CHAPTER XIV.
POPULAR LITERATURE AND ITS HEROES; BROTHER RUSH, TYLL EULENSPIEGEL, THE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM.—STORIES AND JEST-BOOKS.—SKELTON, SCOGIN, TARLTON, PEELE.
The people in the middle ages, as well as its superiors, had its comic literature and legend. Legend was the literature especially of the peasant, and in it the spirit of burlesque and satire manifested itself in many ways. Simplicity, combined with vulgar cunning, and the circumstances arising out of the exercise of these qualities, presented the greatest stimulants to popular mirth. They produced their popular heroes, who, at first, were much more than half legendary, such as the familiar spirit, Robin Goodfellow, whose pranks were a source of continual amusement rather than of terror to the simple minds which listened to those who told them. These stories excited with still greater interest as their spiritual heroes became incarnate, and the auditors were persuaded that the perpetrators of so many artful acts of cunning and of so many mischievous practical jokes, were but ordinary men like themselves. It was but a sign or symbol of the change from the mythic age to that of practical life. One of the earliest of these stories of mythic comedy transformed into, or at least presented under the guise of, humanity, is that of Brother Ruth. Although the earliest version of this story with which we are acquainted dates only from the beginning of the sixteenth century,[73] there is no reason for doubt that the story itself was in existence at a much more remote period.
Rush was, in truth, a spirit of darkness, whose mission it was to wander on the earth tempting and impelling people to do evil. Perceiving that the internal condition of a certain abbey was well suited to his purpose, he presented himself at its gates in the disguise of a youth who wanted employment, and was received as an assistant in the kitchen, but he pleased the monks best by the skill with which he furnished them all with fair companions. At length he quarrelled with the cook, and threw him into the boiling caldron, and the monks, assuming that his death was accidental, appointed Rush to be cook in his place. After a service of seven years in the kitchen—which appears to have been considered a fair apprenticeship for the new honour which was to be conferred upon him—the abbot and convent rewarded him by making him a monk. He now followed still more earnestly his design for the ruin of his brethren, both soul and body, and began by raising a quarrel about a woman, which led, through his contrivance, to a fight, in which the monks all suffered grievous bodily injuries, and in which Brother Rush was especially active. He went on in this way until at last his true character was accidentally discovered. A neighbouring farmer, overtaken by night, took shelter in a hollow tree. It happened to be the night appointed by Lucifer to meet his agents on earth, and hear from them the report of their several proceedings, and he had selected this very oak as the place of rendezvous. There Brother Rush appeared, and the farmer, in his hiding-place, heard his confession from his own lips, and told it to the abbot, who, being as it would appear a magician, conjured him into the form of a horse, and banished him. Rush hurried away to England, where he laid aside his equine form, and entered the body of the king’s daughter, who suffered great torments from his possession. At length some of the great doctors from Paris came and obliged the spirit to confess that nobody but the abbot of the distant monastery had any power over him. The abbot came, called him out of the maiden, and conjured him more forcibly than ever into the form of a horse.
Such is, in mere outline, the story of Brother Rush, which was gradually enlarged by the addition of new incidents. But the people wanted a hero who presented more of the character of reality, who, in fact, might be recognised as one of themselves; and such heroes appear to have existed at all times. They usually represented a class in society, and especially that class which consisted of idle sharpers, who lived by their wits, and which was more numerous and more familiarly known in the middle ages than at the present day. Folly and cunning combined presented a never-failing subject of mirth. This class of adventurers first came into print in Germany, and it is there that we find its first popular hero, to whom they gave the name of Eulenspiegel, which means literally “the owl’s mirror,” and has been since used in German in the sense of a merry fool. Tyll Eulenspiegel, and his story, are supposed to have belonged to the fourteenth century, though we first know them in the printed book of the commencement of the sixteenth, which is believed to have come from the pen of the well-known popular writer, Thomas Murner, of whom I shall have to speak more at length in another chapter. The popularity of this work was very great, and it was quickly translated into French, English, Latin, and almost every other language of Western Europe. In the English version the name also was translated, and appears under the form of Owleglass, or, as it often occurs with the superfluous aspirate, Howleglass.[74] According to the story, Tyll Eulenspiegel was the son of a peasant, and was born at a village called Kneitlingen, in the land of Brunswick. The story of his birth may be given in the words of the early English version, as a specimen of its quaint and antiquated language:—
“Yn the lande of Sassen, in the vyllage of Ruelnige, there dwelleth a man that was named Nicholas Howleglas, that had a wife named Wypeke, that lay a childbed in the same wyllage, and that chylde was borne to christening; and named Tyell Howleglass. And than the chyld was brought into a taverne, where the father was wyth his gosseppes and made good chere. Whan the mydwife had wel dronke, she toke the childe to bere it home, and in the wai was a litle bridg over a muddy water. And as the mydwife would have gone over the lytle brydge, she fel into the mudde with the chylde, for she had a lytel dronk to much wyne, for had not helpe come quickly, the had both be drowned in the mudde. And whan she came home with the childe, the made a kettle of warm water to be made redi, and therin they washed the child clen of the mudde. And thus was Howleglas thre tymes in one dai cristened, once at the churche, once in the mudde, and once in the warm water.”
