authority of men who “saw Rahere, heard him, and were present in his
works and deeds, of the which,” adds the writer, “some have taken
their sleep in Christ, and some of them be yet alive, and witnesseth
of that that we shall after say.” According, then, to the manuscripts
above-named, “this man, Rahere, springing or born of low lineage, when
he attained the flower of youth, he began to haunt the households of
noble men and the palaces of princes.” The writer goes on to state
that Rahere spared neither tricks, nor flattery, nor pleasant deceits,
in order to draw towards him the friendship of those above him. Nor
was he content with all this, says the chronicler, “but often haunted
the King’s palace, and among the noiseful press of that tumultuous
court, enforced himself with polite and carnal suavity, by the which
he might draw to him the hearts of many one there; in spectacles,
masks, and other courtly mockeries and devilish intendings, he led
forth the business of all the day.” Rahere was constantly, we are told,
in attendance on the King, or in the suite of noblemen; “proffering
service that might please them, he busily so occupied his time that he
might obtain the rather the petitions that he might desire of them.
Thiswise, to King and great men, gentle and courteous, and knowing and
familiar, he was.” In short, according to the manuscript writer, Rahere
was an exceedingly joyous and cunning fellow, who, having played the
fool at Court for great men’s pleasure and his own profit, was soon
after made wise through Grace, by the intervention of Bartholomew the
Apostle. He had spent half his days in harping and dancing and jesting,
and then, growing weary of it, hurried to Rome, there to repent of his
sins and be converted from his fiddling, dancing, drinking, jesting,
and philandering ways. And this was so effectually accomplished, that
on his road homeward he had a vision “full of dread and of sweetness.”
The chief figure therein was the apostolic Bartholomew, who, intimating
that Rahere had been taken from the foolery of an earthly to be an
agent of a celestial Court, added with great topographic and indeed
general lucidity, that he (the Apostle) “had chosen a place in the
‘Subburbs’ of London, at ‘Smythfeld,’ where in my name,” said he to
the ex-jester, “thou shalt found a church, and it shall be the house
of God, where there shall be the Tabernacle of the Lamb, the Temple of
the Holy Ghost.” Rahere woke from his dream, and was inclined at first
to take it all for a mere fantasy; but weighing the matter well, he
ultimately, after long consideration, resolved to devote his fool’s
gains to pious ends; and he founded, not without some little opposition
on the part of those who
“Preferred, no doubt,
A rogue with venison, to a saint without,”
and who hoped he had come back rather a merry sinner than a solemn
saint, a church and priory, of which he was, as was due to him,
appointed the first Prior. Kings of England, in after-time, learned to
respect the holy place; but there was a world of trouble before the
entire object was carried out. Rahere had adversaries of every sort;
but he had not lost his wit for having acquired a sense of piety,
and so he bent himself to every humour, still played the fool awhile
in various forms, when he could draw help towards the attainment of
his end, and had merry words for everybody, in order that everybody
might in return lend him ready succour. He, of course, overcame all
opposition; holy men assembled around him; he preached sermons of
varied character, to suit his audiences; he worked pretty little
miracles, wrought wonderful cures, and, if he was occasionally in a
difficulty, and seemed for a moment no wiser than an ordinary mortal,
St. Bartholomew stepped in and helped him through triumphantly. Nothing
at last became too difficult for him to surmount, and a hidden thief or
a secret sin could no more escape his bodily or mental eye, than the
seat of disease can be concealed from the sight of Mr. Luther Holden,
who now demonstrates anatomy on the spot where the ex-court-jester
changed his mirth and motley for prayers, cassock, and good works.
