one of the versions of the ballad of ‘Chevy Chace.’ Sheale was a minstrel by profession, and his home was at Tamworth, on the borders of Staffordshire and Warwickshire. Mr. R. White, in his Appendix to his ‘History of the Battle of Otterburn,’ affords us the following glimpse into the private and public life of this minstrel. “His wife was a ‘sylke woman,’ who sold shirts, head-clothes, laces, etc., at the fairs of Lichfield and other neighbouring towns. Being once in possession of above threescore pounds,—a large amount in those days,—and intending probably to settle various accounts contracted by his wife in her business, he left Tamworth on horseback, having his harp with him, and had the misfortune to be robbed by four villains who had lain in wait for him near Dunsmore Heath. The grief of his wife and himself at his loss—the coldness of worldly friends—the kindness of his patrons—the exertions of his loving neighbours at Tamworth, who induced him to brew a bushel of malt, and sell the ale for his benefit—and his appeal to the public for assistance, that he might clear off encumbrances, are all related in his ‘Chaunt,’ and show him to have been a simple, harmless man. But both this poem and the ‘Farewell’ afford humiliating evidence of the sorry life to which the poor minstrels were subjected in the early part of Queen Elizabeth’s reign.”

But leaving the descent of the English jester from the minstrel, or the question of their identity, to be decided upon by my readers, let us turn to the English poets for such information as they can afford us. The incidents there to be found in connection with this question, have doubtless reference to the English “fool” alone, in whatever country the poet may have located him. We meet with him however in England, in the tragedy of King Lear. The relation of fool and master, not a relation of the period of the play, but of a much later age, is very distinctly marked. Lear strikes a gentleman, only for chiding Lear’s fool; but the King keeps a whip for the latter, to be used when the jester’s truths smacked rudely, or were thrust forward unnecessarily. And these truths are occasionally of the very roughest quality, as, for instance, when the fool tells Lear, that he had given away all his titles save “fool,”—the one he was born with.

It is perhaps more by the comment of the jester than by the conduct of the King’s daughters, that Lear has fully revealed to him his state of terrible destitution; and if it be not an old traditionary saying of some jester, the advice is admirably in the jester’s way, which shows that if a man would rise in the world, it were better for him to let go a descending wheel, and to hang to one going up-hill.

The Yorick of Hamlet is probably a reminiscence of an English jester. He had carried the young prince on his back a thousand times, and the childish cavalier had kissed the merriest of fellows often. These were common incidents in a family where there was a household fool. Yorick however poured a flagon of Rhenish on the head of the gravedigger; but an English joculator would have drunk off the wine, and broken the gravedigger’s head with the flagon.

The whip was certainly ever present in the house that held an official Motley, in spite of the boasted license of speech supposed to be enjoyed by the latter. Touchstone is told that he shall be whipped for taxation. His qualities are, being able to string rhymes together in a butter-woman’s jog-trot pace to market; he has a memory for old verses; is full of smart sayings against the corrupt in fine linen, and has the faculty of making an honest calling seem uncleanly. He is a droll sort of philosopher, with a taste of the knave in him; and so far imitates the vices of his patrons, by being marvellously ready to seduce and betray. Rosalind tells him that he speaks wiser than he is aware, which a fool only seemed to do: it was part of his office. One of his happiest expressions has often been uttered by travellers who have gone abroad only to be disappointed: “Here am I in Arden. The more fool I! When I was at home, I was in a better place!”

The Duke admirably describes a first-rate jester when he notices Touchstone as “swift and sententious,” and that he “wore his folly as a stalking-horse, and, under presentation of that, shoots his wit.” Touchstone too is a gentleman in his way, seeing that he has “undone three tailors!”

The cynicism of the English fool is no doubt alluded to in Timon of Athens, where he is looked upon as a form of the old cynic philosopher, as indeed he was everywhere. To a sharp sentence of the fool, the churlish sage remarks, “That answer might have become Apemantas.”