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Brough, Esq. </title> @@ -40,45 +41,8 @@ The Life of Sir John Falstaff, by Robert B. Brough, Esq. </style> </head> <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44900 ***</div> - -<pre> - -Project Gutenberg's The Life Of Sir John Falstaff, by Robert B. Brough - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Life Of Sir John Falstaff - -Author: Robert B. 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-<title>
-The Life of Sir John Falstaff, by Robert B. Brough, Esq.
-</title>
-<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" />
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-Project Gutenberg's The Life Of Sir John Falstaff, by Robert B. Brough
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
-
-
-Title: The Life Of Sir John Falstaff
-
-Author: Robert B. Brough
-
-Illustrator: George Cruikshank
-
-Release Date: February 14, 2014 [EBook #44900]
-Last Updated: December 11, 2016
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger from page scans generously provided
-by The British Library
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
-
-
-<p>
- <br />
- </p>
-<hr />
-
-<div style="height: 8em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h1>
-THE LIFE OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF
-</h1>
-<h2>
-By Robert B. Brough, Esq.
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<h3>
-Illustrated by GEORGE CRUIKSHANK
-</h3>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<h3>
-With A Biography Of The Knight, From Authentic Sources
-</h3>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<h5>
-London: Longman, Brown, Green, Longmans, and Roberts <br /> <br /> 1858
-</h5>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<blockquote>
-<p>
-“Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me: The brain of this
-foolish-compounded clay man, is not able to vent anything that tends to
-laughter, more than I invent, or is invented on me: I am not only witty
-in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.” King Henry, IV.,
-Part 2.
-</p>
-</blockquote>
-<p>
-<br /> <br />
-</p>
-<h4>
-NOTICE.
-</h4>
-<blockquote>
-<p>
-The “LIFE of SIR JOHN FALSTAFF” will be published Monthly, and completed
-in 10 Parts, containing 2 Plates in each Part.
-</p>
-</blockquote>
-<p>
-<br /> <br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/003s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="003s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/003.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/003m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/007s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="007s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/007.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/007m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/012s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="012s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/012.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/012m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/013s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="013s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/013.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/013m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/015s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="015s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/015.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/015m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-
-<p>
-The Writer’s Dedication to Mary E. C. Brough.
-</p>
-<p>
-My dearest Sister,
-</p>
-<p>
-The following pages represent (if nothing else) a considerable amount of
-labour-achieved, as you know, under the most trying circumstances-which I
-am mainly indebted to your sisterly care and devotion for having been able
-to accomplish at all.
-</p>
-<p>
-Accept their dedication, not for their intrinsic worth, but as the only
-kind of testimonial of love and gratitude just now available to
-</p>
-<p>
-Your affectionate Brother,
-</p>
-<h3>
-ROBERT B. BROUGH.
-</h3>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<p>
-<b>CONTENTS</b>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0002"> SIR JOHN FALSTAFF: A BIOGRAPHY </a>
-</p>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>BOOK THE FIRST, 1352—1365.</b> </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0004"> I. INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0005"> II. BIRTH AND GENEALOGY OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.
-</a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0006"> III. OF THE TRICK PLAYED BY LITTLE JACK FALSTAFF
-ON SIR THOMAS MOWBRAY </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0007"> IV. OF JACK FALSTAFF’S COSTING TO LONDON. </a>
-</p>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0008"> <b>BOOK THE SECOND, 1381.</b> </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0009"> I. HOW MR. JOHN FALSTAFF CAME INTO HIS PROPERTY,
-AND WAS KNIGHTED </a>
-</p>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0010"> <b>BOOK THE THIRD, 1410.</b> </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0011"> I. FOR THE MOST PART A TREATISE ON HEROES AND
-KNIGHTS-ERRANT. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0012"> II. HOW SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, WITH HIS SATELLITES
-THE PRINCE HENRY... </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0013"> III. THE BATTLE OF GADSHILL. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0014"> IV. THE DAY AFTER THE BATTLE. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0015"> V. HISTORIC DISSERTATION UPON THE GREAT CIVIL
-WAR </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0016"> VI. HOW SIR JOHN FALSTAFF WON THE BATTLE OF
-SHREWSBURY. </a>
-</p>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0017"> <b>BOOK THE FOURTH, 1410—1413.</b> </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0018"> I. OF THE SIGNAL VICTORY GAINED BY SIR JOHN
-FALSTAFF </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0019"> II. THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED: </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0020"> III. SIR JOHN FALSTAFF AN AUTHOR. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0021"> IV WARLIKE STRATEGY OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF: </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0022"> V. VISIT TO JUSTICE SHALLOW’S. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0023"> VI. ON THE MAGNANIMITY OP SIR JOHN FALSTAFF </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0024"> VII. DOUBTS ON THE GENIUS AND TESTIMONY OF
-SHAKSPEARE. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0025"> VIII. MILDNESS OF THE SPRING SEASON IN 1413 </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0026"> IX. INAUGURATION OF THE NEW RÉGIME.—MALIGNITY
-OF THE LORD CHIEF </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0027"> X. CORONATION OF HENRY THE FIFTH. </a>
-</p>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0028"> <b>BOOK THE FIFTH. 1413—1415.</b> </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0029"> I. SIR JOHN FALSTAFF IN EXILE. </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0030"> II. THE END OP THE LIFE OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.
-</a>
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-PREFACE.
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE nature and objects of the present work require little, if any,
-explanation. The whole range of imaginative literature affords no instance
-of a fictitious personage, ranking, almost inseparably, in the public
-faith with the characters of actual history, parallel to that of the
-inimitable Falstaff of Shakspeare. Other creations of the world’s greatest
-dramatist may be as <i>vraisemblable</i> and as vividly drawn. But the
-peculiar association of Falstaff with events that are known to have
-occurred, and personages who are known to have lived,—added to the
-fact that his character has been developed to greater length and with more
-apparent fondness than the poet was wont to indulge in,—make it a
-matter of positive difficulty to disbelieve that Falstaff actually lived
-and influenced the age he is assumed to have belonged to,—as much as
-to doubt that Henry the Fifth conquered at Agincourt, that Hotspur was
-irascible, and Glendower conceited.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was a natural thought, then, for a modern humorist,—using the
-pencil and etching point as his means of expression,—a man whose
-competence to appreciate and illustrate the arch-humorist, Shakspeare,
-will scarcely be disputed—to propose to himself a series of pictures
-embodying the most prominent events in the imaginary career of
-Shakspeare’s most humorous character—in which the illusion intended
-by the dramatist should be carried out by an attention to chronological
-and archaeological probability of detail, in a pictorial sense,
-corresponding to the marvellous fidelity of historic local colour, which,
-surrounding the movements of Sir John Falstaff in the Shakspearian dramas,
-will continue (in spite of all material proof whatever) to bring the
-veracious records of English history during the fifteenth century into
-disrepute and suspicion—from the fact of their omitting all mention
-of Sir John Falstaff’s name and achievements.
-</p>
-<p>
-This design Mr. George Cruikshank has carried out in a series of etchings
-which forms the essential part of the volume now offered to the public,—with
-what success, it would not become the present writer—his friend and
-colleague—to dilate upon. It may be stated, fairly, that no pains
-have been spared by the artist to make his work conscientiously complete.
-Every locality indicated by the poet has been carefully studied either
-from personal observation or reference to the most authentic records—(take,
-for example, the views of Shrewsbury and Coventry as they appeared in the
-fifteenth century and the tall spire of “Paul’s” before it was struck by
-lightning). The costumes, weapons, furniture, &c., are from the best
-available authorities. Had Sir John Falstaff really lived (as it must
-remain a matter of impossibility to persuade the majority of mankind he
-did not), and gone through the various experiences imagined for him by
-Shakspeare, it may be very safely assumed that an eye-witness of all or
-any of them would have observed a series of scenes very closely resembling
-the designs which accompany these pages.
-</p>
-<p>
-The writer of the letter-press—in no spirit of false modesty, but in
-one of pure business-like candour—disclaims any share in whatever
-public approval the work may attract. The design was not his but the
-artist’s; and he has simply fulfilled, to the best of his powers, a
-contract, cheerfully accepted, but not drawn up by him. An imaginary
-biography of Falstaff, away from the scenes described by Shakspeare—supposing
-the kind of life that must have led up to the marvellous development of an
-individuality with which the poet has made us all familiar—might
-have been a work worthy an ambitious man’s undertaking. The ambitious man
-would, probably, have failed to satisfy either his readers or himself,—but
-that is neither here nor there. The plan of this work—namely, to
-illustrate the life of Sir John Falstaff exclusively from the most
-striking passages in his career, as invented by Shakspeare—was
-completed by the artist ere his literary colleague was applied to for his
-willingly-rendered assistance. The latter claims no higher place in the
-transaction, than one proportionate to that of the fiddler who amuses the
-audience between the acts of a play, or the lecturer who talks unheeded
-nonsense while a panorama is unrolling.
-</p>
-<p>
-The author may be permitted one little word of apology, and, perhaps,
-self-justification, for frequent breaches of punctuality in the periodical
-issue of the work, for which he, alone, is responsible. The concluding
-portion of his labours has been achieved under acute and prolonged
-physical suffering. This may be no excuse for loose or indifferent
-writing; but, in the memorable words of Ben Jonson to John Sylvester—<i>it
-is true</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-SIR JOHN FALSTAFF: A BIOGRAPHY
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-BOOK THE FIRST, 1352—1365.
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-I. INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE early lives of heroic personages, born at a date anterior to the
-invention of parish registers, police sheets, and such vehicles of
-subordinate renown, are usually enveloped in mystery. This remark (which
-is not offered merely as a specimen of the writer’s originality) does not,
-of course, apply to that highly favoured class of heroes who may be said
-to be born to the business, and to note down whose earliest heroic throes
-and struggles official chroniclers have been retained in all ages; but
-exclusively to the work-a-day or journeyman hero, who has had to establish
-himself in the heroic line from small beginnings—who has had, as it
-were, to build his own pedestal in the Temple of Fame, finding his own
-bricks, mortar, and wheelbarrows. This kind of construction, in all ages,
-necessitating an immense deal of labour and application, we generally find
-that by the time the pedestal is finished and the hero ready to mount it,
-his condition of wind and limb is no longer such as to enable him to do so
-with any remarkable degree of alacrity; and that he has but little time
-and eyesight left to enjoy the prospect afforded by his eminent position.
-In other words, by the time a great man has acquired such dimensions as to
-make him an object of public attention, it is generally at the moment when—like
-an over-blown soap-bubble—he is about to collapse into nothing. And
-what man who has travelled to distinction on foot cares—when he has
-changed his boots—to talk or be reminded of the mud he has walked
-through?
-</p>
-<p>
-These reflections are peculiarly applicable to the case of <i>Sir John
-Falstaff</i>,—the individual hero whose career it will be the
-business of these pages to trace. That great man, at the date of those
-sayings and achievements which have gained him a world-wide celebrity, was—in
-spite of his pardonable reluctance to admit the fact—already
-advanced in years. His own accounts of his early life are meagre in the
-extreme, and, justice compels us to add, by no means authentic. They are,
-in fact, confined to a rather vague statement, that he was “born at three
-o’clock in the afternoon, with a white head,” and other physical
-peculiarities, which would lead to a suspicion that the knight was not
-wholly free from a weakness common to great men of his epoch, namely, an
-ambition for the doubtful honours of a prodigious birth. A further
-assertion of early injuries, received through too assiduous application to
-certain ecclesiastical duties, must be regarded as equally apocryphal. Of
-the place of his birth, he makes no mention whatever; nor do we find, in
-his admirable conversations immortalised by the historian Shakspeare—to
-whose dramatic chronicles we shall frequently have to confess our
-obligations in the course of this history—any allusion to the
-character and circumstances of his parents.