The successors of old Rahere in the Priory had much of the spirit of
their founder. They were at the head of a high-spirited corporation,
full of zeal, cheerfulness, and indomitable independence. They enjoyed
separate jurisdiction, and resisted all interference on the part of
prying prelates who endeavoured to force-in the wedge of episcopal
authority. When this was the case, the brotherhood cried, “Rahere to
the rescue!” and defied the whole membership of bishops. One result
was that they were let alone, and this immunity they purchased by
their gallantry, having successfully resisted an attempt to meddle
with their affairs, by sorely thrashing the offending bishop and
terribly mauling his body of followers. The time came, however,
when the downfall of their house was inevitable. It shared in the
general dissolution of religious houses, and Henry VIII. founded it
anew, out of the old prior-minstrel’s funds, as an hospital “for the
combined relief and help of a hundred sore and diseased.” Much more
than this is now effected in the establishment of St. Bartholomew,
which has grown out of the pious foundation of Rahere. There is no
disease or suffering that medical care can assuage, which is turned
away from this great temple of charity. Let the call be made at any
hour of the day or night, there is ready answer, and as ready help at
hand. The sufferer has but to knock, or those who act for him in his
helplessness, and “it is opened to him.” He has no need of a letter of
recommendation to entitle him to receive balm for his wounds. There
is now accommodation for about 600 in-door patients, of whom there
are ten times that annual number, and among them a mortality of about
one a day. The out-door patients amount to nearly twenty thousand;
the casualty patients to some thousands more. It is a pleasing sight,
to see the wards where anguish is soothed, and the mutilated made
whole. It is almost a mirthful sight, to witness the busy crowd at
the dispensary bar, carrying off their bottles of variously coloured
liquids,--the _elixir_, and not the _aqua vitæ_, which is to pour
strength into their veins and infuse it into their muscles. Let me add
that it is a touching, solemn, and instructive sight, which may be
looked upon silently and reverently, in that little dead-house, with
its cover over it, as if it would be less obtrusive on the eye of idle
passers by. There may be seen many a stalwart form that possessed, a
few days since, the strength of giants, and which, crushed beyond the
reach of science or art to repair, lie there prematurely ready for the
inevitable grave.
In speaking of St. Bartholomew’s, it would be ungrateful to pass
over the name of Dr. Radcliffe, the most munificent of its modern
benefactors. But the establishment itself would probably never have
existed, certainly would not have existed here, but for the King’s
minstrel, the “pleasant-witted gentleman,” who was the gayest at the
gay court of Henry Beauclerc, and whose bones lie in the adjacent
church of St. Bartholomew the Great. The tomb is worth visiting, for it
covers the dust of a noble man. His effigy, watched by an angel, and
prayed for by two canons, lies under a canopy of great richness and
elaborate workmanship. It was probably erected by his admirers of much
later times than that which immediately followed his decease, for the
shields upon it are those of England and France united, a combination
that was not known for many years subsequent to the decease of the
founder of the old priory. One can hardly stand altogether unmoved in
presence of such a memento. There is great temptation, when looking at
the effigy, and remembering the self-denial and charity, of the man, to
fall into the pleasantest bit of Popery, on turning away, and to pray
with all one’s heart that God may have mercy on the soul of the King’s
minstrel, Rahere!
The reign of Stephen does not furnish us with the names of any fool
of distinguished quality; though Stephen himself, and particularly
previous to his accession to the throne, was remarkable for the
affability with which he associated with men of every condition.
This was more especially the case when he was keeping house with his
bride in the Tower-Royal. But neither in court or castle was there
much patronage of the jester during the nearly nineteen years of the
calamitous reign of Stephen. The court of his successor saw the joyous
brotherhood fully restored, and its members seem even, not merely to
have practised before him at home, but to have accompanied him abroad.
“When King Henry sets out of a morning,” says his secretary, Peter of
Blois, “you see multitudes of people running up and down, as if they
were distracted; horses rushing against horses, carriages overturning
carriages, players, gamesters, cooks, confectioners, morris-dancers,
barbers, courtesans, and parasites, making so much noise and, in a
word, such an intolerable tumultuous jumble of horse and foot, that you
imagine the great abyss hath opened, and that hell hath poured forth
all its inhabitants.” The court of Henry’s consort, Eleanor of gay
Guienne, was a not less joyous one than her husband’s; but the joy was
only empty noise and outward show, and beneath all the glittering were
grief and settled gloom.
During the reign of their lion-hearted successor, we meet with an
illustration, showing how fools could be employed in order to support
a vicious political system. Richard the First’s Chancellor, William
Longchamp, may with propriety be called, the “proud,” for he sealed
public acts, says Lord Campbell, “with his own signet seal, instead of
the Great Seal of England.” Proud as he was, this Picard prelate (who
was Bishop of Ely) was of very mean extraction. To him Richard left,
conjointly with the Bishop of Durham, the guardianship of the realm,
during the King’s absence in the Holy Land. Longchamp however clapped
his colleague into prison, and ruled England by his sole authority.
