Taubman died in 1613. The professional fools increased after his death. The Elector John George I. maintained, in the year 1639, no less than three at the same time. Two of them were named Michael, and one Caspar; and from a tailor’s bill quoted by Flögel, it is very clear that, gay as the official dress may have been, it was often patched and turned, before a new one was given in its place.
But, as in the case of Taubman, so in this later period were poor and witty scholars welcome at the German courts. Bolla was one of these; he was an Italian, who had his home in the palace at Heidelberg, where he proved himself to be, what was commonly said of him, virum ad risum natum, a man born for laughter. He excelled in macaronic poetry, and not only accepted the name of fool, but begged for fool’s largess in very indifferent Latin verse,—of which here is a sample:—
“Amate semper vestrum zanum,
Sed aperite, vestro more, manum.
Hoc precatur vester zanus,
Corpore, non crumena sanus.”
It was not only the poor scholar that now was even more welcome for his wit than the official jester. As in Saxony, so in Poland, the liveliest sayings were uttered by non-professional individuals. At the courts in both places just named, the acknowledged court wit, for a long period, was Frederick, Baron of Kyau, who excelled, we are told, both as a general and as a joker. In the same list must be enrolled the Baron von Gundling, who commenced his career of eccentricity at the court of Frederick William I. of Prussia, at the commencement of the last century.
Von Gundling was a scholar and of good family, and he was chosen by the King as a companion for his few leisure hours, which he desired to turn to instruction and amusement combined. But the Baron was a pedantic fool, inflated with the most absurd pride, and addicted to hard drinking and filthiness, like any Silenus. The King loaded him with ridiculous titles, and he walked about in a dress that must have made him look like our burlesque King Arthur, in ‘Tom Thumb,’ or Justice Midas, in O’Hara’s operetta. It must have been pitiable to see a man of learning submit to any indignity at the hands of King and nobles. He would embrace a dressed-up monkey presented by a prince, as his son; and he took as a mark of favour, his being sent-for to the palace in a sedan-chair, the bottom of which, as previously contrived, fell out by the way, and the bearers of which had orders to push on and keep their passenger walking. He was seldom absent from the private evening parties of the King, where six or eight persons only were present; where beer and pipes were the refreshments which stood before each guest,—no servant being admitted; and where sometimes very serious business was transacted. Gundling died in 1731; his body may be said to have been pelted by epigrammatic epitaphs, but as it was carried to the grave in a wine-cask, long before prepared for the occasion, the clergy refused to bury it with any but maimed rites.
As pedantic and degraded a fool as Von Gundling, and at the same court, was a certain diminutive Doctor Bartholdi, whose buffoonery the King once rewarded by presenting him with a peruke which reached to his feet. But Bartholdi was for ever quarrelling with his patron or with the government, and he ended his days in prison. Nor were these the only persons who played the fool, without professing it, at the Prussian court. Among the latter, and they were all more or less scholars, was Kornemann, who had not wit enough to escape marrying a sham countess. A second was Von Hackmann, who was rogue as well as scholar and buffoon, and robbed the King who sheltered him at court. He fled to Vienna, changed and re-changed his religion, returned to Prussia, was whipped by the hangman, and died in misery. David Fassmann, a writer of considerable merit, was another of those buffoon-philosophers whom Frederick William distinguished as his “Learned Fools.” Fassmann held various offices at court, where his sufferings were as great as his absurd dignities, in both of which the monarch found opportunity for laughter. For losing a key entrusted to him by Frederick, Fassmann was condemned to carry a heavy wooden one, an ell long, round his neck for several days. On various occasions, these learned fools were excited against each other by noble persons, who found mirth in so doing. Then would they fly at each other; and Flögel describes one with a pair of tongs thrusting a burning coal in the face of his pedantic adversary, who, flying at his assailant, turns him on his face, strips down his dress, and beats him with the tongs, till he is tired, or, varying his attack, sets fire to the antagonistic pedant’s peruke by firing a pistol among the curls.
The Baron von Poelnitz, at the court of the last-named King and at that of Frederick II., fulfilled a similar office, without being expressly named to it. In the intercourse which subsisted between the King and the Baron, it is difficult to say which was the greater fool, and it is inconceivable that reasonable creatures should be guilty of the absurd follies attributed to them. The most of the jokes were childish enough, and King and Baron quarrelled and became reconciled like children. As a specimen of the familiarity which existed between them, here is one in connection with a royal commission to the Baron to procure a pair of turkeys. Poelnitz sent the birds with a very laconic letter: “Here are the turkeys, Sire.” Frederick, rather nettled at the style, ordered the leanest ox that could be found to be decked ridiculously with flowers, and the horns to be gilded. This done, the animal was taken and tied up in front of the Baron’s house, carrying this inscription on the forehead:—“Here is the ox, Poelnitz.”
The Baron’s readiness at repartee is exemplified by a remark he made to a Baron Schwertz, who was of Jewish descent. Poelnitz, one wintry day, standing with his back to one of the royal stoves, set his long-tailed coat on fire. “Ah,” said Schwertz,
“Ainsi brûla jadis et Sodome et Gomorre.”
To which Poelnitz readily replied,