-</p>
-<p>
-But should the Biographer recoil before this merely negative obstacle of
-barrenness, at the outset of his researches—as though a traveller,
-with his mountain goal in sight, should sit down and despair because he
-sees the plain beneath obscured by intervening mists? Has not the
-difficulty of finding a needle in a bottle of hay (which, by the way, has
-always appeared to us a remarkable article to be kept in bottle) been
-greatly exaggerated? All you have to do, is to make sure that the needle
-is really in the bottle. Patience and a microscope will lead you to its
-discovery. It may be stated that between Sir John Falstaff and a needle
-there is not much resemblance, and that an allusion to anything
-microscopic in his case is inappropriate. We merely anticipate the
-objection that we may pass it over. The fact that our knight lived to the
-age of threescore odd is a proof (by induction) that he must have been
-born somewhere, and at a date anticipatory by some sixty odd years of that
-of his death. That he had the usual number of parents is at least
-probable. That he had received a good education, for his time, we have
-ample proof. These are great data to go upon. The needle is in the bottle.
-All we have to do, is to separate carefully the musty hay of antiquity,
-aided by the glass of investigation; to plunge boldly into the mists of
-contradictory evidence, and push our way patiently till we get to the
-mountain,—which, with the full length and breadth of Mr. George
-Cruikshank’s faithful historical portrait on our opening page before us,
-is perhaps a better image than the needle.
-</p>
-<p>
-Reader! think not that we are going to trouble you to hunt with us. Deem
-not that we should have presumed to appear before you till we had found
-the needle, and cleared it from the last hayseed. Like Mohammed, of the
-Arabian desert,—or Mr. Albert Smith, of the Egyptian Hall,—we
-have been to the mountain; and, imitating the more modern popular leader,
-appear before you, wand in hand, ready to describe the particulars of our
-ascent, with illustrations. The amplest materials for the Life of Sir John
-Falstaff are in our possession—from his birth, even to the date of
-that morning when, at three of the clock, a small white head (we reject
-the accompanying phenomena) made its first appearance in the world; to his
-boyhood,—where the moving panorama will pause awhile, at the court
-gate, to show you Thomas Mowbray’s page breaking Skogan’s head, on that
-doubly memorable day that also witnessed an encounter between Master
-William Shallow and Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer; on, past his summer of
-manhood, to his glorious autumn, when our knight reaped sheaves of golden
-renown at Gadshill and at Shrewsbury; to that second Indian summer, when
-Sir John Falstaff, round and glorious as the harvest moon, could still
-attract the gilding rays of sunny Mistress Page’s view; down to that cold
-winter night, between twelve and one—e’en at the turning of the
-tide!—when those fingers that of old had grasped the hilt and
-managed the target, fumbled with the sheets and played with flowers—when
-that voice that had been the mouthpiece of Wit itself, the igniting spark
-of wit in others, could only babble of green fields—till Sir John
-Falstaff’s feet grew cold as any stone, and so upward and upward till all
-was as cold as any stone, even as that which careless, laughing workmen
-fell to hewing and chipping on the following day!
-</p>
-<p>
-And where found we all this knowledge? It is no matter. In the pursuit of
-our task, we shall reject the pitiful, inartistic plan of modern
-historians, who are ever in such trepidation to stop you with their
-authorities, (as though a man should wear his tailor’s receipt pinned to
-the collar of his coat, to show that the garment has been honestly come
-by!) but will rather imitate the independent manly fashion of the old
-chroniclers, who told their stories in a simple, straightforward manner,
-never caring to say whence they had them, but throwing them down in the
-world’s face, like the gages of honest, chivalrous gentlemen, whose word
-might not be questioned. This rule we intend observing scrupulously;
-except, indeed, on occasions of necessity, when we may think proper to
-deviate from it.
-</p>
-<p>
-Our edifice once raised, we have removed the scaffolding. The public is
-invited to enter.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-II. BIRTH AND GENEALOGY OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">J</span>OHN Falstaff was born in the city of London, at the Old Swan Tavern, near
-the Ebgate Stairs, at the north end of London Bridge, on the 23rd of
-January, 1352. It is to be regretted that the place of his birth, which,
-though much decayed, and frequently altered, retained its ancient name and
-usage for more than three centuries after the event which shed such lustre
-on its humble walls, should have been destroyed in the great fire of
-London; whereby, as is well known to antiquarians, the wharves and
-buildings in that part of the town were burnt down to the water’s edge. By
-those who believe in idle presages, this circumstance of birth in a tavern
-will be deemed prophetic of a life foredoomed to be for the most part
-spent in such places, and, indeed, to end in one. But such vain
-speculations are as unworthy the historian’s attention as their conclusion
-is anticipatory of his object.
-</p>
-<p>
-For the extreme minuteness of the details we have been so fortunate as to
-acquire on this important event,—even to a special mention of the
-very room in which our hero’s first cry was heard,—we are indebted
-to the accidental preservation of a family letter. The publication of this
-document entire, with necessary orthographical and idiomatic
-modifications, will not merely simplify this portion of our biographical
-studies, but will also afford the biographer an early opportunity of
-asserting the independent course he means to pursue, by setting at
-glorious defiance the rule laid down by himself for his own observance in
-the closing remarks of the foregoing chapter.
-</p>
-<p>
-To my very dear sweet Wife, the Lady Alice Falstaff, of Falstaff in Kent.
-</p>
-<p>
-This in haste.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Written at the Gate-house, in Westminster, Jan. 24. 1353.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My dear Sweet,—I think I am the most wretched man in all England, I
-and no other am he. I must fain tell you the truth, which, in my great
-love and care for thy sweet peace, I have hitherto kept back, and would
-have done, cost me what might, had it been longer possible. I lie here at
-the suit of one Bruno, a Longobard, for a pitiful sum I was constrained to
-borrow of him, and for which he exacts fifty in the hundred usury. And for
-a miserable debt like this, am I to be made wretched, and kept from my
-dear wife and child? * Did I not say I was the most unhappy wretch in
-England? Oh! pity me, my dear wife; I am here in a foul room, with greasy
-rogues and villains. If I send out for civet to sweeten the air, the
-knaves rob me in my exchange, and bring me in foul stuff. Truly I am in
-the hands of thieves and robbers; for they charge me sixpence the quart
-for thin drugged wine, when the best Gascon wine is but fourpence the
-gallon in the Vintry. Thou seest how impossible it is for me to send thee
-the money thou dost require. Already have I shortened my gold chain by
-four links, for meat and drink. I may not part with more, for there be
-here confined certain gentlemen of the court, before whom I am fain to
-keep up my estate. But for all their gentility, I suspect some of their
-number to be no better than false knaves and coggers. For last night, they
-decoyed me, through my distraction and unbearable misery on thy account,
-into play, and stripped me of my last gold Florence, as I do think by foul
-means. Oh, my dear wife! how thankful thou shouldst be to be spared the
-sharing in my troubles! Do not grieve nor fret at the thought that they
-were brought on by my great love for thee, as indeed they were; for was it
-not my zeal to have thee make a figure at court that first got me in such
-debt? But have I not cheerfully borne all for thee,—as thy love hath
-indeed well merited? Did I consider my rank and ancestry when thou didst
-witch me with thy rosy cheeks and blue eyes, though but the daughter of a
-low-born trader? Nay! I must dwell on it, for methinks thou dost sometimes
-rate my love too low. Did I not bear with thine ignoble kinsmen, till they
-took to reviling and slighting me? I believe thou art a changeling, thou
-pretty rogue! and none of their blood. I meant not to tell thee of this,
-but I am on the matter, and it must needs out. Yesterday, on my arrest,
-being at the end of my wits what to do, I sent a hoy to thine uncle
-Simpkin the Tanner, saying, that in time of suffering, ill blood should
-cease, and I would be willing to forget all past differences so that he
-would come and release me with his surety. I shame to write his answer;
-but that thou shouldst know, for once and all, from what a churlish stock
-thy good fortune hath rescued thee, it must needs be told. He sent back
-word, that he had thought Sir Gilbert Falstaff had forgotten all past
-differences long ago, including a difference of a hundred and fifty golden
-marks; meaning the paltry sum I had of him on my receiving the grant of
-arms from the King’s Majesty, whom heaven preserve! I could have wept for
-shame and vexation.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* It is worthy of remark that Sir Gilbert does not admit his
-lady so far into his confidence as to mention the amount.
-</pre>
-<p>
-“And yesterday, our dear little Jack was a twelvemonth old! Pretty fellow,
-and I not near him, to load him with sweets and knick-knacks! He should go
-ever in Italian velvet and Flanders lace, had I my will. Thou shouldst
-know this, wife, without telling; and I own (though ‘tis rarely I have to
-chide thee) there seemed lack of love and thoughtfulness in thy vexing me
-about trifling things amid all my troubles. With a heart breaking for lack
-of kindliness and sympathy, I get a letter tormenting me about such petty
-grievances as hose and blankets. This was selfish, wife! The worst part of
-the winter is past, and the boy’s homespun coat will serve well with a
-little piecing and darning; and for nether stocks, there is nothing like
-knitted wool. I must indeed urge thee to thrift, wife. It doth not behove
-a fallen house like ours, to waste in outward vanities; except, indeed,
-the wretched master, who is compelled to keep up a show in courts and
-cities. Thou knowest well the shifts I have been put to, to pass for a man
-of a hundred pounds a year, and avoid the sumptuary law. But these things
-are riddles to thee. I believe thou wouldst submit to see me forbidden the
-use of silk, gold, and silver, in my garments. Thou wouldst be content to
-see a man of my standing restricted to two courses of three dishes each.
-Well, it is not thy fault, but that of thy training.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I would forgive thee in a greater matter than this, my sweeting, for the
-great love I bear thee; but I am nigh distracted with my sorrows, and know
-not what I write. Had it not been for those gentlemen knaves, who carried
-me to play with them last night (may the foul fiend seize them!), I should
-have gone mad. I thought of that time twelvemonth. The whole matter stood,
-as it were, on a picture before me. I remembered our landing at the Ebgate
-stairs, from the boat we took at Deptford, when thou wast taken ill. Say
-what thou wilt, thou shalt never persuade me but it was thy violence of
-temper hastened thy trouble. Thou wast well enough till it proved that I
-had brought thee to London without money, or preparation for thy
-condition. I acted (as I always do) for the best. Were there not brave
-rejoicings at Court, in honour of the new-founded order of knighthood,
-that I wished thee to see? and how could I get the money I wanted, from
-the churl, thy brother, which he refused, without thy presence? Thou dost
-not know, and never wilt know, what I suffered for thee at that time. I
-was too much moved to lend a hand, as they bore thee from the boat into
-the Old Swan. When they had taken thee up stairs, the hostess had to ply
-me with strong waters, in her little room, for more than an hour. They
-told me afterwards, I did nothing but exclaim, many times, ‘The Flagon,—where
-the Flemish bed is!’ which I had heard them name as the chamber thou wast
-to be carried to, and wherein our dear little Jack was soon afterwards
-born. (I pray you send down to Dame Cackle’s orchard, and beg two of her
-finest last year’s pears, the which present to master Jack as the gift of
-his good father.) How I rushed out of the house when I heard thy cries! I
-know not where I went, nor what company I fell into. I was as one
-possessed. And oh! what agonies I endured during the five days afterwards,
-when I was kept from visiting or having news of thee, through a rumour of
-the great pestilence breaking out again near London Bridge, for fear of
-bringing contagion in with me, which in thy weak state would have been
-fatal. Well! we shall all have our reward. But when I reflect that, during
-that trying time, none of thy heartless kinsfolk came near thee, I could
-even——but ‘tis no matter.
