Chapter IX: Part 9

But where Jeffrey Hudson is best seen in his character of jester to Henrietta Maria, is in the despatches written in 1636, by Panzani and Corneo, agents of the Romish Church, in London, and addressed to Cardinal Mazarin. These despatches are quoted by Mrs. Everett Green, in her ‘Letters of Henrietta Maria,’ and it is there I find a notice of our little friend, Jeffrey. In the despatch in which mention is made of Hudson, the writer, Corneo, describes an interview he had with the Queen at Holmby Palace, near Northampton. He narrates the compliments exchanged by the principal personages, and proceeds to tell in much detail, how he presented to Henrietta Maria, as a Papal gift, a shrine for relics, and how gratefully it was received. Corneo then says, “that he exhibited to her Majesty a portrait of St. Catherine, with an intimation that as soon as he had procured a frame for it, he would offer it for the Queen’s acceptance.” The Queen was too impatient to wait, and therefore took the picture as it was, and had it fastened to the curtains of her bed. Nor was this all. On the following day there were more gifts for presentation, and at this ceremony we find Jeffrey in waiting, and exercising his licensed vocation. “I presented to her Majesty,” says the agent, “your Eminence’s rosary of olive wood, with another of agate, and one of buffalo horn, curiously worked with cameo medallions. I also took others to the Catholic ladies and maidens, which were distributed by Father Philip, in her Majesty’s presence; and the Queen’s dwarf, who is less and better made than that of Criqui, being present, when all was nearly finished, began to call out, “Madam, show the father that I also am a Catholic,” with a manner and gesture that made all laugh. This was evidently the manner and gesture of a court buffoon; and what would have been resented from a noble as an impertinence, was laughed at, in the Queen’s dwarf, as a good joke.

Eight years subsequently to the above scene, when Jeffrey (after cleverly aiding the Queen’s escape from Exeter) was with Henrietta Maria, in France, occurred his remarkable duel with Will Croft, brother of the Queen’s favourite, and master of the horse. Will Croft had bantered the valiant little man, who held a commission as a cavalry captain; and Jeffrey not only challenged him, but fought Will on horseback, in the park at Nevers. Croft had brought with him only a squirt, which he discharged at the enraged dwarf; but Hudson, “running his horse in full career, shot his antagonist in the head, and left him dead on the spot.” This affair caused some sensation in the French court, and it produced from Henrietta Maria a very characteristic note to Mazarin, whom she honours with a complimentary title. “Cousin,” she writes from Nevers, in October, 1644, “I wrote to the Queen, my sister, about a misfortune which has happened to my house, of Geoffrey, who has killed Croft’s brother. I have written the whole affair to the commander, in order that you may hear of it. What I wish is, that as they are both English, and my servants, the Queen, my sister, will give me authority to dispose of them as I please, in dispensing either justice or favour, which I was unwilling to do without writing to you, and asking you to assist me therein, as I shall always do in all that concerns me, since I profess to be, as I am, Cousin, your very affectionate cousin, Henrietta Maria, R.”

The Queen’s letter, as given by Mrs. Green, differs from that given by Miss Strickland in this lady’s life of Henrietta Maria. With regard to the consequences of the affair noticed in it, there only remains to be said, that poor Jeffrey lost his post in the Queen’s household. He recovered some favour at the court of Charles II.; but he fell under suspicion of treason, and the dwarf, who had been the faithful messenger of his patroness, had served her well in serious affairs of business, and made her and her court laugh by his small jests, ultimately died, a prisoner, in the Gate House, at Westminster.

Poor Jeffrey was less fortunate than two other dwarfs, patronized by Henrietta previous to her flight to France. They were a male and female. The former, Richard Gibson, had been in the service of a lady at Mortlake. She had observed in him a talent for drawing, and she kindly placed him with De Cleyn, director of the Mortlake tapestry works. Gibson acquired great reputation as a copier of Sir Peter Lely’s portraits, whose collection his nephew, William Gibson, was rich enough to purchase at Lely’s death. The dwarf artist was ever welcome at court; and when he espoused the dwarf young lady there, the nuptials of the little couple were honoured by the presence of Charles I. and Henrietta Maria. No less a bard than Edmund Waller sang their Epithalamium, or at least verses in commemoration of an event which made the court hilarious, and from which verses the following lines are taken:--

“Design or chance makes others wive,
But nature did this match contrive....
Thrice happy is that humble pair,
Beneath the level of all care!
Over whose heads those arrows fly,
Of sad distrust and jealousy;
Securëd in as high extreme
As if the world had none but them.
To him, the fairest nymphs do show
Like moving mountains topp’d with snow;
And every man a Polypheme
Does to his Galatea seem....”

Thus, although this couple did not belong to the fraternity of official jesters, the sovereigns and their court contrived to extract amusement from the neat little wedded pair, each of whom measured exactly three feet two. Richard Gibson was the King’s page, and his wife served the Queen. When King and Queen had passed away, the dwarf artist found in his pencil a better property than Charles had found, or lost, in his sceptre. He had painted his Royal master’s portrait; and when Oliver Cromwell was in power, he painted the Protector. He was the drawing-master of the Princesses Mary and Anne, and it may be remarked that, about the same period, the Muscovite court fool and dwarf, Sotof, was holding the additional office of writing-master to Peter the Great. The old page of Charles I. was however a superior man. He died at the age of seventy-five, A.D. 1690. His little wife lived till 1709, when she died, in her ninetieth year, at which time the four of their nine children who had attained to the ordinary stature of mankind survived, the issue of a marriage which had been honoured by the presence of royalty and commemorated as a court jest by the banter of Waller.