He maintained the state of the most ostentatious of sovereigns, and
set such an example of arrogance and want of principle, that his
body-guard became terrible for their rapine and licentiousness; and his
servants, even when their master lodged for a night in a monastery,
devoured in that one night the revenue of several years. The people at
large suffered in proportion, and suffering was followed by grumbling,
and that was succeeded by wrath. But, says the author of ‘The Lives of
the Chancellors,’ (apparently translating a passage from Roger Hoveden
_in Ricardo I._, p. 340,) “to drown the curses of the natives, he
brought over from France, at a great expense, singers and jesters, who
sang verses in places of public resort, declaring that the Chancellor
never had his equal in the world.” The above, it will have been seen,
is an example of jesters being employed, not with license to speak bold
and droll truths to their master, but with commission to utter sorry
jokes and dreary falsehoods, for the purpose of deceiving a nation.
I have previously noticed that Blondel, whom tradition makes the
discoverer of his captive master, by means of a song, is called,
by Bouchez, “that buffoon of a minstrel.” By others he is styled a
“troubadour knight.” However much or little of the character of the
jester may have entered into the character of the minstrel Blondel, it
would not be easy to say. We may speak with more certainty of another
of Richard’s minstrels, Anselme Fayditt, whose poetry the Provençal
critics eulogized for its wit and good sense, “poésie à bons mots et de
bon sens.” A third minstrel, Fouquet de Marseilles, is also celebrated
for his ready wit, which made him the “delight of the court.” There
probably was some difference of quality in the latter minstrels, for
while Fayditt ultimately travelled about the country, on foot, in
search of a livelihood, singing songs, and accompanied by a runaway nun
who sang as well as Fayditt himself, Fouquet, in strong contrast with
such a vagabond, abandoned minstrelsy, turned monk, and became Bishop
of Toulouse.
Of the above quality were the most favoured _plaisants_ at the Court
of Richard. The private households had their jesters of a less refined
quality, and the following graphic description of one attached to a
Saxon master, is probably as faithful a portrait as could be drawn of a
Saxon nobleman’s fool in the days of King Richard the First.
“Beside the swineherd was seated, on one of the fallen Druidical
monuments, a person about ten years younger in appearance, and whose
dress was of a fantastic appearance. His jacket had been stained of a
bright purple hue, upon which there had been some attempts to paint
grotesque ornaments of different colours. To the jacket he added a
short cloak, which scarcely reached halfway down his thigh. It was of
crimson cloth, though a good deal soiled, lined with bright yellow;
and as he could transfer it from one shoulder to the other, or at his
pleasure throw it all around him, its width contrasted with its want
of longitude, formed a fantastic piece of drapery. He had thin silver
bracelets on his arms; and on his neck a collar of the same metal;
bearing the inscription, ‘Wamba, the son of Witless, is the Thrall
of Cedric of Rotherwood.’ This personage had sandals, and his legs
were encased in a sort of gaiters, of which one was red and the other
yellow. He was provided also with a cap having around it more than
one bell, about the size of those attached to hawks, which jingled
as he turned his head from one side to the other. And, as he seldom
remained a minute in the same posture, the sound might be considered
as incessant. Around the edge of this cap was a stiff bandeau of
leather, cut at the top into open work, resembling a coronet, while a
prolonged bag arose from within it, and fell down on one shoulder, like
an old-fashioned night-cap or jelly-bag, or the head-gear of a modern
hussar. It was to this part of the cap that the bells were attached,
which circumstance, as well as the shape of his head-dress, and his own
half-crazed, half-cunning, expression of countenance, sufficiently
pointed him out as belonging to the race of domestic clowns or jesters
maintained in the houses of the wealthy, to help away the tedium of
those lingering hours which they were obliged to spend within-doors.
He bore a scrip attached to his belt, but had neither horn nor knife,
being probably considered as belonging to a class whom it is esteemed
dangerous to entrust with edge-tools. In place of these he was equipped
with a sword of lath, resembling that with which Harlequin operates his
wonders upon the modern stage.”
Of what quality was the wit of Wamba, may be seen in the romance of
‘Ivanhoe,’ from which, it is hardly necessary to say, the above extract
is made. We come now to the successor of Richard, whom we shall find a
liberal master to his fool.
King John was a very lugubrious joker himself; but he not only kept a
merry jester,--he also knew how to be exceedingly liberal to him. Of
the King’s deadly practical joking we have an instance in his conduct
to Geoffrey, Archdeacon of Norwich, who had retired from his office in
the Exchequer in obedience to the terms of the Papal edict. The King
shut him up in prison, and, making him wear a ponderous sacerdotal
cope of lead, which covered him from the head to the heels, left him
thus helpless, to die of famine. It was after another fashion that
John rewarded his fool. The name of this official was William Piculph
(or Picol), and he received from the monarch who possessed so little
land of his own, a landed estate. This fool by feudal tenure held his
territory and its dependencies at Fons Ossane, in Mortain, of John,
under an easy quit-rent; namely, that during his life he should act as
jester to the King, providing his Grace with as much fun as could make
him smile. After the death of Piculph, the domain was to descend to his
heirs, on condition of their presenting the sovereign annually with a
pair of gilt spurs. A copy of the original deed is to be found in the
‘Monnaies Inconnues des Évêques, des Innocents, et des Fous.’