-</p>
-<p>
-“But first to get me out of this accursed place. If I have not fifty
-silver marks by Wednesday, I am a dead man. I cannot longer endure the
-knowledge of thine unprotected state. Thou hast no great need of thy
-cramoisy velvet gown in thy secluded life. Lambert can dispose of it
-secretly in Sandwich, where we are not known. (Thou seest I am thoughtful
-to spare thee shame.) Let him also ride to Canterbury, with thy golden
-bracelets, and little Jack’s baptism cup and trencher. They will fetch
-together some ten silver marks. Thou canst borrow twenty marks from Dame
-Adlyn, the yeoman’s wife. In times like these, we must not be over nice;
-and I withdraw the prohibition I have laid on this good woman’s visits to
-Falstaff. Thou mayest even call her gossip at a pinch. Make up the rest as
-thou canst. Lambert himself must have saved money in our service. Promise
-him increase of wage (though, indeed, the last three years have been
-indifferently paid), and dwell upon a vassal’s duty to his lord. At any
-rate, I <i>must have the money</i>. When thou hast raised it, let Lambert
-gallop post to London, and spare no expense, in order that he may arrive
-not later than Wednesday, for the river is already frozen over, and if the
-frost holds, there are to be sports on the ice, with the king and all the
-princes present, which I would not miss for a barony.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I would answer thine inquiries about the blankets and under-clothing, but
-it is so cold in this detestable place, that I can no longer hold a pen.
-Happily thou art spared this.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I commend thee to the care of Heaven, my beloved wife.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Gilbert Falstaff,
-</p>
-<p>
-“Eques et armig.” *
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* This remarkable epistle (which is justly esteemed the gem
-of the Strongate Collection) appears rather to have owed its
-preservation to the fact of its being scrawled on the backs
-of leaves torn out of a costly illuminated chronicle of the
-period—the authorship of which is apocryphal,—than to any
-intrinsic merit of composition. This fact may be accepted as
-significant of the hereditary Falstaff character.—Ed.
-</pre>
-<p>
-This Gilbert Falstaff was the tenth in lineal descent from Hundwulf
-Falstaff, the great Saxon leader who performed such signal service to
-William Duke of Normandy, on that prince’s memorable invasion of England,
-and of whose exploits and succession it behoves us here to speak.
-</p>
-<p>
-A numerous and well-armed troop of patriotic English noblemen had been
-enrolled some weeks for the purpose of resisting the invaders, but had
-been detained, debating, in a truly English manner, as to the
-constitutional means of choosing a leader, till news reached them of the
-landing of the Norman, at a distance of a hundred and fifty miles from
-their camp. They were about to disperse in a panic, when Hundwulf Falstaff
-appeared suddenly amongst them, and, by dint of much eloquence,—also,
-it must be added, of some secret influences in the camp, wherein he had
-skilfully introduced his agents,—succeeded in rallying these
-disheartened warriors, and inducing them to accept him as their leader. He
-led them by forced marches to the Isle of Thanet, where they bivouacked in
-a chalk pit; expecting to come up with the main Saxon army encamped near
-Hastings, under prince Harold, who was notoriously in want of soldiers, on
-the following day. Here, while divested of their armour—as had been
-preconcerted between Falstaff and Duke William—they were fallen upon
-by a superior body of Normans and cut to pieces.
-</p>
-<p>
-For this admirable piece of generalship and loyalty, whereby the
-victorious Normans were spared the opposition of some hundreds of
-warriors, the flower of English chivalry, Hundwulf Falstaff—contrary
-to the general treatment of the Saxon proprietors—was allowed not
-only to retain his own lands (his title to which had, indeed, been
-disputed in favour of his nephew, Essel Falstaff, who, serving under his
-uncle, had been engaged in the action of the chalk pit, and died, leaving
-no issue), but to add to them the possessions of many gentlemen, his
-neighbours, who had perished in the glorious engagement above mentioned.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Falstaff estates, on the settlement of the land, were found to be as
-spacious and wealthy as those of many powerful barons. Nevertheless, their
-holder was not suffered to take the rank of nobility, an honour he had
-been led to expect: nay, on his humble petition for the lesser dignity of
-knighthood—backed by a memorial of his services to the crown—he
-was informed that he should think himself fortunate to be allowed to
-retain possession of his estates, and that the honours of chivalry were
-not for a False Thief like him.
-</p>
-<p>
-This <i>sobriquet</i> of <i>False Thief</i> stuck to him, and has been by
-many writers asserted to be the origin of the family name—corrupted
-into Fals-taff. Nothing is easier of refutation. In the first place, it is
-improbable that a gentleman should voluntarily adopt, as his family title,
-a term of ignominy and reproach. Moreover, the name is known to be of
-ancient Saxon origin, derived from Fel-staf—felling-staff, or
-cudgel; clearly tracing the antiquity of the house as far back as those
-barbarous times when the savage German warriors took their names from
-their favourite weapons. There is a curious old record (in the Strongate
-Collection), of the time of Edward the Elder, in which one Keingelt
-Felstaf appeals to the brethren of a Sodalitium, or fraternity of mutual
-protection, whereof he is a member, to subscribe two marks apiece towards
-the liquidation of a fine levied on him for the murder of three ceorles,
-which he is unable to pay, owing to the straitened circumstances of his
-family. He adds, that there is another fine against him for a like
-offence; but the victim in this case being only a Welchman, he believes he
-will be able to meet it without assistance.
-</p>
-<p>
-Hundwulf Falstaff died in 1088, at the age of fifty-four, it is supposed
-of a broken heart, caused by the ingratitude of a monarch whom he had so
-efficiently and loyally served, aggravated by the unnatural conduct of his
-two daughters, whom, in pursuance of his cherished scheme of attaching
-himself to the Norman aristocracy, he had bestowed in marriage, with the
-dowry of a substantial estate apiece, on two poor knights of Guienne,—Philip
-le Borgne and Hugues le Bossu (surnamed Bandylegs). These ladies
-immediately after their marriage deserted their munificent parent for the
-gaieties of a court life; refusing even to recognise him in the public
-thoroughfares, except on pressing occasion for pecuniary assistance. The
-Falstaff possessions were further crippled in this reign by repeated gifts
-to divers Norman noblemen, who being chivalrous gentlemen, with an
-instinctive abhorrence of wrong, got up frequent agitations against
-Hundwulf; suggesting to their monarch the propriety of hanging up that
-chieftain for his glaring political immorality, and distributing his
-estates among themselves—men of spotless integrity. These agitations
-generally broke out at a time of national pressure, and Hundwulf found no
-means of allaying them but the one already alluded to. Thus, early after
-its acquisition, were the seeds of decay sown in the very system of the
-great Falstaff estate; which, as the sequel will prove, may be likened to
-a strong man attacked with a mortal disease, who may live and struggle for
-years, but whose every effort to recover strength serves to hasten his
-dissolution.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Falstaffs, in every reign, were staunch courtiers. Hundwulf’s son and
-successor, Aymer de Falstaffe (the name had been Gallicised by his
-father), was a great favourite with William the Second, by whom he was
-knighted. In proof of the good fellowship that existed between the monarch
-and subject, the latter is not merely known to have lent his royal master
-repeated sums of money (which, owing to the troubles of the reign, were
-never accounted for), but is rumoured to have embraced the Jewish religion
-with that humorous monarch. This calumny remained as a stigma on the
-family for three generations, to the great annoyance of its
-representatives. Any suspicion, however, of leaning to the tenets of
-Judaism was triumphantly refuted in the reign of Henry the Second, by
-Roger de Falstaffe (fourth in descent from Hundwulf), who, lacking the
-means of keeping up his dignity at court, entrapped two travelling Jews
-into his castle, whom, with a view to making them divulge the secret of
-their hidden treasures, he placed upon hot plates over a slow fire, having
-previously extracted their teeth, according to the custom of the period.
-The cries of these wretches (who, with the obstinacy of their race,
-declared they were only poor Jewish youths, driven out of the Empire and
-in search of help from a wealthy kinsman in London) attracted the
-attention of a passing troop of King Henry’s private guards. The leniency
-of that monarch towards the Jews has been commented on with due severity
-by the clerical writers of the period. It is certain that his persistent
-protection of those outcasts, in their lives and properties, was difficult
-of explanation to all well-disposed thinkers of that time, except on the
-ground of an utter absence of religious principle. Be that as it may, the
-king’s guards besieged Falstaff Castle, and took the two Jews off the fire
-ere they were half done. Roger was tried for the offence, and sentenced to
-perpetual banishment, with confiscation of his estates.
-</p>
-<p>
-Peter de Falstaffe, his son, followed Cour de Lion to the Crusades; and,
-in consideration of faithful services, was reinstated by that monarch in
-the possession of a considerable portion of his inheritance. Peter, who
-was an enthusiastic hero-worshipper, imitated his lion-hearted benefactor
-in everything—even to adopting the Royal mistake of wishing to be
-thought a poet. It was a received maxim among the critics of the period,
-that there was only one man living capable of writing worse poetry than
-the king’s—that man being Peter de Falstaffe. Falstaff Park, in his
-time, was known by the ignominious title of Fiddler’s Green, in allusion
-to the droves of minstrels, troubadours, and illuminators who, with their
-wives and families, flocked to enjoy the munificent hospitality of Peter’s
-mansion, where (strangely belying their ancient nomadic reputation) they
-took up their quarters as a permanency. Peter died in 1132, much in debt
-to the Gascon merchants of the Vintry, and deeply regretted—by the
-minstrels and illuminators.
-</p>
-<p>
-The first act of Haulbert, his son, was to clear the premises of those
-gifted occupants; in which work of ejection he was assisted by a faithful
-bulldog. He administered to his father’s literary effects by tying them up
-in a bundle, and disposing of them for something under the cost price of
-the vellum to a Lombard broker in the city of London.
-</p>
-<p>
-There is a blank in history as to the fate of Haulbert. He is known to
-have been a man of violent character, and to have died somewhere towards
-the end of Henry the Third’s reign. In this reign, several noblemen and
-country gentlemen were executed for highway robbery.
-</p>
-<p>
-Henry Falstaff (son of Haulbert, and seventh in descent from Hundwulf), in
-the time of Edward the First, restored the family name to its ancient
-spelling. Inspired by the successful efforts of this prince to fuse the
-various elements of the nation into one common English whole, he attempted
-to restore the old Saxon ways on his estate. He called himself Hengist;
-and, amongst other obsolete institutions, revived the Hirlas Horn, with
-the customs of Drink Hael and Waes Hael. These—by way of enforcing
-precept by example—he made frequent use of in his own person; till,
-like many other inventors and reformers, he fell a victim to his own
-devices. His death, however, was accelerated by a singular circumstance.
-He had a number of brass collars made, intending to fix them about the
-necks of his tenantry, or, as he preferred to consider them, his ceorles,
-after the manner of the ancient Saxon proprietors. Meeting with a
-prosperous farmer on his estate, one Snogg, the son of Huffkin, he
-requested the latter to kneel down that he might affix the badge of
-servitude, which, he assured him in the blandest and most engaging manner,
-was the old English way of doing things. Snogg replied, that he knew
-another old English way of doing things, namely, the way to give anybody a
-good thrashing who attempted any liberties with a free-born Briton. Snogg
-explained this method of proceeding in a practical manner, and left his
-landlord (already enfeebled by copious reference to the Hirlas Horn) for
-dead on the field. Snogg’s life was declared forfeit; but as he was very
-popular among his labourers, and had some excellent pitchforks at his
-disposal, he succeeded in keeping the forces of the sheriff at bay for a
-considerable period, receiving the extreme unction at the age of
-ninety-seven, in the reign of King Edward the Second.