It is not to be expected that the grave system of the Commonwealth admitted of such an official as a jester. The house or town fool, however, did not go out with his brother at court. A portrait of one of those worthies may be seen at Muncaster Castle, Cumberland. His name was Thomas Skelton; he appears to have resided at the castle during the period of the civil wars, as house fool. Jefferson, in his ‘History of Allerdale Ward, above Derwent,’ says, that “of Skelton’s sayings there are many traditional stories;” but unfortunately he cites none. From his description of the portrait on the staircase at the castle, we obtain a good idea of the fool of this period. Skelton is there represented “in a check gown, blue, yellow, and white; under his arm is an earthen dish, with ears; in his right hand a white wand; in his left, a white hat, bound with pink ribbon, and with blue bows; in front, a paper, on which is written, ‘Mrs. Dorothy Copeland.’” The picture contains an inscription, headed “Thomas Skelton, late fool of Muncaster’s last will and testament.” I cite it, not for its poetical merit, but because it shows that these house and town fools were sometimes invested with mock offices of a certain dignity.

“Be it known to ye, O grave and wise men all,
That I, Tom Fool, am sheriff of the Hall.
I mean the Hall of Haigh, where I command
What neither I nor you do understand.
My under-sheriff is Ralph Wayte, you know;
As wise as I am, and as witty too.
Of Egremond I have borough-serjeant been;
Of Wiggan, bailiff too, as may be seen
By my white staff of office in my hand,
Being carried straight as the badge of my command.
A low high-constable, too, was once my calling,
Which I enjoy’d under King Henry Rawling.
And when the Fates a new sheriff send,
I’m under-sheriff prick’d, world without end.
He who doth question my authority
May see the seal and patent here lie by.
The dish with lugs [_ears_] which I do carry here
Shows all my living is in good strong beer.
If scurvy lads to me abuses do,
I’ll call ’em scurvy rogues, and rascals too.
Fair Dolly Copeland in my cap is placed;
Monstrous fair is she, and as good as all the rest.
Honest Nick Pennington, honest Tom Turner, both
Will bury me when I this world go forth.
But let me not be carried o’er the brigg,
Lest, falling, I in Duggas river ligg.
Nor let my body by old Charnorth lie,
But by Will Caddy,--for he’ll lie quietly.
And when I’m buried, then my friends may drink;
But each man pay for himself,--that’s best I think.
This is my will; and this I know will be
Perform’d by them, as they have promised me.”

This rhapsodic testament has “Thomas Skelton X his mark” affixed to it, serving to show (as Armstrong’s letter from Madrid does) that this class of jester, if possessed of wit, was not possessed of learning. The lines also intimate that the “fool of Muncaster Castle” was, like most of his profession, fond of drinking. The subscription of his mark is attested by three witnesses; and the rhymed joke had all the forms of a serious document.

After the gravity enforced by the Commonwealth, the silencing of the stage, the suppression of joking, and the introduction of long sermons and loud psalms, there was a sudden reaction, even before the graceless King had got what was facetiously called “his own again.” Monk, who was in some doubt, even as he marched through Gray’s Inn Lane into London, whether he should join hands with the solemn precisians or the gay cavaliers, no sooner felt the direction of the popular wind, than he gave license to jollity. The nearest approach that could be made to the old professional fool, started on to the stage as “The Citizen and Soldier,” “Country Tom and City Dick,” and other “pretty antics,” played in April 1660, before “His Excellency,” when, with the Council of State, he dined at one of the city halls. He dined at nine of them; and after dinner on each occasion, besides satirical plays, were “dancing and singing, many shapes and ghosts, and the like; and all to please his Excellency, the Lord General.”

If it be true that the official fool was not restored with Monarchy, at the accession of Charles II., because the Puritan voice and the religious sentiment of the country generally, were against such officials and their foolery, foolery itself did not go out. See what solemn Evelyn says to it, under the date of January 1, 1661–2:--“1st January. I went to London, invited to the solemn foolery of the Prince de la Grange, at Lincoln’s Inn, where came the King, Duke, etc. It began with a grand masque, and a formal pleading before the mock princes, grandees, nobles, and knights of the Sun. He had his Lord Chancellor, Chamberlain, Treasurer, and other royal officers, gloriously clad and attended. It ended in a magnificent banquet. One Mr. Lort was the young spark who maintained the pageantry.”

A little more than six years later, we meet with an entry in ‘Pepys’ Diary’ which seems to introduce us to an official fool, and which is to this effect:--“1667–8. Feb. 13. Mr. Brisband tells me, in discourse, that Tom Killigrew hath a fee out of the Wardrobe for cap and bells, under the title of the King’s Foole or Jester, and may revile or jeere anybody, the greatest person, without offence, by the privilege of his place.”--Pepys, vol. iv. p. 353.

