Send in the clowns
Any reference to clowns carries an undercurrent of contempt. Christopher Marlowe in his ‘Tamburlaine’ (1590)
prologue remarks: “From jigging veins of rhyming mother wits / And such
conceits as clownage keeps in pay / We’ll lead you to the stately tent
of wars.” In our more enlightened times, of course, we cannot present wars
as demonstrating any kind of stateliness, but clowns we retain in our midst,
whether on a stage or in the House of Commons.
The word clown derives from Low German, and usually refers to a rustic, ill-bred
person, a fool or a buffoon. It once had more sinister connotations, since circus
and pantomime clowns are relics of the representation of the Devil in medieval
miracle plays. By the 16th century a clown or cloyne was always
a fool or jester. Modern usage implies
something rustic or peasant — a sad reflection on the city dweller’s
estimate of rural folk.
What is rather impressive, however, is the extent to which the adjective has
entered
into the vernacular names given to wild plants used in folk remedies. For example,
we have clown’s all-heal (a species of woundwort), clown’s lungwort
(a verbena), clown’s mustard (a candytuft), clown’s spikenard (an
inula), clown’s treacle (a garlic) and plain clowns (a butterwort of Yorkshire).
Throughout these plant names runs the assumption that to talk of clowns implies
the simple remedies of lowly peasants. In its way it amounts to a slur on character
which is quite unjustified.
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