Do you like a good pun? I know I do, and people have been loving wordplay for centuries. Some time ago, I came across the following seventeenth-century example, which is not only amusing, but also relates to my research – albeit in a small way.

In 1640, the Dutch Protestant preacher Conradus Goddaeus published a Latin book entitled Laus Ululae, which translates as The Praise of the Owl. The work falls into the category of the so-called paradoxical encomium, or satirical eulogy, which became exceedingly popular following the success of Erasmus’s Moriae Encomium, The Praise of Folly. Illustrations adorning both the book’s frontispiece and the title page, moreover, show an owl looking into a mirror: a clear reference to the well-known tales of Till Eulenspiegel. In the Laus Ululae, Goddaeus (who used the pseudonym Curtius Jael) jokingly praises the owl and elaborately discusses the bird’s many traits and (sometimes strikingly human) virtues. P.C. Hooft gave the book a positive “review”, and its numerous reprints suggest that it was quite popular during the seventeenth century. It was also translated into Dutch (1664) and English (1727).

What makes this book interesting for me is its title page, which is filled with puns. In the first few editions, issued during the 1640s, the imprint information reads as follows: Prostat GLAUCOPOLI Apud Caesium Nyctimenium, In platea Ulularia, sub signo ULADISLAI Regis Poloniae. This can be translated as: For sale in Owl City at Caesius (the “blue-grey”) Nyctimenius (“moonlit-night”) on Owl Street, under the sign of Władysław, King of Poland.

The play on Greek and Latin words would have been obvious to most learned readers (Glaucopoli, for example, is simply a combination of the Greek words γλαῦξ, meaning “owl”, and πόλις, meaning “city”). But what is Władysław, the King of Poland, doing on that title page?

Let us first establish who this king was. Between 1632 and 1648, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was ruled by Władysław IV Waza. As the Laus Ululae was first published in 1640, Goddaeus was obviously referring to the Polish monarch in power at the time. Indeed, this is confirmed by the fact that the Latin editions printed after 1648, the year in which Władysław died, no longer feature him on their title page.

Still, this does not explain why Goddaeus chose to suggest that his work could be purchased at a bookseller who had a shop sign showing Władysław IV Waza. Of course, there was no such sign, just as there was no Owl City, no Owl Street and no bookseller named Caesius Nyctimenius. It has been suggested that Goddaeus, a Protestant preacher, referred to the Catholic Polish monarch in order to mock him, and this is not altogether impossible: after all, the entire book is a satirical eulogy. Tying it to Władysław so explicitly by bringing to mind his portrait, and implying that the bookseller had selected the Polish king’s face as his shop’s “logo”, can easily lead one to think of Władysław as “The Owl King”. This may sound cool, perhaps, but taking into account the fact that the Laus Ululae is nothing but satire, any association between the Polish king and owls can hardly be read as a compliment.

Yet the main reason why Goddaeus introduced Władysław on the title page is arguably much simpler. As mentioned, the imprint information is full of puns, and Władysław’s name is used as such as well. The Latin spelling of Władysław is Ladislaus or Vladislaus, which can also be spelled as Uladislaus. Compare this to the title of Goddaeus’s book, and the similarities between the two will immediately become apparent. On one of the edition’s title pages, in fact, the “U” is even intentionally separated from the rest of the king’s name, making it impossible to miss Goddaeus’s joke.

The pun was not lost on the Dutch audience. In 1664, a Dutch translation of the text was published, including a translated version of the original title page (even though, as mentioned, Władysław had died in 1648). Naturally, the play on words had to be rendered in Dutch as well: the book is now said to have been published in “Glaskou” (“Glasgow”, a playful reference to γλαῦξ), at a bookseller named “Graauaardt Nagtenrijk” (something along the lines of “Greyman Nightrealm”) on “Uyle-straat” (“Owl Street”). Moreover, the king’s name has been adapted to incorporate “uyl”, the Dutch word for “owl”, and ends with a “y” in order to mirror the Latin original’s genitive (“Uladislai”). The imprint information thus concludes with “in Uyladislay, Kooninck van Poolen”, which can be translated as “in [the shop beneath the sign of] Owladislaus, King of Poland”.

The case shows us how a Polish monarch made his way into Dutch seventeenth-century “popular” culture: starting in 1640, a pun featuring Władysław IV Waza was putting smiles on Dutch faces. Indeed, it even managed to put one on mine in 2018.

In het najaar van 1653 besloten de Staten-Generaal om hun admiraals het recht toe te kennen een beul mee te nemen op hun vloot. Het was een zware maatregel, maar een die  de Staten helaas noodzakelijk leek. Kort daarvoor waren namelijk twaalf Nederlandse zeekapiteins veroordeeld tot een hele reeks verschillende straffen. Ze hadden verzaakt om bevelen op te volgen tijdens de Slag bij Ter Heijde, een zeeslag uit de Eerste Engels-Nederlandse Oorlog, waarbij op 10 augustus de befaamde Nederlandse luitenant-admiraal Maarten Tromp door een vijandelijke sluipschutter van het leven was beroofd. De beslissing van de Staten-Generaal moest ongehoorzaamheid en opstandigheid in de toekomst tegengaan.

