The court fool, like the tailor, is one whose avocation is passed by without notice in Scripture. From no passage in Holy Writ could the old church dignitaries who maintained fools in their households, find warrant for their practice; they simply found a worldly fashion, and adopted it. Like princes, they were not always free from “vapours;” and as princes sought to cure their melancholy by the agency of hired mirth-makers, these reverend gentlemen followed the example.

With respect to the profession of fools, in its connection with the Clergy, there are two circumstances which present themselves to our attention, and excite our surprise. In old pictures and woodcuts representing inner clerical life, the presence of the jester proves that he was an actual member of the godly and merry household. This is further certain by several edicts, which forbid, not only various church dignitaries therein named from maintaining fools, but also forbidding abbesses from making dull days in convents tolerable by employing jesters to help them through such heavy seasons. But if it be matter of some surprise, to find grave religious dignitaries and solemn lady abbesses taking pleasure in such jokes as the professional mirth-maker could manufacture for them, a still greater measure of surprise is excited by the fact, that these holy personages occasionally acted the fool themselves, at the tables of patrons whose particular favour they most earnestly desired. That this irregular practice must have prevailed to a very wide extent, is ascertained by a passage in a decree of the Council of Cahors, to this effect: “It is also our command, that the clergy shall not practise as jesters, fools, or buffoons (Joculatores, Goliardi, seu Bufones), declaring that if they exercise such disgraceful profession for one year, they are thereby deprived of every ecclesiastical privilege; and further ordering, that if they do not desist, after being duly admonished, they shall be subjected, in addition, to secular punishment.” I am afraid that the Council of Cahors would not even have granted exemption to Sydney Smith.

Among the punishments alluded to, was whipping—after degradation. The last alone was no joke to a clerical jester. He was condemned to serve his brethren, and to go to communion as a simple laic. If such an offender travelled without testimonials, he was further subject to great annoyance and suspicion, as (to take an early example) when Chrysostom, at Constantinople, hospitably entertained some agreeable Egyptian monks, he was delighted with his visitors, but he would not admit them to the Eucharist. The joyous strangers might, for aught he knew, be under censure, and he treated them accordingly.

But, although Scripture does not mention, and the Councils of the Church do not sanction, “fools,” the latter particularly when they are members also of the clerical profession; yet the jester does not lack a protector among the Saints. The Church, indeed, has been, if one may say so without being impertinent, a little inconsistent towards the professional merrymen, when it is recollected, that in the roll of Saints there are two who especially favour fools. One is St. Mathurin, who was always invoked by them in sickness. He was a very good man, who lived at Montargis, in the fourth century, and who condescended to be the physician of all professional jesters, till the vocation became extinct. The other, and more especially patron-saint, was St. Julian; but which of the half-dozen of solemn and shadowy men who bear that name on the calendar, I am unable to say. Probably it was the Julian who, in the seventh century, was Archbishop of Toledo. This prelate not only lived at the court of King Wemba, but he talked him into abdicating the crown, and assuming the cowl. There was no other but a fool who could have had such liberty of speech, or was likely to have used it so effectually,—and from this circumstance is, perhaps, derived the alleged fact of St. Julian’s patronage of the professors of folly.

Whatever the Saint may have thought of the community, it is very clear that the Church did not regard its members with so much complacency as certain individual priests, who loved to have a “fun-maker” in their household. I suppose the liking and the practices to which it led were abused, or solemn councils would hardly have issued stern prohibitions, by which prelates were forbidden to retain the professional fool. The prohibition was referred to during many centuries, and we are told that Antony Sanderus, as late as 1624, reproached the clergy of his time with their love for buffoons, and for young ladies whose wit might be heavier, but whose principles were lighter than any ever professed beneath the party-coloured gabardine.

There was a time when some church corporations peculiarly honoured the votary of St. Julian. At Tournay, for instance, at the annual procession of the Holy Sacrament, the pompous line of march was opened by the official fou de la ville, who was paid by the municipality. When we read that his dress, acts, and words were all of the most extravagant description, we are surprised to learn that the office was sometimes filled by a wealthy banker of the city. At that time perhaps bankers were more fools than knaves.

