And there were some that had no money, that offered their rings; and some of them that offered twice or thrice, because they would be seen. Thus received he the offerings both of the good and the bad, and by this practice got a great sum of money.” That he subsequently came again to England, may be gathered from stories of a later date. One legend tells us of the King condemning him to be hanged, but allowing him the privilege of choosing a tree from which he was to be suspended. Scogan avoided the penalty by being unable to fix on a tree exactly to his mind. The story, however, is related of earlier jesters than Scogan, and seems to have originally belonged to the buffoon of Alboin, King of the Lombards. There is nothing more left worth telling, though there is much more that might be told, of Scogan, the gentleman-buffoon of Edward IV. His last expressed desire was characteristic of his vocation and his humour:--“Bury me,” said he, “under one of the water-spouts of Westminster Abbey; for I have ever loved good drink, all the days of my life.” It was a fool’s wish; but for the grave of him who made it, no less an author than Cardinal Pole composed in his younger days, an epitaph which may be worthy the jester, but is certainly less worth citing than that composed by Swift for one of the last of our household fools, and which will be found in a subsequent page of this volume. The stupid book, edited by Borde of Pevensey, and known to many an antiquary whose patience is not stout enough to hold out to the end of the dirt, dullness, and dreariness which mark what is called ‘Scoggin’s Jests,’ reminds me of a saying of Balzac, with reference to two of the wittiest Frenchmen of the great revolutionary era,--Chamfort and Rivarol. “Those good fellows,” remarks Balzac, “put a whole volume into one of their witty sayings; but now-a-days, it is difficult to find one witty saying in a whole volume.” The last part of this remark is most applicable to collections of jests to which the name of some court fool was appended in order to give them currency and an air of authenticity. Even if Scogan’s so-called “Jests” were authentic, they would not be worth citing. They offend in every possible way, and it is impossible to read them and believe them to be genuine, without feeling surprise at an Oxford student becoming such a buffoon, and at such a buffoon as their hero being so liberally recompensed as he was, by the royal Edward.