De Poolse architect Bartłomiej Wąsowski was net op dat moment in Den Haag. Van 1650 tot 1656 maakte deze jezuïet een lange rondreis door Europa, waarbij hij de periode tussen mei 1653 en april 1654 doorbracht in de Noordelijke Nederlanden. Zodoende had Wąsowski bijvoorbeeld de staatsbegrafenis van Tromp meegemaakt en was hij nu getuige van de veroordeling van de kapiteins. Wat voor straffen er werden uitgedeeld, weten we uit het gedetailleerde Latijnse verslag dat hij schreef van zijn rondreis. Uit de hoeveelheid aandacht die hij eraan schenkt, kunnen we opmaken dat Wąsowski vooral het kielhalen interessant vond:

“De kapiteins zijn veroordeeld overeenkomstig de mate van hun ongehoorzaamheid. Sommigen zijn voor vele jaren naar het huis van de discipline, oftewel Tuchthuis gestuurd, anderen voor kortere tijd. Anderen zijn veroordeeld tot militaire dienst zonder soldij, op eigen kosten. Weer anderen moeten een geldboete betalen. Sommigen zijn veroordeeld tot onderdompeling in de zee, ofwel één, ofwel drie keer: nadat men namelijk een touw onder de onderkant van een schip door zou hebben gehaald, zouden sommigen van hen, vastgebonden aan hun nek, onder het schip worden getrokken, alsof ze onder een juk door gingen; ze zouden geluk hebben als ze daarbij toevallig niet zouden stikken of gewurgd worden. Hoewel ze de doodstraf hebben gekregen, wordt hun toch deze gratie verleend: aan hun hand wordt een spons vastgemaakt, waar ze hun ondergedompelde neus en mond in kunnen stoppen en zo kunnen ademen.”

Deze wijze van kielhalen, waarbij de veroordeelden een spons kregen om betere overlevingskansen te hebben, werd wel vaker toegepast. Een laatste groep was echter nóg een ander lot beschoren. Zij werden vernederd op een manier die doet denken aan de beroemde stroppendragers van Gent uit 1540:

“Anderen, ten slotte, zijn ongeschikt verklaard voor verdere militaire dienst en zijn uitgeroepen tot waardeloze landverraders (Schelmen genaamd): nadat er een strop om hun nek was gebonden en hun zwaarden waren gebroken, zijn ze op de kust gegooid. Zo moesten ze vrijwel allemaal verschillende straffen ondergaan.”

Wąsowski lijkt echter zijn twijfels te hebben gehad bij de beslissing om voortaan beulen mee op zee te sturen. Volgens hem zouden de admiraals er namelijk mee “belast” kunnen worden. Wel zag hij natuurlijk in wat de bedoeling was: “Beulen zijn de schrik van verraders”.

William of Orange, the Dutch “Father of the Fatherland”, may have considered having a go at the Polish throne. In March 1575, his councilor and diplomat Philips of Marnix, Lord of Saint-Aldegonde, visited Cracow upon the instigation of his official master, Elector Palatine Frederick III. While he was in Cracow, Marnix met with the Polish nobleman and influential Calvinist Piotr Zborowski. The Polish throne was at that time vacant, and preparations were being made for the election of a new king. So what was Marnix doing in Cracow, the seat of Polish power?

A number of letters featuring Marnix, William, William’s younger brother John, Zborowski and the Czech nobleman William of Rosenberg, suggest that Marnix’s visit to Poland was strongly connected to the upcoming Polish elections. With Marnix still present in Cracow, for example, Zborowski on the 25^th of March wrote to William of Orange, praising his struggle “for religion and for the freedom of your fatherland”, and explaining how Marnix’s visit had been essential for “our actions”. The letters make clear that the political situation in the Netherlands and France, as well as the Polish nobility’s assembly on the 12^th of May, which formed the official beginning of the royal elections, played a key role in these “actions”, yet the plans discussed by Marnix and Zborowski remain shrouded in mystery.

It has been argued that Marnix was sent to Cracow in order to propose William of Orange’s candidacy for the Polish throne, or at least to inquire about his chances, should he make a bid for power. This is not entirely implausible: being a Prince of Orange, William would have been of sufficiently high nobility to become king, and his fight against the Catholic Habsburgs would ensure him a considerable following among Polish Calvinists, who had become a force to be reckoned with. As King of Poland (and Grand Duke of Lithuania), William would be in a much better position to fight Spain. On the other hand, his rebellion against Philip II may have been an impediment, rather than an incentive. William had his hands full: only the year before, in 1574, the Dutch had won an important victory by lifting the Siege of Leiden, after which William had founded Leiden University. He had sent Marnix to Germany, in fact, in order to find professors willing to teach there. In addition, William’s chances of winning over the still largely Catholic Polish nobility were doubtful, as he would drag them into a conflict they probably did not care for.

Marnix’s trip to Poland may therefore have had a somewhat different goal. Perhaps he was meant to offer support to the Polish Calvinists’ “actions”, trying to influence the royal elections in the hope of gaining the favor of the future king. The Czech nobleman William of Rosenberg, for instance, who was also involved in the plot, and who sympathized with the Calvinists, had plans of entering the Polish elections himself. We know that he enjoyed the support of Piotr Zborowski, Marnix’s man in Cracow.

Whatever Marnix’s true intent, neither Rosenberg nor William of Orange officially declared their candidacy for the Polish throne. In 1576, the Transylvanian ruler Stephen Báthory was elected King of Poland. Still, it seems evident that William of Orange tried to influence the Polish elections, one way or another. We can only guess what course history would have taken, had he really tried to win Polish power.

More information about Marnix’s mission and the letters can be found in A. Gerlo, ‘De reis van Marnix van Sint-Aldegonde naar Krakau in 1575. Status quaestionis’, Academiae Analecta. Mededelingen van de Koninklijke Academie voor Wetenschappen, Letteren en Schone Kunsten van België, Klasse der Letteren, 58.1 (1996), 1-19.