Oldys is quite as explicit. In one of his MS. notes to ‘Langbain’s Memoirs of Dramatic Authors,’ he says, under the head of Killigrew: “He was Master of the Revels, and the King’s jester, while Groom of the Bedchamber.” Various writers, when commenting on these passages, have suggested that Killigrew never held a patent of official fool, and that his actual appointment was to the office of Master of the Revels. According, however, to Chalmers, Tom Killigrew succeeded Herbert as Master of the Revels in 1673, and was followed therein, on his death, in 1682–3, by his brother Charles. The office in question was first instituted in 1546, the last year of Henry VIII. (with a salary of £10 per annum), and continued till 1725, when the Lord Chamberlain was empowered to have rule and dominion over the court and public entertainments; and the Master of the Revels being entirely ignored in a new Act of Parliament, was snuffed out, and never heard of again.

Supposing Pepys’s informant to have stated the actual truth, Tom Killigrew had, not a patent, but a warrant under the King’s sign manual, addressed to the officers of the Wardrobe, directing them to pay to Killigrew, “our fool or jester,” a certain amount per annum to enable him to provide the customary official indication of a cap and bells. Such warrants had nothing in them of the character of Letters Patent. An entry of the warrant should have been made in some book kept in the Wardrobe; the warrant or sign manual may have been preserved, and probably also a docket, or short minute of it, may have been made and kept by some Master of Requests or other officer who laid the warrant before the King for his signature. If such a warrant did actually exist, it ought to be found in some wardrobe book, or collection of signed bills or warrants, or dockets.

The most careful research has failed to be rewarded by the discovery of any document confirmatory of the report conveyed to Pepys. All that I could find in conjunction with Mr. Bruce, or, I should rather say, all that his antiquarian zeal, patience, curiosity, and unwearied good-nature could find for me, consisted of several entries which show that Killigrew was in the receipt of various payments made by the Crown; but none of these show him to have been an official court jester. The only approach to a proof is, that he is styled “one of the Grooms of the Chamber,” a style by which Tarleton was designated when he was jester to Elizabeth.

On the Issue Roll, 1 March, 1665–6, there is notice of a payment of £100, being a quarter’s annuity granted to Killigrew and Cecilie, his wife. In 1666, the same Roll contains notices of payments on account of two annuities, one of £400 per annum, which he held jointly with his wife; and one of the annual value of £500. These annuities are duly ordered to be paid, at later dates, and from various sources. Sometimes there were no effects in the treasury, and then the Queen’s purse seems to have been tapped for the payment. In the Pells Enrolments, 1675, Killigrew receives £200, to be expended by him in support of his office as Master of the Revels; and, later, we come upon an entry of £1050, to be paid to him for getting up certain plays during the preceding nine years. I may add, that in a succeeding year, the 18th of August, 1678, there was another appointment of greater interest than the above, and which shows how different, now at least, was the court poet from the court fool. I allude to the appointment of Dryden as poet laureate. The letters patent making this appointment are entered on the Pells Book of Enrolments of the date above mentioned. In this document, Dryden’s predecessors, Gower and Chaucer, are spoken of as knights; the salary is fixed at £200 per annum; and directions are given that the butt of canary, or sack, shall be taken out of the King’s cellars at Whitehall, “yearly, and once a year.” At the above date, Killigrew was Master of the Revels; and if he were jester also, it may be said that the court of England had never seen so accomplished a “fool,” nor so eminent a laureate, as now figured on the household roll of Charles II.

The position of Tom Killigrew at Court was, however, so closely allied to that of the official jester, as to forbid its being passed over without some brief notice. Killigrew was the son of a baronet; and his earliest vocation and amusement, was that of lingering about the doors of the theatre till he was invited in to play some imp, or any other character that a boy could enact. In this way he commenced a career which ended in his being, with Buckingham and others, one of the “merry villains” in the household of Charles II.

Killigrew’s first appearance at Court was in the character of page of honour to Charles I., a part which he seems to have filled creditably. When the Commonwealth was established, Tom went into the service of Charles II., then on the Continent; and he is very strongly suspected of having betrayed his master’s secrets to the republican Government. This suspicion rests upon a passage in a letter (dated October 1658) from Downing, Cromwell’s Resident at the Hague, to Thurloe, referring to a secret visit paid by Charles to the Dutch court. “As for Charles Stuart,” says the writer, “I had an account from one Killigrew, of his bed-chamber, of every place where he was, and the time, with his stay and company, of which also I gave you an account in mine of the last post. He vowed that it was a journey of pleasure, and that none of the States General, nor any person of note of Amsterdam, came to him.” These communications, however, may have been made by Killigrew in good faith, as explanations, in order to screen his royal master from molestation.

Of that royal master he was the not unfitting representative at Venice, whither Killigrew repaired to borrow money, and where he remained long enough to write some half-dozen verbose and witless plays. He remained too long for the patience of the Venetians, who, dissolute as they were themselves, were more disgusted at the profligacy, than charmed by the accomplishments, of the English envoy; and the Doge, Francis Erizzo, very unceremoniously ejected him from the Venetian territory. In the fourth volume of ‘Evelyn’s Diary and Correspondence’ will be found a letter from Hyde, mildly complaining that Charles was not permitted to withdraw his ambassador.

Killigrew, at the Restoration, brought back with him an improved taste in theatrical matters generally; and he introduced the first Italian opera singers ever heard in this country. He was for a time the most conspicuous man at court, where he certainly exercised with impunity all the license of the court fool, which office Oldys and Pepys ascribe to him. The samples of this license are well known, but some will bear being reproduced.