-</p>
-<p>
-Uffa, son of Hengist Falstaff, was a wit, and court favourite in the reign
-of Edward the Second. None of his good things have been preserved; but as
-a proof that his facetious powers were of no mean order, it is on record
-that towards the close of Edward’s reign he received a crown from the
-privy purse for making that unhappy monarch laugh; an achievement which,
-considering his Majesty’s lively position at the time, could not have been
-easy. What the exact jest was is unknown; but it seems to have been
-levelled at Roger Mortimer, the leader of the queen’s faction. For, on the
-seizure of the king’s person, as Falstaff (dreading the resentment of the
-victorious party) was hastening to conceal himself on his estate, he was
-arrested by Mortimer himself, at the head of a troop. On being told the
-name of his prisoner, Mortimer said, “So! this is the knave who got a
-crown for a jest at my expense. He owes me a crown in common equity; and
-by the Lord he shall pay it. Let his head be lopped off straightway.”
- Which sentence was put into immediate execution.
-</p>
-<p>
-The above anecdote is in part mentioned by Hume.
-</p>
-<p>
-Geoffrey Falstaff, son of the sprightly but ill-fated Uffa, lost a limb in
-the Scottish wars, wherein he had greatly distinguished himself. Thus
-incapacitated from further service in the field, he resolved to devote
-himself to the improvement of his estate—which, to be sure, stood in
-need of something of the kind. The manner in which he set about the undertaking
-is characteristic. He ordered William of Wykeham, the celebrated architect
-(then engaged in rebuilding the king’s palace at Windsor), to construct
-for him, on the site of the old tumble-down family mansion,—which,
-though dignified by the name of castle, was merely a dilapidated old Saxon
-grange, frequently altered and added to at the caprice of its successive
-owners,—a baronial residence, fit for a man of his rank and fame.
-William drew out his plans, and the works of demolition and reconstruction
-were set in hand. A splendid tower, which was to form the corner of an
-immense quadrangle, to be surmounted by a donjon keep in the centre, was
-all but finished, when it was discovered that money and building materials
-were no longer forthcoming. Geoffrey—always a bad accountant—was
-with difficulty made to understand that the mortgage or even sale of his
-entire possessions would not suffice to meet the cost of erecting two
-sides of the proposed quadrangle. As the good knight’s building mania had
-already reduced his estate to a bare sufficiency for the maintenance of
-his household, the design was reluctantly abandoned. Fortunately, the main
-portion of the old structure had been left standing for purposes of
-temporary accommodation. The solitary tower with William of Wykeham’s bill
-(in an unreceipted condition) were preserved by the family as colossal
-monuments of Geoffrey’s magnificent intentions.
-</p>
-<p>
-Geoffrey’s son and successor was the father of our hero, that Gilbert.
-Falstaff of whose character and financial condition a glimpse has been
-already obtained from his own writing. As he will appear personally in our
-narrative, we will dismiss him for the present with a brief allusion to
-his marriage. For the most part, the early Falstaffs seem to have married
-into the poorer branches of noble families, in order to support their
-aristocratic pretensions. This being impossible in Gilbert’s case, owing
-to the scantiness of his patrimony, he wisely resolved on reversing the
-rule, and disposing of the honour of his alliance. He espoused Mistress
-Alice Bacon, the daughter of a wealthy merchant of the Wool Staple. The
-dower of this gentlewoman established the house of Falstaff—for some
-months at any rate—in a position of something like comfort and
-solvency. Sir Gilbert never ceased to remind his lady of the great
-sacrifice his love for her had induced him to make, in bestowing on her
-his name and protection. He was at the pains to do this, in order that she
-might feel assured he had made such sacrifice willingly, and to prevent
-her debt of gratitude to him from being burdensome.
-</p>
-<p>
-There seem to have arisen no collateral branches of the Falstaff family.
-</p>
-<p>
-The circumstances of the house, generally, make it improbable that there
-should have been any material provision for its younger sons. These seem
-usually to have left home, at an early age, to seek fortune; and as there
-is no record of any of them having found it, we must conclude that the
-evil genius of their race pursued them, and that they met with various
-dooms among the bands of free lances, condottieri, Brabançons, crusaders,
-rapparees, pirates, sheepstealers, rogues, thieves, and vagabonds, with
-which the history of those ages abounds.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-III. OF THE TRICK PLAYED BY LITTLE JACK FALSTAFF ON SIR THOMAS MOWBRAY
-</h2>
-<h3>
-AND HIS FOLLOWING; AND HOW JACK WAS CARRIED AWAY TO LONDON.
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HERE is no merrier place in all Merry England—for it shall not lose
-the well-earned nickname, in spite of commercial enterprise and political
-economy—than the county of Kent; that rosiest of the fair country’s
-cheeks, which she so artfully presents on the side whence visitors first
-approach to salute her; where the giant hops grow like Garagantua’s
-vineyards, and where the larks fly about the tall corn nearly as big as
-partridges: the county of all counties, that is famous for fair maids,
-monstrous cherries, and all things that are ripe, ruddy, and wholesome!
-</p>
-<p>
-Five hundred years ago, in the very heart of this laughing district,
-Falstaff Castle—or Folly, as it was irreverently styled by the
-neighbours—stood, at a distance of some twelve miles from the sea,
-and seven or eight from what was by courtesy called a road from Dover to
-Canterbury.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was a quaint old building—situated in a wide, flat valley,
-between low, sloping hills. The site appeared too well chosen to have been
-the selection of any of the thriftless, blundering race who had held the
-soil for so many generations. Rumour, indeed, asserted that the estate had
-been wrested by an early Falstaff (taking advantage of an invasion of the
-heathen Danes to make war upon the professors of Christianity) from an
-order of Saxon monks. The rich surrounding plains—nicely watered by
-a brisk, gurgling stream, on the surface of whose waters the word “trout”
- was written in letters of burnished silver—and the thickly wooded
-uplands, certainly made it a very likely looking monastic site. Still, as
-the building itself presented no trace of ecclesiastical architecture,
-Rumour might be safely defied on this question.
-</p>
-<p>
-The house was an old three-sided, one-storied Saxon grange, enclosing a
-quadrangle. Its original form, however, was not easy of detection at a
-glance. Here and there, where the thatched roof had fallen in, some
-ambitious proprietor had run up a turret, apparently with no other design
-than that of “playing at castles.” In one place, a Gothic transept had
-been attempted, with a tolerably handsome mullioned window; but the hall,
-which the window had been intended to illuminate, not having been
-constructed, that ornament had been backed up with slanting thatch, and
-served only to enlighten the family cows, by whom its beauties were,
-doubtless, appreciated. Eccentric sheds, outhouses, and supplementary
-wings of all shapes and dimensions,—except the symmetrical or the
-grand,—clustered round the parent edifice like limpets on a stone.
-The whole was surrounded, at some distance, by a goodly moat (fed from the
-neighbouring trout stream), which had long been ceded as a perpetual seat
-of war between the ducks and tadpoles. The approach to the house was by a
-drawbridge, that had not been raised for many years, and was now
-incorporated with the common road, till such time as its rotten timbers
-should give way, and possibly precipitate a load of wheat or so into the
-ditch beneath. The bridge was backed by a small but well-built turreted
-gate of the early Norman school. In this there were the grooves for a
-portcullis. But if the iron grillage had ever been furnished, it had
-disappeared before the recollection of the oldest clodhopper. A low wooden
-gate had once supplied its place, but had lost its hinges, and lay
-halfburied in farm-yard refuse. The arched gateway, black with age and
-neglect, was surmounted by a dazzling, jaunty-looking freestone shield,—on
-which the arms of the family had been newly carved by no inartistic hand,—marvellously
-suggestive of a new patch on an old jerkin or a jewel in a swine’s ear.
-</p>
-<p>
-At some distance from the main building, and close inside the moat—for
-Geoffrey Falstaff’s magnificent architectural dreams had conceived the
-covering of almost the entire enclosure—stood the really splendid
-tower of William of Wykeham, which had given the name of Folly to the
-family mansion. This was a most imposing and picturesque object. Though
-barely twenty years had elapsed since its construction, it presented all
-the aspects of a venerable ruin. Being built of soft Norman stone, which
-rapidly crumbles and darkens in our climate; being roofless and windowless
-in the upper stories; having been utterly neglected and being overrun by
-ivy and other creeping plants, nourished by a scarcely credible waste of
-farm ordures heaped on the soil beneath, the tower looked like the last
-proud relic of some mighty fortress long since swept away by the ravages
-of war—the original building appearing like a heap of ignoble
-fabrics constructed from its ruins.
-</p>
-<p>
-On the compulsory abandonment of his building mania, Geoffrey Falstaff had
-been seized by a counterpoise one for economy. He had resolved on
-converting the tower into a mill; and even went so far as to dam the moat
-and construct a water-wheel. He was thinking about borrowing money to
-purchase mill-stones, when he died. His son Gilbert, having no turn for
-such ignoble pursuits, neglected to supply the deficiency. The dam was
-allowed to stagnate and the wheel to rot—adding much to the
-picturesqueness of the place.
-</p>
-<p>
-Altogether, Falstaff Castle—viewed by the light of a dazzling May
-morning in the year 1364, on which we are supposed to make its first
-acquaintance—presented as nice a higgledy-piggledy of improvidence,
-vanity, and eccentricity as one could wish to see. And yet it was charming
-from its sheer disorder! Every vagabond species of tree and shrub that
-would was suffered to run riot up the sloping banks of the moat (strongly
-reminding the historic student of the minstrels and illuminators in the
-time of Peter). Myriads of birds kept up an incessant din. Communism
-reigned as an established principle among the domestic animals. The cows,
-from a defective wall in their Gothic residence, had free access to the
-briar-grown orchard behind the house. The philosophic pig was everywhere.
-Fowls, ducks, and pigeons roamed wild without count or restriction among
-the shrubberies, building where they pleased as <i>fero natures</i>, and
-affording excellent sport and provender to the house-dogs, with whom they
-were not on sufficiently intimate terms to claim the immunity of
-neighbours.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was one little oasis, of prim, quakerlike neatness, amid this
-unkempt desert of thriftlessness. On the left wing of the building a
-little horn-latticed door opened upon a garden leading down to the moat.
-Here the grass was shorn like a friar’s poll, and interlaced with
-shingle-walks as even and well-ordered as the galloon on a lackey’s coat.
-It was streaked with little beds of jet-black earth that might have been
-dug with silver spoons and raked with my lady’s comb. On these the
-snowdrops and crocuses lay already dead, and the primroses were drooping.
-But the daffodils still held their own bravely. The Kentish roses were
-also budding about the walls and hedges in this enclosure—for it was
-a sheltered spot looking to the south, and the season was early. On one
-side was a straight bed, showing as yet no vegetation, but studded with
-little cleft pegs surmounted by wooden labels. This was evidently the
-department of medical simples of the rarest virtues, and was shut out from
-its more holiday neighbour by a hedge of apple-trees trained
-espalier-wise. Two or three more fruit trees—cherry, apple, and plum—rose
-above the flower beds, evidently of a choice description, and all
-smothered in white or pink blossoms. There was also a goodly vine, trained
-against the house, and forming a green porch over the latticed door.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was no approach to this spot but from the house. The two sides
-leading down to the moat were jealously guarded by stout hedges of
-blackthorn and sweetbriar, overrun with luxuriant hop-bines, at that time
-a rarity, in what has since grown to be the hop-garden of the world.