A reminiscence of this custom was exhibited in Belgium as late as 1834, at the musical contest in Brussels, when several troops of musicians from various provinces entered the city, with their especial “fou” at the head of every company. Among the Popes, there was none who so liberally patronized jesters as Leo X. It has been said of this prelate that a witty fool had always a much better chance of obtaining an audience of him than a grave philosopher. Jovius and Guicciardini agree in the fact of the papal predilection for fellows who could afford him mirth, not merely by their light learning, but by their gross and heavy appetites. The same writers especially allude to the favour which Leo extended to buffoons, and to those so-called arch-poets who played the fool and miserably degraded themselves for the sake of a half-gnawed bone and a handful of ducats. The most famous, yet not the grossest of these mirthmakers, was Querno, a Neapolitan by birth, with a diminutive figure, a huge appetite, and an unquenchable thirst. The mock ovation of this arch-poet, his march to the Capitol, crowned with a wreath of vine, carrot, and cabbage-leaves, and mounted on an elephant, is a well-known incident, as is also his bandying of indifferent Latin verses, improvised for the nonce, with Leo himself. This buffoon, although by no means devoid of mental endowments, was content to stand by at papal banquets, and amuse the godly company by the greedy avidity with which he swallowed the fragments and half-consumed dishes despatched to him from the pontiff’s table. If Querno was a buffoon, he was at least that sort of fool to perform whose part efficiently requires a certain sort of wit. But Leo had other jesters who had no merit but the sorry one of being disagreeable fools. Of these we may judge by what is said of two of them, a greedy, insatiable fellow named Martinus, and a mendicant brother called Marianus. They certainly were wonderful buffoons in their way, for one could take a pigeon, roasted or stewed, compress it into a species of gigantic bolus, and swallow it whole, at one gulp. The other made no difficulty of devouring forty eggs at a meal, and indeed on high festive days, wondering and applauding guests saw him deliberately devour a score of capons! Of the extravagance of Leo’s table, his successor, Adrian VI., was heartily ashamed, having a sort of disgust for a pontiff who, in the company of buffoons like Querno, Gazoldo, Britonio, and Baraballo, could eat himself into an indigestion, or see others do so, on costly dishes of peacock-sausages. But in this case we have an instance of that easy compounding for one’s own sins by denouncing those of our neighbours. Adrian did not care for costly dishes or jesters; but his appetite was under less control than that of Leo, if it be true, as Jovius says of him, that the Flemish pontiff drank himself into chronic disease on strong beer. “Contrahisse morbum assiduum cerevisiÆ potu.”

According to some writers, it was the fool Baraballo, and not Querno, who was processionally conducted in mock pomp through the streets of Rome, to be crowned in the Capitol. The absurd verses of this jester procured for him this doubtful honour; but when he uttered dull jokes in bad measure, Leo would order him to be bastinadoed,—and to such depth could one of the most intellectual of pontiffs stoop to find relaxation from heavy duties and oblivion of as heavy responsibilities. But he might cite as example and excuse the Pontiff Paul II., who from 1458 to 1464 found exquisite delight in the poor jests of his official fools. But Paul was at least more orthodox than Leo, and in that distinction there is a world of difference.

Both these pontiffs differed from Benedict XIV., who was Pope from 1740 to 1758. Benedict loved a joke, but he loved to make it himself, and he might therefore be set down among those potentates who have been their own fools. When he was yet but Consistorial Advocate—a sufficiently grave and responsible dignitary—the spirit of fun so strongly influenced him, that at carnival-time he would issue into the thronged streets in the burlesqued costume of a doctor of divinity, and, mounting on a stool, would hold forth to the other gay masquers, denouncing their sins so pleasantly that their only regret was, that they were not fathoms deeper in iniquity, that they might laugh the more at the comic recapitulation of their offences. When Benedict became Pope, he endeavoured to suppress the carnival orgies; but the popular voice expressed itself so menacingly that he was content to leave others to enjoy what he could no longer participate in himself. He then confined himself to playing tricks on the Cardinals. His chief butt was Cardinal Passionei, a patient, orthodox man, who equally hated heresy and the Jesuits. The papal jokes were practical; as when the Pope, hearing that his Eminence had ordered a chest of books to be sent to him, contrived that a chest should reach him full of the most famous heretical and condemned volumes. The papal enjoyment here consisted in beholding the horror of the Cardinal on opening the case, and in seeing the delicate disgust with which he seized each work with a pair of tongs, and tossed it into the fire.

The spiritual prince-electors followed the fashion, and retained fools who seem to have been pretty plainly spoken. Thus, when the Elector Brendal of Mayence asked his jester what he thought of the newly-gilded chancel of the cathedral, Sir Motley replied, “I think it is very like the golden goblet in which the Hessians drink sour beer. Your newly-gilded chancel will be filled by dirty thieves of monks.”