On one occasion, this “merry villain” was seated at a window of the King’s dressing-room, reading one of his licentious plays, while Charles was engaged at his toilette. The monarch must have been under the influence of some decency of spirit that morning, for he asked Killigrew what he would be able to say in the next world, in defence of the “idle words” of his comedies. Tom replied, that he would be able to make a better defence for his “idle words” than the King could do for his idle promises, which were made only to be broken, and which had caused more ruin than any of the aforesaid idle words in any of his own comedies.

Of similar boldness, and with more of truth in it, was his satirical hint to Charles, conveyed publicly to the King, at a moment of great national distress. Killigrew remarked that the affairs of the kingdom were in a very ill state; but that nevertheless they were not without remedy. “There is a good, honest, able man that I could name,” said he, “that if your Majesty would employ, and command to see all things well executed, all things would be soon mended; and this is one Charles Stuart, who now spends his time in employing his lips about the court, and hath no other employment; but if you would give him this employment, he were the fittest man in the world to perform it.”

The jester, turned Mentor, was ever more ready with precept than example; and his own practice of selling places that did not exist, and taking money from honest and ambitious citizens for creating them “King’s physic-tasters,” or “royal curtain-drawers,” was thought an excellent court jest, and was laughed at accordingly.

Sometimes, like Will Sommers before Henry VIII., Killigrew would appear in the presence of Charles, in disguise. Once he came before the King in pilgrim’s attire, “cockled hat and shoon.” “Whither away?” asked Charles. “I am going to hell,” boldly replied the jester, “to ask the devil to send back Oliver Cromwell to take charge of the affairs of England; for as to his successor, he is always employed in other business.” It will be seen from this, that if Killigrew did not wear the cap and bells, he was in all essentials the bold, witty, and privileged jester of the court of Charles II.

Tom could bring the latter to attend to his affairs when no one else had hope of succeeding. We have an instance of this when a Council had assembled on some highly important matter, but could do nothing for want of the King’s much-desired presence. When Lauderdale had failed to induce the King to leave his pleasures for the public business, Killigrew wagered a hundred pounds with the Duke, that _he_ would bring Charles to the Council in half-an-hour. Tom succeeded too. He simply suggested to the King, that as his Majesty hated Lauderdale, he might now get rid of him for ever. “If I win my wager, the Duke will rather hang himself than pay the money.” “Well then,” said Charles, “if that be the case, I positively will go.” And so merry villain and merry monarch proceeded straight to the Council Chamber.

Pepys calls Killigrew “a merry droll, but a gentleman of great esteem with the King.” When the immortal diarist was in the Admiralty yacht, off the coast of Holland, in 1660, among the “persons of honour” also there, Killigrew is named. “He told us many merry stories,” says Pepys; “one, how he wrote a letter three or four days ago to the Princess Royal, about a Queen Dowager of Judea and Palestine, that was at the Hague _incognita_, that made love to the King, which was Mr. Cary (a courtier’s) wife, that had been a nun, who are all married to Jesus.” Two years later, when the clerk met the courtier at the Tower, the former designates the wit of the jester as consisting of “poor and frothy discourse.”

In February, 1666–7, Killigrew narrated to Pepys what he had done, since he was a manager, for the improvement of the stage; rendering it “a thousand times better and more glorious than ever heretofore. Now, wax-candles, and many of them; then, not above 3lbs. of tallow. Now, all things civil, no rudeness anywhere; then, as a bear-garden. Then, two or three fiddlers; now, nine or ten of the best: then, nothing but rushes on the ground, and everything else mean; now, all otherwise.” It was in the following year that Killigrew is said to have received his fee for the purchase of his cap and bells. What is more certain is, that in the last year named, he and gentlemen of similar mirthful quality relieved the depression of their spirits at Sir Thomas Teddiman’s funeral, by reading aloud, or listening to, a variety of comic ballads! The respect which Killigrew received at the hands of Rochester, appears to have been exactly that which an over-bold fool might win from a courtier equally proud and dissolute. It was for some fool’s offence given at a banquet at the Dutch Ambassador’s, at which the King himself was present, that Rochester dealt the saucy wit a stinging smack on the face. Tom took it as Tom Derry might have taken a cuff from a Lord; and Rochester lost no favour with the King for having thus assaulted one of his Majesty’s “merry villains.” Killigrew died in March 1682. Evelyn records in his Diary, the execution of Vrats, the murderer, who believed that “God would deal with him like a gentleman;” but he leaves Tom’s departure from the festive scene unhonoured by a word of remark.

Shadwell writes, in his ‘Woman Captain,’ anno 1680:--“It is out of fashion now, for great men to keep fools;” but though princes and nobles began to prefer the society of witty and intellectual gentlemen to the paid-for nonsense of hirelings who were said, by periphrasis, to have been born at Little Witham, the old taste did not entirely expire either at court or in private households. Anthony à Wood mentions Dr. John Donne, son of the celebrated Donne, as “an atheistical buffoon, a banterer, and a person of over-free thought; yet valued by Charles the Second.” The court of this monarch assuredly little resembled that of his contemporary sovereign, the King of Siam, touching which, Captain Erwin told Pepys (17th August, 1666), “how the King of Syam seldom goes out without thirty or forty thousand people with him, and not a word spoke, nor a hum or a cough in the whole company to be heard.” In other respects, the difference does not seem to have been remarkable, for the Captain was assured by a native interpreter, that “our (the Siamese) King do not live by meat or drink, but by having great lies told him.” The reign of James II. is barren, as far as it is in connection with the subject I pursue; and it is tolerably certain that throughout the reign of William III., the only official court fool in England was the one who came over in the suite of the Czar Peter. His presence marked the distinction then existing between a civilized and intellectual, and an uncivilized and ignorant court.