-</p>
-<p>
-This was the private garden of Lady Alice Falstaff, tended almost
-exclusively by her own hands. There was, haply, not such another at the
-time in all rich, improvident England. But Mistress Alice Bacon had been a
-travelled merchant’s daughter, and had brought more than flower seeds with
-her from the land of the patient, thrifty Flemings.
-</p>
-<p>
-A broad, uneven horse-track led from the front gate by a rough wooden
-bridge over the trout stream, and then wound its way to the right up what
-had once been Falstaff Chase, keeping in sight for full half a mile till
-it disappeared behind a hill.
-</p>
-<p>
-Now, mark what happened at Falstaff Castle on the bright May morning I
-have spoken of.
-</p>
-<p>
-There came, cantering and jingling over the hill and down the chase
-towards the castle, a gay troop of cavaliers, with pennon streaming and
-steel caps flashing in the sun.
-</p>
-<p>
-Now, it was a time of peace. Had it not been, Falstaff Keep was in no
-condition to stand a siege. And yet, from the effect caused by the sight
-of these horsemen, an observer would have thought to hear drums beating
-and horns blowing—with drawbridge up and portcullis down in a crack
-of time. For no sooner had the sound of hoofs roused a neatherd from a
-comfortable nap by the banks of the trout stream (from crossing which it
-was his business to prevent the cattle in his charge—the pasturage
-on the other side being mortgaged to a neighbour), than he leaped to his
-feet, and, leaving his cows to enjoy themselves in the field opposite,
-scampered towards the house like one possessed, as fast as his hob-nailed
-cowskins would let him, and roaring at the top of his voice—
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Volk a horseback!</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-There was only one point of strict discipline really enforced at Falstaff.
-This was, that on the approach of strangers, the lord of the castle, if at
-home, should be immediately apprised thereof. Many awkward accidents had
-occurred from the breach of this rule.
-</p>
-<p>
-The neatherd rushed unceremoniously into the presence of Sir Gilbert
-Falstaff, and the lady Alice, his wife, cowskins, hob-nails and all.
-Fortunately, there were no carpets in those days.
-</p>
-<p>
-The knight was pricking arms on vellum, at a little side table, with a
-flagon by his side. The lady Alice, helped by two neat little maids, was
-mending hose at a window.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Volk a horseback coming down park,” said the breathless messenger.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir Gilbert started up in alarm.
-</p>
-<p>
-“How many? What kind? How far off?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ten or fifteen, mayhap. Steel-caps, speards, and a penance.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The knight wrung his hands, and rushed to the window to reconnoitre. It
-was pitiful to see his distress as he whimpered,—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Alack! alack! ‘Tis a knight and his following. Pestilence seize them!
-What seek they here? Certes some Lord of the Court,—and to see me in
-this plight—with darned hose! Bar the shutters! Say the knight and
-lady are at court—at their castle in the north—in-Flanders.
-Plague on them! Would I were dead!”
- </p>
-<p>
-The hind moved to depart, scratching his head, with a confused notion as
-to his general orders.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Stay, good fellow,” the lady Alice said, rising from her seat. She was a
-comely English matron, well grown, with blue eyes and golden hair,—yet
-fair to look on; though with a face harder in expression than it doubtless
-had once been, for she had been sorely tried in her married lifetime.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Shame on you, Sir Gilbert Falstaff, to teach your hinds such base
-artifices! How can you hope they will serve you truly? Bid them welcome,
-Jankin, to such poor cheer as we can give them. Why, man! there is not an
-inn within eight leagues.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Jankin, go not. Art thou mad, woman? Art thou mad? Thou with nothing but
-a cloth kirtle, and I in this miserable——But thou go to! Thou
-art a true trader’s daughter.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Even so. One of those whose office it is to keep poor knights from
-starving.” (It was a fault of this good dame’s, that she would be bitter
-in her speech at times.) “I will not send these away an hungered. Come,
-maidens, away with the hose-baskets, and busily with me to the kitchen.”
- Lady Alice, followed by her two little maidens, left the room. The sound
-of the horses’ feet approached rapidly. There was no time to be lost. Sir
-Gilbert clutched Jankin nervously by the arm, and said to him in hurried
-tones,—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Take thou brown Crecy; thou wilt find her in the orchard (if she be not
-loose in the wheat); saddle and gallop like wind to Sir Simon Ballard’s.
-Bid him lend me his new green velvet surcoat,—that with the gold
-stars. Dost heed? Say a nobleman of the court is with me, who desires one
-like it. Then to Dame Adlyn, the yeoman’s wife. Say I have a wager with a
-certain earl, who lies here, that the weight of her gold chain is greater
-than his. Bid her lend it me for an hour. Spare not whip or spur, and I
-will owe thee a guerdon. Stay!—if these riders question thee, say
-the knight is gone out with his hawks. Speed!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Jankin departed with a beaming face. He had no great faith in the promised
-guerdon, but he was fond of horse exercise.
-</p>
-<p>
-The cavalcade was at the gate.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A murrain on them!” Sir Gilbert muttered. “Would they were in the Red
-Sea! And yet I lack court news sorely. Pray Heaven that miser Ballard, and
-that farmer’s jade, Adlyn, stand me in good stead.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Sir Gilbert having impressed upon the household the fiction he was
-desirous of keeping up, retired to bite his nails in a garret, till such
-time as Jankin should return with the borrowed plumes.
-</p>
-<p>
-The visitors were met at the gate by one of Lady Alice’s little maids.
-Falstaff was rather bare in the commodity of men-servants, and those it
-possessed were none of the most presentable. Master Lambert, the Reve or
-Steward, who was believed to be much richer than his master, had been
-called to Sandwich on business of his own, leaving his master’s to take
-care of itself.
-</p>
-<p>
-The leader of the cavalcade was a handsome young man of some one or two
-and twenty. He was
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-——“a doughty swaine;
-White was his face as pandemaine,
-His lippes red as rose.
-His rudde is like scarlet in grain,
-And I you tell in good certain,
-He had a seemly nose.
-
-“His here his berde was like safroun,
-That to his girdle raught adoun;
-His shoon of cordewane;
-Of Brugges were his hosen broun,
-His robe was of ciclatoun,
-That coste many a Jane.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-Read further the description of Sir Thopas, and you will have a good idea
-of the sort of mediaeval exquisite who announced himself to the little
-maiden as Sir Thomas Mowbray, who having, with certain other poor
-gentlemen of his company, mistaken his way, was desirous of paying his
-respects to the fair lady of the castle.
-</p>
-<p>
-The little maid, with much blushing, but going through her task right
-cleverly, invited them to enter, and pointed out to them where their
-steeds might be bestowed. She then led the way to the hall, where spiced
-sack, and, what was then termed, a “shoeing-horn,” but what, in this
-unpoetical age, we call broiled rashers of bacon, awaited them, spread
-temptingly on a Snowy napkin.
-</p>
-<p>
-Then the little maid told them, in a pretty set speech, that her mistress
-would be with them presently, if they would be so good as to entertain
-themselves the while; adding (and here the little maid blushed, as with
-positive shame,) that Sir Gilbert Falstaff was gone out with his falcons,
-but would doubtless be home in time to welcome his guests to their poor
-family dinner.
-</p>
-<p>
-The visitors fell busily to work on the sack, and used the shoeing-horn
-unmercifully. It would seem that they required no other entertainment,
-having brought in some excellent jest with them, at which they had been
-laughing immoderately, when the little maid first met them at the gate,
-and which kept them laughing, at intervals, for a good half-hour after
-their being seated at table; at the end of which time Jankin was seen to
-gallop into the courtyard on Brown Crécy—now white Crécy with foam—with
-a bundle before him on the saddle. Jankin appeared in high spirits, and
-had indeed enjoyed his ride immensely.
-</p>
-<p>
-The travellers only checked their laughter, when, a few minutes later, the
-hangings were raised, and Sir Gilbert Falstaff entered the hall, leading
-the lady Alice by the hand. The knight wore a green velvet surcoat,
-embroidered with golden stars, and twirled a massive gold chain, as became
-a gentleman of his rank and ancestry. His dame was clad in a plain cloth
-gown, without ornament, befitting her origin as a wool-merchant’s
-daughter.
-</p>
-<p>
-The visitors were welcomed by Sir Gilbert Falstaff with much ceremony.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You take us by surprise, fair Sirs,” he said, after the exchange of many
-formal salutations, “and must fain content you with our daily fare. Poor
-country folk, Sir Thomas! (How does your honoured father, Sir?) Had we
-known of your coming, then,—a welcome more befitting——But
-I am glad to see you merry, gentlemen.”
- </p>
-<p>
-This was to Sir Thomas Mowbray’s two esquires, who, not joining in the
-conversation, had bethought them of their late jest, and were convulsed
-once more.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir Gilbert liked not laughter in his presence. He always imagined himself
-to be its object.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Nay, Sir Gilbert,” said the young knight, “forgive their lack of manners.
-We have all had good cause for laughter, on our way hither, as you shall
-own when you have heard the jest.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Sir Gilbert felt relieved. They were not laughing at him. He twiddled
-Mistress Adlyn’s gold chain with courtly ease, and simpered,—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Doubtless some court pleasantry. Let me know it, I pray you. I am sadly
-behind date in such matters, gentlemen. But a fallen house, you know—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Nay!” Mowbray made answer; “the court would be a livelier place to live
-in, did it abound in such jests. But you shall hear. I should tell you
-first, we have come from Deal this morning, and were seeking a short cut
-to the Canterbury road, but missed our scent, like dull-nosed dogs as we
-are. When about six miles from here, we met a party of boys——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Boys!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Sir Gilbert Falstaff and the lady Alice exchanged glances.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Aye, real English, true Kentish boys,—a score of them perhaps,—of
-all sorts and sizes. Ragged boys, warm-clad boys, shock-headed boys, and
-shorn boys,—after no good, I warrant me, for they were armed with
-bows and arrows, poles, cords, and knives.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Again Lady Alice glanced at her husband. This time Sir Gilbert looked in
-another direction.
-</p>
-<p>
-“However, their business was none of ours. We asked them our way; and one
-of them, who seemed to be their ringleader, a burly, flaxen-headed,
-blue-eyed urchin, of some fourteen,—who—the saints forgive me
-if I have spoken offence!—but now I look, he was the very image of
-your ladyship. <i>N’est-ce pas, Jean?</i>” Sir Thomas turned to a
-lazy-looking, handsome gentleman, of about thirty, who had dropped into a
-seat at his elbow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Eh bien! Quoi?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Excuse my friend. He speaks very little English. He is a French priest,
-though he does’nt look it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The alleged priest was dressed in the wildest extravagance of the current
-fashion; he had deep hanging sleeves, “purfled” with fur, and the toes of
-his Cordovan boots were a foot and a half long.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>N’est-ce pas que ce garçon là ressemblait beaucoup à Madame?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-Monsieur Jean shook off his apathy, like a true Frenchman, at the mention
-of a lady’s looks. He bowed graciously, and showed a splendid set of
-teeth, as he replied,
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Mais, parbleu! est-ce que je n’aie pas déjà dit, qu’il était fort joli
-garçon?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I believe you are speaking of my own son, gentlemen,” was the quiet reply
-of Lady Alice, who understood a little French. “He left home at daybreak;
-on what errand, or in what company, I know not.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She looked a third time at her husband, who shuffled his long limbs under
-his chair uneasily.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Then he is a son to be proud of!” said Mowbray heartily. “But to end my
-story. He advanced, cap in hand, to answer our inquiry; and, with mock
-politeness, which made us all laugh, told us, that if we would turn down a
-certain lane in the forest, some two miles off, we would find ourselves
-in face of our ultimate destination.’ We were well amused at the lad’s
-pedantic speech, but, never doubting his good faith, we turned down the
-lane as directed. At the end of a few paces, we found ourselves in an open
-space in the wood, where there was—<i>a Gallows!</i> This was ‘our
-ultimate destination.’ We laughed good twenty minutes at the urchin’s
-roguery—for which Maître Jean here gave him absolution on the spot—and
-have scarcely ceased laughing since. Our ultimate destination! <i>Eh,
-Jean? Nous allons tous finir par là?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Possible!</i>” said Jean, shrugging his shoulders.
