June 21, 1529

John Skelton, (c. 1463 to June 21, 1529), was an English poet. A lot of his work has apparently been lost. And though well known during his life-time, his reputation slipped during intervening centuries. Here is an assessment from the late 19th century:

'Skelton is one of the strangest minds of this strange epoch; he draws his inspiration from the most refined and from the most barbarous models; he is a true transition poet: the Middle Ages and the Renaissance are united in his verse; for him, too, the "Romaunt of the Rose" has not aged, and yet he is familiar with Olympus. His Venuses are true goddesses, which does not prevent his smiling at Bel-Accueil and dreading the witchcraft of Danger. No constraint withal; no poet ever followed more willingly a more irrepressible fancy; he goes everywhere, says all that he thinks, describes all that he sees, and as his vision is clear and his tongue prompt, he gives us multi-coloured paintings, of wondrous distinctness, where beings of all sorts are pictured, in their natural attitudes, graceful or grotesque, from the meadow where nymphs are dancing, to the smoky tavern, thick with the fumes of "nappy ale."...'

'[His life,] like his work, is one long series of contradictions. He commences serious studies at Oxford and at Cambridge, and completes them on the Continent; he takes rank at once among humanists, writes Latin poems, translates classical works, compiles a grammar, and receives the laurel at Oxford, like Petrarch of old at Rome, for his Latin verses. He appears at the court of Henry VII..., and becomes tutor to his son, the future Henry VIII. He takes orders, and his tutorship finished, is appointed vicar of Diss, in Norfolk. He lacks nothing of that which might make of him a grave dignitary of the Church and a famous humanist. Erasmus celebrates his merits, and worthy Caxton,... appeals to the lights of this learned man...'

'Now this laureate, "unum Britannicarum literarum lumen..." said Erasmus,...this grammarian, this tutor of kings, this country vicar, was, with all his knowledge, and in spite of his grave functions, one of the maddest minds that had been seen in this era of renewal and of reform, when mad minds were so numerous. He reverences nothing, writes unceasingly, praises and abuses with the same unbridled impetuosity, the more imprudent that, intoxicated with words and dizzied by his own talk, he scarcely realises any danger. He extols Wolsey to the skies and dedicates to him several writings, declaring openly, without the slightest shame, his interested motives... The hoped-for prebend not coming, this luminary of the Church, [Wolsey] this legate worthy of all veneration, this organiser of victory, is no longer anything but a butcher's dog, a heretic, an unbeliever, an ass, who plunders the State, [and] steals from the Church,.....'

And here is the same writer's (Jean Jules Jusserand) description of Skelton's literary style:

'Skelton's style is as desultory as his thoughts; he revels in the jingle of short verses, which he binds together with the same rime, used ten, fifteen times in succession, a process borrowed by him (although the fact has long passed unnoticed) from ancient French literature,1 with which he was familiar.2 This tinkling of bells causes him unmixed delight; he loses his way' running after these sounds, which is for him one pleasure the more; seldom does one see such an unruly spirit at play; unexpected assonances, strange proper names, odd terms, words, and still more words must he have; he coins some, borrows 'others from all languages; they gush forth in litanies, strung together in endless chains, as with Rabelais; stop he cannot, words fasten on to words, he talks reason and nonsense, says charming things and repulsive ones, and binds with varigated ribbons nosegays of thorns starred with wild roses. He borrows from Catullus the idea of an elegy upon the death of a sparrow, ... Catullus' masterpiece is in eighteen lines; Skelton's work in thirteen hundred and eighty-two . . . And his poem is made up of familiar scenes in which "Gyb, our cat savage,"...is seen beheading the sparrow, of classical reminiscences, of fragments of the service for the dead, and of some passages worthy of the Renaissance, where this mad parson..., softens the tones of his voice, venerates the mistress of the bird, and kneels at last before Beauty.'

But Jussernad does not forget John Skelton's original fans:

'I would encourage thee to noble things, wrote Erasmus to the young Henry (the future Henry VIII.), but there is no need for it; thou art urged towards them by thy nature and by Skelton: '