I must not omit, however, to relate an incident of this reign in connection with the subject of the license of the fool. If the latter official was not to be found at court, his representatives still lingered in the fairs, and exercised a privilege which the Royal authority, nevertheless, was not slow to oppose. In 1693, the magnificent Smyrna fleet set sail from our shores, under convoy of a squadron of English and Dutch men-of-war, at the head of which were Killigrew, Delaval, and Rooke. The first two abandoned the last admiral; and Rooke, left to encounter the whole maritime force of France in the Bay of Lagos, suffered severe loss, and the rich Smyrna fleet (with some exceptions) was scattered, sunk, burnt, or otherwise destroyed. This catastrophe, the return of the first two admirals to Torbay, and the disaster to “the Turkey fleet,” excited mingled indignation and grief. As the fool of the French King Philip made use of the defeat of the French fleet by the navy of Edward, whereon to exercise his wit and rouse the patriotic anger of his master, so now the fools and merry-andrews congregated at Bartholomew fair, in the vicinity of the edifice where Rahere the jester had founded a Priory in honour of the Apostle, made use of the public dishonour and loss, in order to keep alive the popular execration against those wretched and incapable ministers, to whose incapacity and indifference might be traced the fearful loss of life, property, and good name incurred by England on the fatal day in question. On Saturday, September 2, 1693, Narcissus Luttrell writes, in his Diary:--“A merry-andrew in Bartholomew fair is committed for telling the mobb news that our fleet was come into Torbay, being forced in by some French privateers; and other words reflecting on the conduct of great Ministers of State.” Lord Macaulay founds, on a paragraph in L’Hermitage of the same date, a very graphic description of this attempt of the fool at fairs, to wag his tongue as boldly as his predecessors used to do at court. Of all the shows at this period, says the historian, “none proved so attractive as a dramatic performance which, in conception, though doubtless not in execution, seems to have borne much resemblance to those immortal master-pieces of humour, in which Aristophanes held up Cleon and Lamachus to derision. Two strollers personated Killigrew and Delaval. The admirals were represented as flying with their whole fleet before a few French privateers, and taking shelter under the guns of the Tower. The office of Chorus was performed by a Jack Pudding, who expressed very freely his opinion of the naval administration. Immense crowds flocked to see this strange farce. The applauses were loud; the receipts were great; and the mountebanks, who had at first ventured to attack only the unlucky and unpopular Board of Admiralty, now emboldened by impunity and success, and probably prompted and rewarded by persons of much higher station than their own, began to cast reflections on other departments of the Government. This attempt to revive the license of the Attic stage was soon brought to a close by the appearance of a strong body of constables, who carried off the actors to prison.”

Thus was suppressed an attempt, less to revive than to continue the license of the jester. Government had become less tolerant in this respect than Kings had been to their own fools. A dozen years before, an essay to joke down the administrative foibles of the day, by a pamphleteering jester, “Heraclitus Ridens,” was very summarily and stringently punished. Bartholomew fair, however, struggled hard to maintain its supposed privileges. It is very possible that if persons of high station employed the merry-andrews of 1693, to spout their fun against elevated Ministers of State, that they were also present to hear how their agents acquitted themselves of the office. Nothing was more common than the presence of the nobility at the Saturnalia in Smithfield, except the presence of the “mobile,” with whom the former frequently came in sanguinary contact. In September, 1690, Luttrell writes:--“The first instant was a great disorder at Bartholomew fair, where the mobile got ahead, and quarrelled with some gentlemen, upon which, swords were drawn, where some were wounded, and one or two killed.” Even as late as the reign of George II., the fair was patronized by an august presence. Frederick, Prince of Wales, used to go there by night, attended by a merry suit of courtiers of either sex. The theatres were then closed, and “their Majesties’ servants” played in booths. Princes now went to see the “drolls;” whereas, in former times the clowns waited on the princes.

Before this last period, Queen Anne may be said to have had some of the old leaven in her; for she made a Knight of William Read, a mountebank. Her Majesty, also, offered to knight Beau Nash, a buffoon too, according to the fashion of the times; but the Beau had declined the honour at the hands of the great Nassau, and he would not take it from Anne. His reply was in the bad court-jester style: “I will have none of it, most gracious Madam,” said Nash, as if he were refusing to grant a favour; “but there is Sir William Read, the mountebank, whom your Majesty has knighted,--I shall be very happy to call him Brother.” At which fool’s sally, “the solemn Anna smiled.”

But if the official fool had gone out, foolish officers still exercised a silly vocation at court. Perhaps the most silly of these was the King’s cock-crower, who was still loud and lusty, at the opening of the Georgian era. This personage crowed at each hour of the night. On the first Ash-Wednesday which occurred after the accession of the Hanoverian family, the Prince of Wales (subsequently George II.) supped at court. Just as ten o’clock struck, his Majesty’s cock-crower, who happened to be behind the Prince, set up such a chanticleering, that the Prince started up in indignation at what he deemed a fool’s insult. The courtiers had some difficulty in assuring him that the crowing and crower formed part of the ordinary court etiquette. The Prince would not tolerate such a nuisance, and another fool’s office was annihilated when he came to the throne.