It is just twenty years ago, since M. Rigollet, under the modest
appellation of “M. J. R. D’Amiens,” published in his work on the then
hitherto unknown coins and tokens of various Brotherhoods of the olden
time who took Folly for their patron, a copy of the document by which
our King John may be said to have ennobled his fool. This document has
not escaped the acute vision of Mr. W. J. Thoms, who has cited it, in
his selections from the L’Estrange papers; but as its singularity is
fully equal to its brevity, my readers will, I hope, approve of my
venturing to place it before them. It is to this effect:--“Joannes,
D. G., etc. Sciatis nos dedisse et presenti chartâ confirmasse WILL.
PICOL, _Follo_ nostro, Fontem Ossane (Menil-Ozenne, pays de Mortain),
cum omnibus pertinenciis suis, habend. et tenend. sibi et heredibus
suis, faciendo inde nobis annuatim servitium _unius Folli_ quoad
vixerit; et post ejus decessum heredes sui eam de nobis tenebunt,
et per servitium unius paris calcarium deauratorum nobis annuatim
reddendo. Quare volumus et firmiter precipimus quod predict. Piculphus
et heredes sui habeant et teneant in perpetuum, bene et in pace, libere
et quiete, predictam terram.”
The substance of this document, the original of which was found in the
then Royal Library of France, is given in my description of it, above;
I will only add, therefore, that ample pains seem to have been taken
to settle this estate upon Picol the fool. It may be doubted, however,
whether the fools of Edmund Ironside, William the Conqueror and John
were the only merry officials who held land. The celebrated Baldwin
Lepetteur (in another reign) must have belonged to the profession, and
we know that, in return for some royal grace, he was bound on every
Christmas-day to execute before his lord the King, at Hemmingston
Manor, a _saltus_, a _sufflatus_, and a _bumbulus_. At no time, indeed,
do our Kings seem to have been reluctant to pay for mirth. Henry
III. once gave a crown to a witty fellow who had caused him to laugh;
but we are not told what the jest was that earned so great a guerdon.
Edward II. was even more liberal, for he gave _four_ crowns for the
same cause. It does not appear that wit was always the provocation to
royal laughter, a fool’s trick would do as well. We see as much by an
entry in one of the last King’s accounts, cited in the ‘Antiquary’s
Repertory.’ “Item--When the King was at Woolmer, to Morris, then clerk
of the kitchen, who, when the King was hunting, did ride before the
King, and often fall down from his horse, whereat the King laughed
greatly: 20_s._”
To return, however, to the reign of Henry III., the successor of John,
I may notice as an incident of the social history of the period, that
there were few places where the itinerant jester was more warmly
welcomed than at the lonely cells of the Friars. We have an instance
of this in a story told by Wood, and quoted by Warton, to this effect.
A couple of strangers applied one night at the gates of a cell of
Benedictines near Oxford, for admission. The itinerants were taken for
jesters, and gained a ready admission under that supposition. Cellarer,
sacrist, and the whole of the confraternity looked forward to having
a merry night of it with the _gesticulatoriis ludicrisque artibus_ of
their guests. But these proved to be grave men of long prayers and
short meals; very poor in purse, but rich in saving knowledge; without
power or taste to make a joke, but with will and ability to enjoin
their hosts to live cleanly and soberly and religiously, to serve God
faithfully, honour the King loyally, and to put away from themselves
all naughtiness. The Benedictines did not care a fig for such serious
persons, or their admonitions. They had admitted the wayfarers,
supposing them to be jesters; and illogically concluding, because the
supposed jesters were monks, they themselves had been deceived by them,
they set upon the poor fellows, thrashed them soundly, and turned them
out-of-doors.
Of a _joculator_ at the court of Henry III. we probably obtain a
glimpse in the personage of a certain Master Henry, who is called the
“versificator,” a term which was sometimes given to the _joculator_.
“In one of the Tower Rolls,” says Miss Strickland, “dated, Woodstock,
April 30, in the thirty-second year of Henry III.’s reign, that
monarch directs his treasurer and chamberlain to pay Master Henry, the
poet, whom he affectionately styles, ‘Our beloved Master Henry, the
versificator, one hundred shillings, due to him for the arrears of his
salary, enjoining them to pay it without delay, though the Exchequer
was then shut.”