-</p>
-<p>
-Lady Alice, in spite of the thoughtfulness that seemed to have possessed
-her, laughed till her bonny fat sides shook again.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir Gilbert looked wrathfully at her.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The young villain! Believe me, Sir Thomas, he shall be soundly whipped
-for this, if, indeed, it was our son, as I hope not. To pass so insolent a
-jest on a gentleman of your standing! It is like you, wife, to, treat so
-grave a matter lightly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Nay, if the boy come to any harm through my betrayal,” said Mowbray,
-kindly, “I shall consider myself cut out of all good fellowship for
-evermore. Besides, had he not led us astray, we had never caught sight of
-your splendid tower, as we did from an opening in the woods, and so should
-have lost your kind entertainment. This must have been a rare fortress in
-its day, Sir Gilbert.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Held its own, Sir,—held its own,—and that indifferently. We
-are a fallen house. But be seated, Sirs, I pray you. Here comes our humble
-fare.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“On what errand did that boy leave home this morning?” Lady Alice asked
-her husband, in a fierce whisper.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Gentlemen, pray Heaven you are all too sharp-set to be dainty,” said the
-knight, evading his wife’s question. His face was deadly pale, and his
-hand trembled as he clutched the carving-knife, to do mischief on a
-smoking pig’s head.
-</p>
-<p>
-The dinner was substantial and abundant; setting at glorious defiance that
-law of the period, for the restriction of luxury, which prescribed that
-“no one should be allowed, either for dinner or supper, above three dishes
-in each course, and not above two courses:” and which further decreed that
-“soused meat” should count as one of the aforesaid dishes. Nevertheless,
-conversation languished. The host, constantly making efforts to apologise
-to his guests for the humble fare set before them, seemed too ill at his
-ease to enjoy what was in reality a better dinner than he had sat down to
-for months. Lady Alice was attentive and hospitable; but her last laugh
-had been forced from her, at the mention of her son’s waggery, before
-dinner. Sir Thomas Mowbray was fain to talk in French with his friend,
-Maître Jean. His two esquires, and the men-at-arms below the salt, acted
-like sensible men: they eat and drank, and held their tongues.
-</p>
-<p>
-Just after the hartshorn jellies, almond marchpanes, and cherry
-marmalades, had gone the way of their predecessors, the white broth
-capons, veal toasts, and chicken salads, and had been replaced by new
-cheese and old apples, Master Lambert, the Reve, was seen riding into the
-courtyard,—on a stout grey mare,—full of importance, and, as
-it shortly proved, of something else.
-</p>
-<p>
-That faithful steward burst into the dining-hall, with the unmistakeable
-abruptness of an unpaid servant—saluting nobody.
-</p>
-<p>
-“How now, Lambert?” Sir Gilbert asked, with a sorry attempt at dignity.
-“What is the matter?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Hanging matter, Sir Gilbert,” answered the steward, in a thick voice.
-“Flogging matter at least,—caging matter for certain. But riding’s
-dry work, and talking, drier. Save this fair company,—though I don’t
-know ‘em.” Master Lambert quietly drained Sir Gilbert’s drinking cup,
-flopped himself down in an arm-seat beside the fire, blinked his eyes
-insolently at the company, and deliberately proceeded to take off his
-muddy boots.
-</p>
-<p>
-“How now, knave! art thou mad? Dost thou know in whose presence thou art?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Don’t call me knave, Sir Gilbert Falstaff, knight,” hiccupped the drunken
-steward; “or I’ll have the house over your head. You know I can do it. I
-ha’nt got coat armour, nor breeches armour; but I can pay my way, and keep
-my sons from the gallows,—more than you can do at this time of day
-either one or the other.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lady Alice turned deadly pale. Sir Gilbert’s lank bones fairly rattled, as
-he fell back, half dead, in his chair. The guests looked at one another.
-</p>
-<p>
-Lady Alice, with forced calmness, rose from her seat, and, approaching the
-drunkard, addressed him—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Speak thy meaning, fellow—for thou hadst a meaning when thou
-earnest into this room. What has given thee the right to insult thy master
-and myself, before our noble guests?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Insult <i>you</i>, my lady?” howled the steward, suddenly diverging into
-the maudlin state. “I couldn’t do it. You’re a sweet angel, you are, born
-and bred; and I love the very ground you tread on; always did. And when I
-see you thrown away on that snivelling gull——”
- </p>
-<p>
-Whether the miserable sot meant gallantry or gratitude is uncertain. At
-any rate, utterly forgetting the questions asked him, as well as the
-presence he sat in, he made a staggering movement to take the Lady Alice’s
-hand. Failing in the first attempt—the lady, rigid with
-astonishment, still remaining at his side—he rose, smilingly, to
-repeat it.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir Thomas Mowbray gave two strides from his seat, and felled the drunkard
-to the ground with a well-directed blow on the temples.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Lambert rolled, apparently lifeless, into the fire-place among the
-wood-ashes.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You have killed him!” said Lady Alice, not without a grateful glance at
-her champion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am afraid not,” said Mowbray, cruelly enough, it must be admitted;
-“though, after all, we shall want him alive, to answer a question or two.
-How now! Sir Hogshead. Must we stave in that wooden head of thine to get
-anything out of thee?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The young knight administered a ruthless kick to the prostrate steward,
-which sent that man of wealth rolling into the blazing embers.
-</p>
-<p>
-The kick and the brisk fire roused Master Lambert Reve to something like
-consciousness and sobriety. He rose upon all fours (the threatening heel
-of Mowbray, armed with a terrible spur, and raised, from time to time,
-above his head, forbidding him to adopt a more dignified position), and
-whimpered out a lament that an honest serving-man should be thus treated
-after riding, at risk of neck and limb, to apprise his masters of a matter
-threatening their family honour.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come to the point,” said Mowbray, raising his heel.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Master Jack, with Tom Simcox, and Will the Tanner’s son, and young Hob
-Smith, and others, stole a buck this morning. They have been taken by Sir
-Simon Ballard’s keepers. Sir Simon swears he will have law of all, gentle
-and simple. They are in the cage at Maldyke,” the steward rattled out,
-with marvellous clearness and volubility.
-</p>
-<p>
-“So they were the lads we met. Fear nothing, Madam. My young wag shall
-come to no harm. Where is this Maldyke?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A league and a half from here, by the road you came.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Enough. You may get up. Lads, to horse! <i>Jean, en veux-tu?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>De quoi?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Des coups</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Toujours</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And Maître Jean put away a set of tablets on which he had been making some
-notes; and pulled on a pair of embroidered gloves, over which he was at
-great pains to draw on several jewelled rings. These warlike preparations
-completed, he declared himself—in the French language, and with a
-charming smile—ready for action.
-</p>
-<p>
-The men-at-arms were soon equipped and mounted.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir Thomas Mowbray took a hasty farewell of his hostess, saying, as he did
-so—
-</p>
-<p>
-“I perceive, Madam, your noble husband takes this matter greatly to heart.
-Either you lack his sensibility, or he your fortitude” (there was some
-irony in the speaker’s tone as he said this). “Yet, fear nothing. I give
-you my knightly word to bring back your son safe and whole. We are strong
-enough to beat all the keepers in the county and bear the consequences. We
-owe you this trifling service in return for our entertainment. Farewell.
-Stay! There is yet a duty to perform.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Master Lambert, the Reve, lacking the stimulus of kicks, had relapsed into
-his arm-chair and a state of somnolency. Sir Thomas dragged the capitalist
-by his hood into the court-yard, dipped his head in a horse-trough, as a
-sanitary precaution, and shut him up in a log-house, placing a heavy
-invalid plough against the door for security.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then Sir Thomas Mowbray with his friend Jean rode off at the head of
-their troop to rescue little Jack Falstaff.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir Gilbert had not spoken a word, nor moved an inch in his chair.
-</p>
-<p>
-When they were alone, his wife approached him slowly, and said, in
-measured tones—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sir Gilbert Falstaff, from this day forth we are man and wife no longer.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How! how!” said the knight, quivering with rage and shame. “That’s well!
-that’s well! All the world will desert me in my wretchedness—and you
-the first, I might be sure. It is in your blood. Would I were dead! To be
-seen in this plight by gentlemen of the court—insulted by my own
-groom—all in one day—and my son a felon——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“For that he may thank his father,” said the lady, coldly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It’s a lie, woman!” the knight screamed. “I have done all I can to instil
-gentleman-like notions into him becoming his rank.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You set him on to steal Sir Simon Ballard’s deer—the man whose coat
-you are wearing. You have sacrificed my son and yours—body and soul,
-perhaps—to your liking for a certain dish of meat! You pitiful
-wretch! without the heart to rob a henroost for yourself!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“‘Tis a lie—a black, wicked, shocking lie!” the knight could only
-gasp; but it was plain to see with whom the lie was. “It is the low
-training you have given him, made him mistake my words—and the taste
-for bad company he had with your blood. I may have said, in the olden time
-it was thought good sport for young gentlemen of spirit to carry away a
-buck; as, indeed, it was, in the good old days when gentlemen were not
-meddled with in their sports by base hinds—for this Ballard is no
-better, for all he wears three-pile velvet, while his betters——But
-tis no matter! All the world is against me. I am the most miserable
-wretch on earth!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I believe you are, indeed! My poor boy! My brave boy! whom I have tried
-to make good and honest, as God intended him to be!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lady Alice Falstaff sobbed as if her heart would break.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good! Good! Look to one’s wife for comfort! Not a thought for my
-sufferings! But, if the young fool gets safely through this, I’ll beat him
-within an inch of his life. And to try it in the day-time, too!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Enough! I will humble you no farther. You have heard my decision. Whether
-the kind, brave men who left us, to break the laws to spare our shame,—whether
-they bring me back my son or no,—whether he is to die a felon, or
-live an honest man,—from this time forth we two are strangers.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You don’t mean it,” Sir Gilbert whined, in a half-imploring,
-half-threatening manner. “You would not have the base, black heart to
-leave me in my miseries—to be robbed and neglected by servants? You
-know I am ailing, and require little comforts. I can eat nobody’s Warden
-pies but yours——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have spoken my last word to you,” said the lady, in an inexorable
-voice. And she left the room, to watch and pray for her son’s safe return.
-</p>
-<p>
-The poor mother spent a wretched hour, standing far out in the road, with
-strained eyeballs and compressed lips, watching the horizon. Her
-tribulation was shared by the entire household, by all of whom (with the
-exception of Master Lambert, the Reve, the favourite butt of young Jack’s
-practical jokes) the young scapegrace in trouble was greatly beloved.
-Rough kitchen-maids and lumbering ploughmen were out on the road, watching
-as eagerly as their mistress—many of them with cheeks as wet as her
-own.
-</p>
-<p>
-That hour seemed a lifetime to Lady Alice Falstaff.
-</p>
-<p>
-Horses’ hoofs were at length heard pattering over the hill.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here they be,” roared Jankin, who had stationed himself as look-out in a
-high tree. “Hooray! they’m got’un.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The cavalcade burst down the chase. The mother’s quick eye detected her
-son, in safety, at a glance.