There were still some wits, however, in whom the popular voice hailed an arch-jester. I may notice one, whose very grave is likely soon to be forgotten. In the old cemetery (belonging to St. Clement’s Danes), in Portugal-street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, in a grave, the head-stone of which was during many summers, until recently, regularly embowered and concealed by sun-flowers, lie the remains of the witty jester, Joe Miller. There they have been since 1738. The year following, John Mottley, the author of ‘Peter the Great,’ published a collection of jests as honest Joe’s, but they were really a collection of witty things which in his time he had either heard or read, and to which Mottley appended Miller’s name. The latter died at the age of fifty-four, the exact age at which departed so recently from among us, he who held the “consulship of wit,” in England,--Douglas Jerrold. That Miller was “facetious,” we learn from the inscription above his grave; that he was witty also, his jest not merely turning on a pun, but on a chain of ideas, the following will testify. He was once sitting in the parlour of the Sun Tavern, in Clare-street, or the Black Jack, in Portsmouth-street, his favourite houses, when a fishwoman passed by, crying “Buy my soles! buy my maids!”--“Ah, you wicked old creature!” said Joe to her, “are you not contented to sell your own soul, but you must sell your maid’s too?”

In the reigns of George II. and his successor, among the men who seem to have united with other offices, something like the vocation of court fool, was the son of a Carlisle apothecary, named Bubb, who succeeded to the estates and adopted the name of his uncle, Doddington; and who is better known by their conjoined names, than by his subsequent title of Lord Melcombe. A disappointment in obtaining a peerage, took him from the ranks of Sir Robert Walpole and George II., to those of Frederick, Prince of Wales. In the household of the Prince, Bubb, who lacked neither good qualities nor ability, descended to play the fool. Horace Walpole tells us that “he submitted to the Prince’s childish horse-play, being once rolled up in a blanket and trundled down stairs.” He changed sides more than once; lent and lost money to the Prince; was laughed at, to his very face, by the King; slept in a bed canopied with peacocks’ feathers; and kept fools, “a tame booby or two,” of his own. These were Wyndham, his heir; Sir William Bruton, keeper of George II.’s privy purse; and Dr. Thompson--“a misanthrope, a courtier, and a quack,” as Cumberland names them. Thompson appears to have been the most ignoble of the “monks” who sojourned at “La Trappe,”--so Doddington called his company and mansion at Hammersmith. Thompson was ostensibly his medical adviser; but he practised his profession like a fool, and was treated by his patron as patrons were wont to treat fools of more audacity than wit. On one occasion, the Doctor observed Doddington, at breakfast, about to help himself to muffins. He denounced them as indigestible, and loudly bade the servant, “Take away those muffins!” “No, no!” said Doddington, pointing to the Doctor, “take away that ragamuffin!” In this way were “tame boobies” treated by their patrons, who, themselves, were princes’ fools.

At an earlier period, that, namely, of Louis XIV., we find instances of noble persons assembling in their houses people of a very inferior rank, for the purpose of drawing from them something more than amusement. The Duchess de la Ferté was one of these. This exalted personage was in the habit of inviting all her tradespeople to her house. She entertained herself with their peculiarities at table, and then set them down to play with her at lansquenet, or some similar game. Madame de Staël, who tells the story in her Memoirs, adds, “The Duchess would sometimes whisper to me, ‘I am cheating the fellows, but Lord! serve them right! Don’t I know how they rob me daily?’” So that the Duchess made her fools pay their expenses, and her own.

In the reign of George III., although the fool did not exist as a professional man, we have an instance of a professional man enacting the fool, with good intent and profitable purpose. The person alluded to is the learned and laughter-loving Dr. William Battie, who was a well-reputed London physician in portions of the reigns of George II. and his successor. He was celebrated for his treatment of the insane; and is thus described in the ‘_Battiad_,’ a poem of which he was the hero.

“First Battas came, deep read in worldly art,
Whose tongue ne’er knew the secrets of his heart.
In mischief mighty, though but mean of size,
And, like the Tempter, ever in disguise.
See him with aspect grave and gentle tread,
By slow degrees approach the sickly bed;
Then, at his club, behold him alter’d soon,
The solemn doctor turns a low buffoon.”

But Battie could play the fool, even to better purpose by the sick bed, than the buffoon at his club. It is told of him that he had a young male patient whom obstinate quinsy threatened with almost instant suffocation. Battie had tried every remedy but his foolery, and at last he had recourse to _that_. Setting his wig wrong side before, twisting his face into a compound comic expression, and darting his head suddenly within the curtains, he cut such antics, poured forth such delicious folly, and was altogether so irresistible, that his patient, after gazing at him for a moment in stupefaction, burst into a fit of laughter which broke the imposthume, and rescued the sufferer from impending death.

The above, however, is only a sample of how a professional man could apply folly to a wise end. We have something more resembling the professional fool or dwarf, in the case of a retainer of the Duke of Ancaster who died in 1779. Walpole mentions him in a letter to Lady Ossory. “I hear the Duke of Ancaster has left a legacy to a very small man that was always his companion, and whom, when he was drunk, he used to fling at the heads of the company, as others fling a bottle.”