Far bolder, however, was the reply of the electoral buffoon, Witzel, to Wolfgang, another Elector of Mayence, who asked him of what gender the word Mater was. “Well,” answered the fool, “mine is generis feminini; but your Electoral Highness’s mater is generis communis.” The fools of the Mayence Electors, it may be added, were not all remarkable only for wit; one at least, Pastore, fool to Albert of Mayence, was a kindly and brave-hearted man. When he knew there was a design on foot to make away with a Reforming preacher named Winkel, who, in 1527, had been summoned to Mayence to render account of his stewardship, Pastore aided him to escape. Poor Winkel was ultimately murdered; but the good deed of Pastore was not forgotten by the Reformers in their indignation against the more wicked agents of his unscrupulous master.

The electors of Cologne kept so princely a court that the uniform of the jesters rubbed against that of the body-guard. Such samples, however, as I can find of their wit do not say much for their humour or delicacy. That wit appears to have been exercised chiefly against their ghostly masters’ vices, and in this respect they had no sinecure. Or it was exhibited in rather uncleanly practical jokes, or as uncleanly repartees, and a record of the fact may well take place of a sample from the measure.

In treating of the jesters of foreign countries, there is some difficulty in conveying a fair idea of their wit, as by mere translation the point is ordinarily lost. The jests of Crafulla, a clever buffoon, yet not an official fool, who was constantly in the society of the Cardinal de’ Medici, are exactly in this condition. It is not much better with Barciacca, the house fool of Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici. Such wit as he had will not bear, and is hardly worthy, translation; while his practical jokes are really not worth narrating. One can only wonder how any of the Medici, refined and learned men, could laugh at such sorry amusement. Barciacca once compared himself with the Cardinal, on the ground that he daily fed as many as his Eminence; and when the latter expressed doubt of the fact, the fool stripped himself to the drawers, to exhibit the marks of the thousands that began feeding on him as soon as he lay down to sleep in the bed assigned him in the Cardinal’s palace. Ippolito laughed at this till he nearly lost breath. The joke only shows that the palazzo Cardinale was not of the cleanest, and that in point of humour his Eminence was easily pleased.

Again, if we look to the fools of Cardinals in England, we shall not find them particularly distinguished for happiness of wit. The best thing uttered by Cardinal Wolsey’s jester, Saxton, was his wish that Wolsey might become Pope. “For you see,” said he, “Peter’s father being a fisherman, he ordered all men to eat fish in Lent, for the sake of his father’s trade; now, your Eminence’s father having been a butcher, we should hope, for a similar reason, to be ordered to eat meat all the year round.” This is at least as good as anything that is told of foreign fools in the palaces of Cardinals; and I may add, that Wolsey’s fool was prophet also, if we may credit the story in which we are told, that, once, as the Cardinal was contemplating the design for a tomb intended for himself, the fool remarked, “The tomb is well enough, but your Eminence’s bones will never lie in it,” which proved to be true.

Cardinal Richelieu possessed a better taste in jesters than Wolsey. His buffoons were men of wit and learning, and the latter were admirably combined in the AbbÉ de Boisrobert, who brought to the Cardinal his daily dish of city scandal, amused him by his imitations of the peculiarities of Richelieu’s friends, wrote half his tragedies for him, knew more of the drama than of divinity, was so constantly present at the theatre that it came to be called the “Cathedral of Boisrobert,” and finally, who founded the French Academy. The AbbÉ was no ordinary fool, but an incomparable wit; and when he was out of favour with Richelieu, and the latter was ill, his physician wrote the simple but indispensable prescription, “Recipe Boisrobert!”

If Cardinals had their jesters, we must not be surprised to find them in episcopal houses. In Germany, in the 16th and 17th centuries, some of them exhibited the usual bent of the class for practical joking; some were famous for their feats of strength; others for their blasphemy; one or two were remarkable for their simplicity; but none of them can be said to have been distinguished for wit. I have already mentioned Klaus Narr in a ducal household; he was subsequently jester to Ernst, Archbishop of Magdeburg. In this service, if he did nothing else, he at least gave rise to a proverbial saying. He had covered the floor of the Archbishop’s room with feathers from a bed which he had ripped open. The prelate, on entering the apartment, angrily inquired who had done this; and as, at the moment, the Archbishop’s dog Lepsch, which had been in the chamber the whole time of Klaus Narr’s freak, rose from his couchant position, and opened his mouth, Klaus called to him angrily, “Lepsch, boy, don’t let out the secret!” The prelate laughed; and the expression became a proverb, to be applied in cases where silence was recommended.