-</p>
-<p>
-In a few minutes the horses had thundered over the bridge, and little Jack
-Falstaff, leaping from Sir Thomas Mowbray’s crupper, was in his mother’s
-arms.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My own boy! My brave, wicked boy!” the lady murmured, holding him tightly
-to her bosom. “God bless thee. God forgive thee! But what is this? Blood?
-Sir Thomas Mowbray, you promised me my son safe and whole. Jack! Jack!
-What is it? Have they killed thee?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No hurt, mother,” said Jack. (I have called him little Jack; but he was a
-strapping urchin of fourteen, and, as Mowbray had said, the very image of
-his comely mother.) “Only scored across the costard. But he had it again.
-Eh, Sir Thomas? By the Lord! mother, this is a brave gentleman!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And thou art a brave rascal,” said Mowbray, admiringly. “But get thee
-indoors. Lady Alice, there is no time to be lost. This Ballard is not a
-man to be trifled with. We found the doves trying to break their cage
-already, and had but to help them. There was a strong watch of keepers and
-constables set. Master Jack fought for his liberty like a hero of Troy,
-and has his wounds to show for it. But he is not safe here.” Sir Thomas
-said this with a significance the lady too well understood. “He must to
-London with me. We have settled all. He is to be my page, and has promised
-to mend his manners.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“God bless you, sir,” was all the mother could say through her sobs.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Think of that, mother,” said Jack, in the highest glee. “Page to a
-gentleman like Sir Thomas Mowbray! And going to London! Was ever such
-luck?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Luck, thou graceless varlet! when thou shouldest be on thy bare knees
-praying for forgiveness.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes, that’s all fair and good, mother,” Jack answered, drily. “But, you
-see, the sheriff of Kent and his following might happen to come and
-interrupt my devotions. So I think horseback is safest.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Away! Thou art incorrigible!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I hope not,” said Mowbray. “But moments are diamonds. Find a horse for my
-page—I will see to the rest of his equipment. Why, how now, Jean!
-what the devil hast thou got there?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I don’t know,” said Maître Jean, in French, riding leisurely up after the
-rest. “I found the thing in the cage when we let the rest of the boys
-loose. It looked very small to be in prison. And its little pig’s eyes
-twinkled so pitifully after its leader there, when you took him up behind
-you, that I was fain to carry the mite with me under my cloak. There, jump
-down, monkey.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And Maître Jean dropped among the straw of the courtyard a very small boy,
-clad in leather.
-</p>
-<p>
-He was a remarkable boy—apparently about eight years of age, though
-from his countenance he might have been eighty. His eyes were very far
-apart, and surmounted by gravely frowning brows. He had a good deal of
-nose for his age, and mouth enough for any age. He walked with a sort of
-defiant straddle, and was altogether a stolid, grim, unrelenting sort of
-boy. But he was absurdly little.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Let’s have a look at it,” said Mowbray, touching the stolid pigmy with
-his whip. “He’s very funny to be sure. What’s thy name?—Colbrand the
-Giant?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The queer little boy returned no answer; but stood, with his legs further
-apart than ever, gravely confronting his interrogator, and waiting to be
-whipped again.
-</p>
-<p>
-Young Jack Falstaff bustled up, leading out Brown Crecy,—the only
-good horse on the estate,—hastily saddled for the journey.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Don’t hurt little Peter, Sir Thomas,” he said. “He would come with us
-this morning: when we talked of leaving him behind, on account of his
-size, he cried,—a thing he had never been known to do before, though
-he gets more thrashings than any boy in these parts. Indeed, it was he
-found the buck for us. It’s no use trying to make him talk—he won’t.
-Poor little man! he is very fond of me, and will be sorry to lose me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-A snort was heard from Peter, who was discovered, to the astonishment of
-all familiar bystanders, to be in tears, for the second time in his life.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The son of a—ahem!—keeper of mine, Sir Thomas,” put in Sir
-Gilbert Falstaff, who had sneaked out on the assurance of safety, and
-began to think, with the unexpected turn things had taken, that a little
-deer-stealing was no bad family investment. “I am ashamed that gentlemen
-of your rank should have been troubled by a single thought for such
-vermin. Out of the way, thou beggar’s scum!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Sir Gilbert aimed a fierce blow at Peter’s head, which that philosopher
-avoided skilfully, and disappeared among the horses’ legs.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Have you aught to say to me, Sir Gilbert Falstaff, before I carry your
-son away with me? Time is short; and all the keepers and constables of the
-county may be upon us at any moment.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Nothing, Sir Thomas—but—ahem!—a trifling matter. The
-horse that carries my son—being a steed of great value—albeit
-I shall never cease to feel bounden by your inconceivable kindness—yet,
-as the said horse—I am a poor knight, Sir Thomas, as you know—as
-it will be used henceforth in your service—seeing that Jack is to
-have the honour of being one of your household—I would merely say
-that——”
- </p>
-<p>
-Mowbray cut him short by throwing two pieces of gold in the mud at his
-feet with a contemptuous oath.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There’s for your horse. Keep from the heels of mine. There is a certain
-kind of man he has a taste for kicking. Now, Jack! art ready? The sooner
-thou art out of this the better for thee. The air here is not good for
-thee, lad.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“All ready, Sir. Good bye, again, mother. God bless thee.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“God mend thee, my boy.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Good bye, father!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Sir Gilbert did not hear the parting salute of his son. He was busy
-picking up something in the mud—which he carefully pocketed, dirt
-and all.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mowbray waved a gay farewell to Lady Alice. The poor lady had been playing
-listlessly with a withered rose-bud which she had stuck in her girdle, and
-forgotten in the day’s troubles. She let it fall. Maître Jean leaped from
-his horse and picked up the treasure, pressed it to his lips, stuck it
-into a “love knot on the greter end of hys hoode,” and vaulted again into
-his saddle with an air of triumph.
-</p>
-<p>
-This was very kind of Maître Jean, for it made Lady Alice smile. And the
-poor mother stood in need of some such diversion, however passing.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now, lads,” said Mowbray. “Whip and spur with a vengeance. No rest this
-side of Canterbury. And for London, ho!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“For London, ho!” shouted Jack Falstaff, with a beaming face, looking more
-like a jovial young prince riding to tournament, than a rescued purloiner
-of animal food flying the constable.
-</p>
-<p>
-And away they galloped.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Jean,” said Mowbray, as they rode up the chase, “do you intend to
-chronicle to-day’s exploits among your <i>nobles aventures et faits
-d’armes pour encourager les preux en bien faisant?</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-“<i>Parbleu!</i> Why not? I have put a good face on many a worse, before
-now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-That night, Lady Alice Falstaff begged a shelter with her good gossip Dame
-Adlyn, and never entered Falstaff Castle again.
-</p>
-<p>
-That night, also, there was sore tribulation in the hovel of a ploughman
-on the Falstaff estate. Little Peter was missing.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-IV. OF JACK FALSTAFF’S COSTING TO LONDON.
-</h2>
-<h3>
-HOW HE SAW LIFE THERE, AND HOW HE BROKE SKOGAN’S HEAD AT THE COURT GATE.
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>OW you know how it was that the future Sir John Falstaff got his first
-start in life as page to that renowned knight Thomas Mowbray, more famous
-by his later title of Duke of Norfolk, who, though only a chivalrous
-well-bred young gentleman as we have seen him, afterwards became Mareschal
-of England, and what not, and learnt, in virtue of his high position, to
-betray sovereigns, and murder their uncles, and get himself banished, and
-altogether to play a great part in history. But with all that we have
-nothing to do. Edifying in the extreme is the moral of young John’s
-advancement to this nobleman’s favour, showing by what kind of achievement
-it behoves youths of spirit to draw upon them the early attention of those
-in power. Had young John merely stopped at home, minding his hook and
-heeding his mother, ten to one but he would have grown up with no higher
-ambition than to improve his father’s estate and do justice to his
-tenantry, and might have lived till ninety and never been heard of beyond
-the sound of his parish bell, instead of——But it is not the
-business of the chronicler to anticipate events.
-</p>
-<p>
-Fain would I tell of the many novel and wonderful things which delighted
-Jack’s eyes and ears on his memorable ride to London, pleasantly diverting
-his mind from dwelling upon disquieting themes, such as forest laws,
-broken-hearted mothers, and the like. That rough blacksmith fellow, for
-instance,—who, when they were about three miles on their way, came
-running out of his smithy, thrusting a mug of ale upon Sir Thomas, and
-thanking the knight and his troop for releasing his son Hob, one of Jack’s
-cage-fellows,—begging them to drink to the confusion of all
-forest-lords, keepers, taxmen, and the like; how, when Sir Thomas declined
-the toast, and bade him teach his son better manners, he fell to cursing
-Sir Thomas roundly, saying he had thought him a true man, but found he was
-but a gentleman after all; and then fell to cursing Jack Falstaff for
-deserting the brave lads of Kent and leaguing with gentlemen and
-oppressors, till Jack was fain to draw Sir Thomas away, saying that Wat
-Smith was a good fellow and a rare cudgeller, only rather fierce when he
-got upon such topics as gentlefolks, keepers, and taxmen.
-</p>
-<p>
-Much would it delight me, too, to tell you of the meeting at Canterbury—where
-the party rested for the night—between Maître Jean and an English
-gentleman, his friend, with a peaked beard and falling hood—also a
-clerk and scholar; how Sir Thomas Mowbray invited him to share their
-travellers’ supper; of the compliments that passed between the two writers
-as to each other’s wondrous gifts; how each would give place to the other
-at table, Maître Jean saying that the chronicler was less worthy than the
-poet, and the gentleman in the peaked beard prettily declaring that the
-mere stringer of idle fancies must yield to the grave compiler of history,
-and so forth,—until, after supper, Maître Jean having requested the
-gentleman in the beard to delight them with some of his new Canterbury
-verses, which the gentleman in the beard agreeing to with much alacrity,
-but not leaving off in time to give Maître Jean a chance of reading a
-trifle he had recently composed on the death of Estienne Marcel, with
-which he was anxious to favour the company, they fell to calling each
-other names; how the gentleman in the beard called Maître Jean
-“Scrivener’s Clerk,” to which Maître Jean retorted with “Town Bellman,”
- and the like, until Sir Thomas Mowbray threatening to score them both
-across the costard and ordering in more sack, they became like brothers
-again, citing and lauding each other’s works, and embracing at intervals,
-until they were taken up to bed.
-</p>
-<p>
-Again, there was the odd adventure that befel them hard by Blackheath—of
-a strange, gaunt, ill-clad youth, with a small knapsack, who came limping
-up to them and seizing John Falstaff’s bridle, declaring that our hero
-owed him a ride, seeing that he had once rescued Jack from drowning from a
-fishing-boat off Sandwich, by swimming to shore with Jack on his
-shoulders; which Jack recognising (though he had forgotten his preserver),
-Sir Thomas would have rewarded the lad with a gold piece; whereupon the
-latter said, No, he would take nothing that he had not earned; but having
-lamed his foot, and being unable to walk, he would claim a ride from John
-Falstaff as his due, and then cry quits: and, indeed, Jack was fain to
-ride into London with this strange fellow behind him, dropping him at the
-Southwark end of the bridge.
-</p>
-<p>
-All these things, and many more such written in full, might fill many
-diverting pages; but, alack! if such time were given to each adventure in
-my hero’s life where would this chronicle end? We have only yet got to the
-fourteenth year of one who led a long life, and, as some assert, a merry
-one. As to that we may be better able to judge by-and-by.