This Master Henry was, doubtless, Henry of Avranches, who is sometimes
designated as poet laureate to the King, and of whose works some
specimens yet remain. We must not forget the assertion of Ménage,
that court poet and court fool were sometimes one and the same; and
that Master Henry was qualified for the latter, we may gather from
the description given of him in a satirical poem by an angry Cornish
writer, Michael Blaunpayne, who thus depicts the royal versificator,
enjoying a salary of a hundred shillings a year: “You have the legs
of a goat, the thighs of a sparrow, and the sides of a boar. You have
a hare’s mouth, a dog’s nose, the teeth and cheeks of a mule. Your
face is a calf’s, your head is a bull’s, and from top to toe you are
as swarthy as a Moor.” It must be acknowledged, if this _signalement_
may be accepted, that, in outward appearance, Master Henry was well
qualified to enact the buffoon at the court of his royal namesake.
The next King, the crusading Edward I., is known to have had a
minstrel, harper, or _joculator_ in constant attendance upon him.
This official rendered his master good service on that occasion, at
Ptolemais, when an assassin wounded Edward with a poisoned knife. It
is said that the faithful fellow, hearing the struggle, rushed in and
slew the assassin. We detect more of the professional jester in another
account by Ritson, which says that the _citharœda_, as he is called,
did not interfere till Edward himself had killed his assailant; and
that then the minstrel, or whatever may be his proper designation,
snatching up a trivet, tripod, or three-legged stool, began beating
the dead man’s brains out. The joke seemed of so unworthy a quality to
the King, that he rated the valiant coward soundly. The name of the
joculator is not given; but we are more fortunate in the succeeding
reign, for there we not only meet with an undoubted court fool, but we
learn his name, and are introduced to a member of his family.
First, let me observe that in the ‘Liber Quotidianus,’ the daily
wardrobe account of the fourteenth of Edward II. (1320–21), there are
entries of rewards to several noblemen’s minstrels, or _joculatores_,
who performed before the King in his own chamber. The singing and
the jests were probably rude enough, for Edward II. was a roystering
fellow, addicted to getting drunk in as roystering company abroad, and
accustomed to pay the people who picked him up and saw him safe home.
There is an entry in this very account to that effect,--of recompense
to persons who thus looked after him, “in itineribus suis noctanter.”
We get too, as I have just intimated, at the name of the King’s fool,
who was probably often abroad with him on these occasions, by an entry
in some accounts, quoted in the ‘Archæologia’ (vol. ii. p. 6); and not
only of the fool, but of his mother, by whose surname indeed we arrive
at that of the jester. The entry runs thus: “To Dulcian Withastaf,
mother of Robert, the King’s fool, coming to the King, at Baldock, of
the King’s gift, 10_s._” “_Wit-has-staff_,” or “_Witty-staff_,” or
“_With-a-staff_,” sounds very like a sobriquet for Robert himself; and
perhaps Dame Dulcian derived the surname from her son’s occupation. At
all events, it is pleasant to see Edward acting generously towards the
old lady, when she hurried over to the court, at Baldock, to behold
her son in all the glory of cap, bells, cock’s-comb, and run of the
larder.
I might have included among my “Female Jesters” a nameless
_Joculatrix_, or _Ministralissa_, who, if not attached to the household
of Edward II., yet played her part before him for the amusement of
himself and a noble company. It was on occasion of the festival of
Whitsuntide, which the King was celebrating in the great Hall at
Westminster, in the year 1316. While the royal host and his illustrious
guests were seated at the banquet, this joculatrix rode into the
Hall on a closely-clipped horse, and caracolled round about the
tables, jesting the while, to the great amusement of the company. The
joculatrix terminated her performance by placing a letter in the King’s
hand; after which she gracefully rode away, with countless greetings,
to the right and left. The letter contained a remonstrance against
the unbounded favour exhibited by the King to unworthy persons, while
he neglected his faithful knights and trusty servants. Not one of the
latter, probably, would have dared to present the remonstrance; but the
license allowed to the jester, or mime, ensured free access, and other
immunities, to an agent chosen from among the joyous brotherhood, and
still more to a sister of the gay profession. The gates of royal houses
were always open to them: “Non esse mores,” is the remark quoted by
Percy, “domus regiæ histriones ab ingressu quomodolibet prohibere.”