It will be seen that the English translator was not very correct in his geography or in his names. The child, having thus escaped destruction, grew rapidly, and displayed an extraordinary love of mischief, with various other evil propensities, as well as a cunning beyond his age, in escaping the risks to which these exposed him. At a very early age, he displayed a remarkable talent for setting the other children by the ears, and this was his favourite amusement during life. His mother, who was now a widow, contemplating the extraordinary cunning of her child, which, as she thought, must necessarily ensure his advancement in the world, resolved that he should no longer remain idle, and put him apprentice to a baker; but his wicked and restless disposition defeated all the good intentions of his parent, and Eulenspiegel was obliged to leave his master in consequence of his mal-practices. One day his mother took him to a church-dedication, and the child drank so much at the feast on that occasion, that he crept into an empty beehive and fell asleep, while his mother, thinking he had gone home, returned without him. In the night-time two thieves came into the garden to steal the bees, and they agreed to take first the hive which was heaviest. This, as may be supposed, proved to be the hive in which Eulenspiegel was hidden, and they fixed it on a pole which they carried on their shoulders, one before and one behind, the hive hanging between them. Eulenspiegel, awakened by the movement, soon discovered the position in which he was placed, and hit upon a plan for escaping. Gently lifting the lid of the hive, he put out his arm and plucked the hair of the man before, who turned about and accused his companion of insulting him. The other asserted that he had not touched him, and the first, only half satisfied, continued to bear his share of the burthen, but he had not advanced many steps when a still sharper pull at his hair excited his great anger, and from wrathful words the two thieves proceeded to blows. While they were fighting, Eulenspiegel crept out of the hive and ran away.
After leaving the baker, Eulenspiegel became a wanderer in the world, gaining his living by his trickery and deception, and engaging himself in all sorts of strange and ludicrous adventures. He ended everywhere by creating discord and strife. He became at different times a blacksmith, a shoemaker, a tailor, a cook, a drawer of teeth, and assumed a variety of other characters, but remained in each situation only long enough to make it too hot for him, and to be obliged to secure his retreat. He intruded himself into all classes of society, and invariably came to similar results. Many of his adventures, indeed, are so droll that we can easily understand the great popularity they once enjoyed. But they are not merely amusing—they present a continuous satire upon contemporary society, upon a social condition in which every pretender, every reckless impostor, every private plunderer or public depredator, saw the world exposed to him in its folly and credulity as an easy prey.
The middle ages possessed another class of these popular satirical histories, which were attached to places rather than to persons. There were few countries which did not possess a town or a district, the inhabitants of which were celebrated for stupidity, or for roguery, or for some other ridiculous or contemptible quality. We have seen, in a former chapter, the people of Norfolk enjoying this peculiarity, and, at a later period, the inhabitants of Pevensey in Sussex, and more especially those of Gotham in Nottinghamshire, were similarly distinguished. The inhabitants of many places in Germany bore this character, but their grand representatives among the Germans were the Schildburgers, a name which appears to belong entirely to the domain of fable. Schildburg, we are told, was a town “in Misnopotamia, beyond Utopia, in the kingdom of Calecut.” The Schildburgers were originally so renowned for their wisdom, that they were continually invited into foreign countries to give their advice, until at length not a man was left at home, and their wives were obliged to assume the charge of the duties of their husbands. This became at length so onerous, that the wives held a council, and resolved on despatching a solemn message in writing to call the men home. This had the desired effect; all the Schildburgers returned to their own town, and were so joyfully received by their wives that they resolved upon leaving it no more. They accordingly held a council, and it was decided that, having experienced the great inconvenience of a reputation of wisdom, they would avoid it in future by assuming the character of fools. One of the first evil results of their long neglect of home affairs was the want of a council-hall, and this want they now resolved to supply without delay. They accordingly went to the hills and woods, cut down the timber, dragged it with great labour to the town, and in due time completed the erection of a handsome and substantial building. But, when they entered their new council-hall, what was their consternation to find themselves in perfect darkness! In fact, they had forgotten to make any windows. Another council was held, and one who had been among the wisest in the days of their wisdom, gave his opinion very oracularly; the result of which was that they should experiment on every possible expedient for introducing light into the hall, and that they should first try that which seemed most likely to succeed. They had observed that the light of day was caused by sunshine, and the plan proposed was to meet at mid-day when the sun was brightest, and fill sacks, hampers, jugs, and vessels of all kinds, with sunshine and daylight, which they proposed afterwards to empty into the unfortunate council-hall. Next day, as the clock struck one, you might see a crowd of Schildburgers before the council-house door, busily employed, some holding the sacks open, and others throwing the light into them with shovels and any other appropriate implements which came to hand. While they were thus labouring, a stranger came into the town of Schildburg, and, hearing what they were about, told them they were labouring to no purpose, and offered to show them how to get the daylight into the hall. It is unnecessary to say more than that this new plan was to make an opening in the roof, and that the Schildburgers witnessed the effect with astonishment, and were loud in their gratitude to their new comer.