The Bishop of Bamberg was less choice in his fool than his brother of Magdeburg. He kept a jester whose chief wit consisted in passing himself off as the brother of our Saviour. This poor wretch prattled incessantly of incidents in the household of his supposed family, and drew laughter from his reverend master by chatting with fearful familiarity of the events of a life, death, and resurrection which no Christian can ever think of without emotions of sympathy, love, and gratitude. This sorry fool, once seeing his godly patron treating with immense demonstration of friendship a deputation of Nurembergers whom he intended to fleece, imprison, and hang, the jester exclaimed, “Ay, ay! I remember how my good brother Jesus was superbly treated when he entered Jerusalem in triumph; but those rascally Jews plundered and executed him nevertheless!” The blasphemy certainly served the purpose of putting the Nurembergers on their guard; and the Bishop was only annoyed at it because it frustrated a cherished purpose.

The bad taste of the Bamberg bishops with respect to their jesters, is illustrated in another diocesan, who lived in part of the 16th and beginning of the 17th centuries. This exemplary divine maintained a coarse, strong, active, semi-savage peasant, who amused the episcopal court and guests by going about on all-fours, and often with a dwarf on his back, like a young knight on a huge steed. The fun consisted in the steed trying to unhorse the cavalier. Sometimes this huge fellow would leap on to the table without upsetting a goblet; at other times he was baited in the Bishop’s dining-room by dogs, and they generally had the worst of it. Springing at them in his wild attire, and uttering unearthly howls, he would pull down with his teeth even the fiercest bull-dogs, and so terribly maul them that they would not try a second attack. As for dogs of less ferocious breed, they flew at once from his terrific bellowing, seldom waiting to try the effect of his teeth. The agility of this savage was equal to his strength, and he would run along the uppermost parapet of the episcopal palace, and throw somersaults upon it as carelessly as if he had been on the ground, to the wild delight of the Bambergers, who were not very superior in moral qualities to the people of Munster. The latter had more regard for the fool of their Bishop than the fool had for them. One morning, the prelate’s jester was seen in a field belonging to his master, sowing pebbles. “It would be more profitable,” remarked a spectator, “if you could sow seed that should bring a crop of honest men.” “Ah,” answered the joker, “that’s a crop that the land of Munster is of too bad a quality to produce.”

Julius, Bishop of Wurtzburg, had as witty a fool as his brother of Munster. This jester was very much petted; but like spoiled favourites, he sometimes offended grievously by his impertinence, and the Bishop once ordered him to prison. While the gaoler was strewing some straw on the ground of the cell for the condemned jester to lie upon, the latter slipped out, locked the keeper in, and carried the key to the Bishop, with the remark that it was “all right.” “All right?” exclaimed the prelate. “It is all wrong, since you are not in prison, sirrah, and the gaoler is.” “There may be some mistake,” answered the joker; “but I can hardly think so. You ordered a fool to prison, and I am sure you will find one there, if you will only look for him.”

The prelates who kept fools about their hearth, had not unfrequently a taste of their office which was more likely to excite anger than merriment. These prelates occasionally even slept with their jesters. The former could not have been much given to meditation, since they depended on the latter to laugh them into sleep, or to solace them by merriment when they were wakeful. One of the princely Archbishops of Cologne followed this very indifferent fashion.

Were not my space becoming so limited, I might here fittingly notice those “Festivals of Fools” in which whole cities once took part, and of which the church was the principal scene. I allude especially to those FÊtes des Fous, Saturnalia established or continued to conciliate semi-converted pagans, and which were not entirely abolished till the end of the sixteenth century. This subject, however, would require a volume, and in some countries has had volumes devoted to it. The chief characteristic of a FÊte des Fous was, insult to the Church, and it is astonishing that a powerful Church bore with the nuisance for so long a period. A boy was, generally at the Epiphany, elected as Bishop, mounted on an ass, and escorted to church, where the people would interrupt the priest at his office, by unseemly songs, jeers, and profane and filthy conversation. Some would play at dice upon the altar, while others would feign to denounce them, or pretend to assist the priest, by mock exhortations or obscene lectures. The procession of fools, on leaving the church, greeted the open-mouthed starers by flinging bran in their faces, as they passed; and amused others by jumping over brooms, and chanting so-called hymns,—that were not for edification. This abomination lasted so long that many conservatively-minded persons saw a mystery in it, and when the church authorities aided the secular government to suppress the iniquity, there were not wanting individuals who maintained that this festival of fools was as pleasing to God, as the holiest festival of the year! Among these objectors to the suppression of this custom, were many clerics, who either enjoyed the uproarious holiday or made profit by being actors on the occasion.

In connection with jests and jesters near the Church, I could not well avoid mentioning this festival, where the buffoons exceeded any license assumed by official fools in royal and imperial courts. There are, however, so many well-known works or essays devoted to this matter, that I gladly leave the subject, trusting that if there be a reader who has gone with me thus far, he will accompany me through one more chapter before we finally part.