Although, professionally, the vocation had gone, it is still worth observing, that other patent places which had originated in feudal times, had not gone with that of the jester. “If my memory does not deceive me,” says Burke in his speech on the royal household, in 1780, “a person of no slight consideration held the office of patent hereditary cook to an Earl of Warwick.” The orator rightly conjectured that the Earl’s soups “were not the better for the dignity of his kitchen;” and he adds his belief that “an Earl of Gloucester officiated as steward of the household to the Archbishops of Canterbury.” The orator found a curious relic of those old times when these practices were common, in the household of George III. He did not meet with any witty fellow there patented as fool, but he discovered something akin to it; namely, that the turnspit in the King’s kitchen was a Member of Parliament!

The annals of succeeding reigns bear the names of several courtiers whose office it was to amuse and gratify their Royal patron. How George III. himself could play the court jester with effect, I will tell in a chapter devoted to sovereigns who occasionally were their own fools. How Colonel Haager and others of more recent periods have played first cousins to the more ancient jokers, it is unnecessary here to enumerate. I will rather conclude my long, and I fear imperfect, chapter, by showing also the conclusion of the actual line of hired fools in noble English households. It is not so very long since the last of this class died and left no successor. Mr. Douce, in his pleasant Essay on clowns and fools, gives the names of the last of them who practised professionally in this country. The household fool survived the court fool; and after Muckle John closed the line of the latter, there was still bread to be earned by the profession of the former. According to Mr. Douce, the favourite Lord Chancellor of George I., the eminent Lord Talbot, kept a fool, probably at his country-house, if at all. Mr. Douce tells us that his name was Rees Pengelding, and that he was a shrewd fellow who rented a farm under his patron. It happened that Rees was a little backward with his rent, and he was harshly menaced by the steward, who wound up his objurgations by exclaiming, “I’ll fit you! I’ll fit you!” Now it happened that the steward, in his earlier days, had been a tailor, the remembrance of which caused Rees to call out in return, “Fit me! will you? Well, it will be the first time in your life you ever did such a thing!”

I feel bound to add, that Lord Campbell, in his life of Chancellor Talbot, makes no mention of this fool, Pengelding. May not the latter have been simply favoured, because of the sharpness of his wit? It is difficult to conceive that the profound scholar in Roman civil law; the friend and equal of Philip Yorke, the enlightened statesman; the only Chancellor who had ever sat on the Woolsack without making an accuser, a detractor, or an enemy; a man, in short, in whom was “joined the utmost freedom of dispute with the highest good breeding, and the vivacity of mirth with primitive simplicity of manners,”--it would be difficult to conceive that such a man, the friend of Butler the divine, and patron of Thompson, could take delight in a mere household fool, were we not reminded that even more intellectual Chancellors than he, in earlier, but not in less refined days, could find relaxation in listening to the professional joker. In connection with my subject, I shall be excused if I notice that when Talbot was appointed Chancellor, a grand “Revel” was given in his honour by the Inner Temple (1734), and that this was the last festivity of the sort at which royalty attended at an Inn of Court. There has been a royal entertainment in our own days, at Lincoln’s Inn, but Talbot’s “Revel” was the last of its class.

Mr. Douce also names a certain Robin Rush as being fool, in the last century, to Lord Bussy Mansel; and Mr. Douce adds, that in 1807 there were people living who remembered him. Sir Edward Stradling, of St. Dorret’s Castle, Glamorganshire, was another of the lords of land who kept a fool in his house at the same period;--a fool of sharp and ready wit. We have still more satisfactory proof of the existence of a household fool in the last century, in the person of Dicky Pearce, “fool to Lord Suffolk,” for which fool, being dead, Dean Swift did what Ronsard failed to do for a more witty jester at the court of France,--namely, write his epitaph. Dicky Pearce lies in Berkeley churchyard, Gloucestershire, and these are the lines the Dean has placed above his grave:--

“Here lies the Earl of Suffolk’s fool,
Men called him Dicky Pearce;
His folly served to make folks laugh.
When wit and mirth were scarce.

“Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone;
What signifies to cry?
Dickeys enough are still behind
To laugh at by and by.”

The last recorded instance of a domestic fool being kept in an English family, is that of the jester retained at Hilton Castle, Durham, by John Hilton, the descendant of the old barons of that name, who died 1746. Surtees, in his ‘History of Durham,’ notices this fact, and adds one touch of the wit of this anonymous fool, who seems to have borrowed a traditionary joke of his great predecessor, Archie Armstrong. His master, we are told, on one occasion of his returning to his northern seat from London, left his carriage at the ferry near the castle, and proceeded towards that building over a foot-bridge, at the end of which the fool was awaiting his patron. The latter was attired in a gaily gold-embroidered dress, according to the fashion of the times, and made in the south, by a fashionable tailor. The fool gazed on his master with mingled astonishment and vexation, and, in place of greeting his return with a welcome, boldly looked him in the face, and inquired, “Who’s the fool now?” This is the last recorded joke of the last recorded jester; and the long line could not have gone out with a milder, though it might have done so with a less impertinent, jest. Hilton’s fool may, I think, fairly rank as the _ultimus stultorum_ (he was remembered by aged Cumberland people, as late as 1812), though in point of fact the honour may be disputed by the nameless individual who figured, though it was only for the nonce, at the Eglinton tournament, in 1839, where knights tilted in spectacles, and the spectators looked on at the solemn fun, under rain and from beneath umbrellas.

Thus the fool went out in a rather gorgeous fashion. There was a grand tableau as the curtain descended which had been up in England for so many centuries. I am bound to add that the Eglinton fool may find a rival as to the honour of closing the merry line, in Shemus Anderson, the fool of Murthley Castle, Perthshire, who died in the year 1833. He had grown tolerably rich in his vocation; had suffered losses, like Dogberry; but left behind him some comfortable hundreds of pounds to his heirs. Shemus, however, never wore the cap and bells, or nursed the bauble, or whirled the bladder and peas, or shook the clappers, or carried motley. He was a fool in undress; but in respect of fulness of character and costume, of circus jokes, and all the accessories of the part, excepting its indecencies, the Eglinton fool was the last of the race. He flickered up for a moment, as did the padded knights and the Queen of Beauty, to afford some idea to the times present of the aspect of the times past, as far as the latter could be exhibited in one of its gorgeous follies. The blaze of splendour was great, and the fool’s fire of conundrums burnt bravely, but the rain extinguished it all; the umbrellas gave an air of ridicule to the scene; the thing was felt to be, after all, only a splendid sham; and accordingly the fool and the pseudo-feudal lords and ladies disappeared for ever. All that remains of the old reality are rags and shreds and fragments in the mansions of our nobles and gentles. At Glamis Castle a motley jacket still hangs, or did recently hang, on a peg in the wall, and at Stourhead is still preserved a jester’s baldric, which may be devoutly kissed as a relic by the worshippers of Folly.

Some resemblance may be certainly traced between the conditions of the English court fool and the ancient parasite, and between the English household fool and the old Roman slave. With all, there was laughter excited by liberty of speech, which must have occasionally fallen like refreshing dew upon the ear of despot or noble, unaccustomed to listen to aught from others save his own exceeding glorification. The despot still retained the power of punishing the fool; and in this particular, the household jester, who was often a menial servant, the drudge of the family, very closely resembled the Roman slave, with whom his master would graciously exchange jokes one day, and whom he would scourge the next. The two, capricious master and servile yet audacious wit, agreed very well with despotism, and coarse times and manners; but with liberty and refinement, both expired, or underwent such modifications, or took such new forms, as to be no longer recognizable. The fool was for a season, but eccentricity of character, which was his great merit, naturally survived him.

It has been objected to many of the ancient traits of court jesters, that they were inventions of writers of fiction, and that they only illustrated a rude state of society. Thus, the incident of Scogan chalking the path to be taken by his wife to church, has been pronounced too farcical to be true. But the degree of humour which moved King Edward’s jester to this act, has influenced many persons of later and more refined times than those in which Scogan uttered very questionable jokes for the amusement of his royal and princely patrons. We all know how Lord Hardwicke, when he was an attorney’s clerk, and was ordered by his mistress to purchase a cauliflower, executed this commission, but sent the vegetable home in a sedan-chair at the lady’s cost. An instance more striking and closer to the point, is given us in the person of the wealthy Margaret Wharton, whom Foote introduced in one of his pieces, as “Peg Pennyworth,” a name which the lady had acquired when a visitor at Scarborough, by sending every night for a pennyworth of strawberries and cream, for her supper. In this dramatic piece, Mrs. Wharton afforded mirth to princes, courtiers, and citizens, with whom the farce was a great favourite. Ord, in his ‘History of Cleveland,’ narrates several anecdotes of her humour, of which I select one that may contrast with that of Scogan. “In one of her visits to Scarborough,” we are told, “she, with her usual economy, had a family pie for dinner, which she directed the footman to convey to the bakehouse. This he declined, as not belonging to his place, or rather derogatory to his consequence. She then moved the question to the coachman, but found a still stronger objection. To save the pride of both, she resolved to take it herself, and ordered one to harness, and bring out the carriage, and the other to mount behind, and they took the pie, with all honour and ceremony, to the bakehouse. When baked, coachee was ordered to put to a second time, and the footman to mount behind; and the pie returned in the same dignified state. ‘Now,’ says she to the coachman, ‘you have kept your place, which is to drive; and yours,’ to the footman, ‘which is to wait; and I mine, which was to have my pie for dinner.’” It was just this sort of eccentricity of character which gave value to the old counterfeit fools, as we shall see further in subsequent pages.

Meanwhile I take leave of the English portion of my subject with the comment of Stillingfleet, who says:--

“Leave to low buffoons by custom bred,
And form’d by nature to be kicked and fed,
The vulgar and unenvied task to hit
All persons, right or wrong, with random wit.
Our wise forefathers, born in sober days,
Resigned to fools the tart and witty phrase;
The motley coat gave warning for the jest,
Excused the wound and sanctified the pest.
But we from high to low all strive to sneer,
Will all be wits, and not the livery wear.”

If my readers have but patience to go forward, they will soon find themselves in company with the _Fous du Roi_, at the Court of France, where, for a long period, it was not possible for a fool to appear _without_ his livery; but to which now the following lines are not less applicable than they are to other localities:--

“Why, pray, of late do Europe’s kings
No jester in their courts admit?
They’ve grown such stately solemn things;
To bear a joke, they think not fit.
But though each court a jester lacks,
To laugh at monarchs to their face,
All mankind do behind their backs,
Supply the honest jester’s place.”

THE COURT FOOLS OF FRANCE.