-</p>
-<p>
-Well, here we have Jack Falstaff in London, in his fifteenth year, page to
-Thomas Mowbray, afterward Duke of Norfolk. * Let us see the sort of life
-he leads there. He lives in a fine house and is gorgeously dressed; the
-Mowbray badge on his arm he considers an honour and an ornament. He is
-very jealous of this, and will maintain its superiority over the badges
-worn by other pages, by blows if necessary, and if there happen to be
-bystanders. A private taunt in a back street he treats with contempt,
-unless repeated in public.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* “There was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy, and page to
-Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.”—Justice Shallow, Henry
-IV. Pt. II. act iii. sc. 2. The Justice naturally speaks of
-Mowbray by his later title, as we say, “Arthur Wellesley,
-Duke of Wellington.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-He has nothing particular to do—his principal duties being to attend
-his master to the Court or tilt-yard; to kick his heels in anterooms at
-the former (where he rapidly graduates as a master of the arts of repartee
-and badinage, and acquires much edifying knowledge), and to pick up his
-master when knocked out of the saddle at the latter. Certain menial
-duties, such as brushing cloaks and polishing daggers, are his by virtue
-of office; but he early shows his powers of command by divining how these
-may be done by deputy. When there is a letter or message to be delivered
-he performs this conscientiously in person, such like commissions giving
-him an opportunity of studying the town and forming his opinions on men
-and manners. He is by no means a winged-footed Mercury; but can usually
-coin a good excuse for delay, or, if detected, a jest to ward off
-punishment. He has plenty of money; for his master is liberal, and Jack is
-a great pet with the visitors to the mansion—saying pretty things to
-the ladies and smart ones to the gentlemen, in return for which he is
-loaded with presents. Thus, much of his income, even at this early period,
-is obtained by the exercise of his wits. He mixes in the very best
-society. The princes of the blood are his master’s familiars; they
-encourage him in his wit and impudence to crack jokes upon their rivals or
-inferiors—occasionally getting one for themselves, when Master Jack
-thinks fit to regulate the balance of society and teach even princes their
-level. His observations of these great people, their habits and
-capacities, imbue his young mind with the tenets of that philosophic
-school of which the valets of heroes are said to be the head masters. He
-has taken their measure in fact; and, placing himself, mentally, back to
-back with them, is—not disappointed to find them shortcoming, but
-complacently satisfied with his own comparative dimensions. He thinks that
-perhaps on a readjustment of the social scheme—but no matter! He
-keeps his own counsel and profits by his present opportunities. His
-acquaintance is much sought after by numerous aspiring youths of the town—naturally,
-for he is the companion of princes. Before these young men he is careful
-to keep up a very high standard of the princely character, for those whom
-he acknowledges his superiors must be proved great creatures indeed. He
-quotes a “merry jest of John of Gaunt,” or a “shrewd thing he heard
-Langley say upon such a matter,”—frequently the choicest and most
-elaborated sallies of his own imagination. But he will allow no liberties
-with his royal patrons from others. If any of his companions,
-inadvertently or presumptuously catching his familiar tone, make inquiries
-as to the proceedings of “Clarence,” or “Young Thomas,” he will rebuke
-them with “their Highnesses, the Duke of Clarence and the Earl of
-Buckingham, if you please,” and shroud himself in dignified reserve for
-the rest of the evening, as one who has condescended too far.
-</p>
-<p>
-It is natural that the society of a young man with such advantages should
-be greatly courted: for, you see, every one of such a person’s intimates
-is enabled to retail his experiences to a still lower circle as having
-happened to himself; and so on, widening and weakening to the very borders
-of the social pool.
-</p>
-<p>
-One of Master Jack’s familiars is a young gentleman from Gloucestershire,
-Robert Shallow by name. As there must be language before there can be
-grammar, and poetry before rules of composition, just so, long before our
-hero had codified his laws of philosophy, he had learnt instinctively to
-obey a maxim which he subsequently acted upon systematically, namely—always
-to choose your associates from among your inferiors in wit who are your
-superiors in pocket. Master Shallow was descended from one of the oldest
-families in England, whose representatives were (and are still) to be
-found in every county. He had plenty of money—at least, his father
-had for him—and no wit. He was desirous of the honour and support of
-Jack Falstaff’s acquaintance. Jack, striking a nice balance between
-humanity and justice, decided that Master Shallow should enjoy that
-privilege and pay for it: Master Shallow did both—enormously.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow was a law student, and some five years our hero’s senior;
-but, as usual, mind triumphed over matter (that is, to speak figuratively—materially
-there was not much more of Master Shallow than mentally). Jack patronised
-Shallow; Shallow aped, toadied, and swore by Jack. He was never tired of
-quoting our hero’s sayings and boasting of his prowess. Nay, he even, in a
-measure, unwittingly contrived to make Jack pay his own expenses, for in
-such glowing terms did he describe his courtly patron in his letters home,
-that his worthy parents encouraged him in the outlay of money spent in the
-cultivation of so distinguished an acquaintance, and met his claims upon
-their purse liberally. It is possible that even the parents got some
-return for their expenditure, in the pleasure of humiliating their country
-neighbours with stories of their son’s high favour with a young gentleman
-of the court. How little England has changed within five centuries to be
-sure!
-</p>
-<p>
-In fact, Master Jack, with a handsome person, fine clothes, abundance of
-leisure and money, and, above all, a devoted toady, was in a most enviable
-position. And he lorded it finely over the youth of his own age, at
-taverns, ordinaries, and inns of court accordingly.
-</p>
-<p>
-But, alas! what is greatness but a mark for envy? Many were the fingers
-itching to pick a hole in Jack’s fine coat. At length an open seam
-presented itself. His courage was called in question. He was accused, in
-full cenacle, of having, in the most cowardly manner, deserted certain
-comrades—pages, students, and others—in a street row with
-prentices.
-</p>
-<p>
-The accusation was perfectly just. Jack, on the occasion alluded to, wore
-a new doublet, and had no fancy to show himself at court in the morning
-with a broken head earned in a fool’s quarrel. So he had walked quietly
-on, pretending to have heard nothing of the matter; urging, when accused,
-that having stayed out beyond his time, he had slipped away purposely when
-he saw his friends halting, as he supposed, to speak with some
-acquaintances.
-</p>
-<p>
-The explanation was coldly received. Jack felt himself, figuratively, far
-on the road to that Coventry where years afterwards he distinguished
-himself in a material sense. He felt he must recover his position by a
-decisive <i>coup</i>. Mere single combat with one of his own age would be
-inadequate to the emergency. He walked homeward meditating.
-</p>
-<p>
-He was attracted by a disturbance in a tavern. Except withheld by extreme
-prudential motives, he could never resist the temptation of a broil. He
-entered the tavern.
-</p>
-<p>
-A burly black-bearded fellow of some five-and-twenty, far gone in his
-cups, was challenging a roomfull of people to make verses, quote Latin,
-fight, wrestle, or drink against him, declaring that he was the great poet
-cudgeller, or wrestling scholar, Henry Skogan. He brandished a scrap of
-greasy parchment, on which, he said, were written verses which Master
-Chaucer or Dan Virgil himself need not be ashamed of, as would be owned
-when he read them at the court gate in the morning to the Earl of
-Cambridge, in honour of whose twenty-seventh birthday they were composed.
-He volunteered to read them to the company, and dared any one to find them
-bad.
-</p>
-<p>
-A stolid Thames waterman, with no soul for poetry, bade him hold his noise
-unless he wanted a cleft skull. They had had his trash a dozen times
-already.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Aha! what’s this?” said the gladiator poet. “One tired of life? A worm
-neath Ajax’s foot. Writhe hence or be crushed.”
- </p>
-<p>
-To make the scene brief, a cudgelling match ensued. The waterman was
-vanquished, and the poet resumed his swaggering antics with renewed
-extravagance.
-</p>
-<p>
-Jack Falstaff walked home, musing as follows:—
-</p>
-<p>
-“At the Court Gate to-morrow. The Court will all come out in procession to
-the tilt-yard. All the lads will be there. That fellow for all his swagger
-and bulk knows no more about cudgel-play than a pig. Three chances that
-poor waterman gave him, which, if he had been trained by Wat Smith, as I
-have, would have shortened the battle eight minutes. Pray Heaven he be not
-too drunk to keep his word in the morning!”
- </p>
-<p>
-In the morning Jack presented himself at the Court Gate to wait for the
-coming out of his master, but earlier than his time of service required.
-There, as he expected, were a good sprinkling of his companions of the
-previous day assembled in the crowd to see the procession to the sports in
-honour of Prince Edmund’s birthday. There too, to his delight, was the
-poet Skogan, parchment in hand, gesticulating and bullying as he had
-appeared on the previous evening—merely a little cleaner and
-apparently sober.
-</p>
-<p>
-After listening to his rhapsodies for a few minutes, Jack approached his
-companions. They received him distantly. Even his staunch adherent and
-believer Shallow—who being an arrant coward dared not stand aloof
-from the majority—was constrained in his manner.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I forgive you, gentlemen,” said Jack; “you have had some reason to doubt
-my courage. I think I have an opportunity of proving it. This noisy fellow
-offends me; you shall see me thrash him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What—Skogan—the cudgeller—Jack?” gasped Shallow, in
-delighted astonishment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pray you, some of you ask him to read his verses. I will find fault with
-them.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Said I not—said I not?” said Shallow, in ecstasies.
-</p>
-<p>
-One Master Thomas Doit, a law student, of Staffordshire, stepped forward,
-and in respectful tones begged the poet to favour him with a hearing of
-his verses.
-</p>
-<p>
-The poet required no second bidding. Tucking his cudgel under his arm, he
-cleared his voice and began—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Oh, royal Edmund, son of Edward Third,——”
- </pre>
-<p>
-“You lie.” said Jack, “he’s the fourth son.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Who spoke?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I did.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Wilt be whipp’d, boy?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ay—when thou goest a week without.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He can do it! He can do it!” cried Shallow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Go on with the verses, Master Skogan,” said the bystanders. “He is but
-young.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“True. Boy, another time——”
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“‘Though fourth in line—”
- </pre>
-<p>
-“I told him so,” said Jack. “He steals my very words.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How now? cock-sparrow!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How now? hen-gull!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Send thy father here for a cudgelling.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He sent me here to look for one,” said Jack, “and I am not to go away
-without seeing one given.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Take care, lad,” said Skogan, raising his stick. Jack, seizing a cudgel
-from a bystander, knocked it out of his hand; and, following the movement
-up with a smart tingling blow across the bully’s face, threw off his
-doublet nimbly and claimed a ring.
-</p>
-<p>
-Skogan declined the combat on the score of his adversary’s youth.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Here’s a fellow!” said Jack. “I heard him, drunk, last night challenge a
-score men—knowing well not one of them knew the use of a cudgel:
-now, sober, he fears to meet a boy who does.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You must needs give him a lesson, Skogan,” suggested a bystander, who was
-rather tired of waiting for the princes and wanted some amusement; “or
-farewell to your repute.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then just one bout to silence him,” said Skogan, stripping.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/067s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="067s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/067.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/067m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-The lists were soon formed and orthodox weapons provided. The combatants
-took their places. Master Skogan convulsed the bystanders by pretending to
-be terribly frightened. He shook all over in the most humorous manner;
-rejected half-a-dozen cudgels as not stout enough for so terrible an
-occasion; affected to look for a soft place to tumble upon; and hoped that
-some kind gentleman would have compassion on his wife and family in case
-of fatal accidents. The cudgel play commenced, and the spectators still
-laughed; but the mortifying conviction was soon forced upon Skogan that
-they were no longer laughing with, but at him. The poet had assumed a
-nonchalant patronising air, as who should say, “We will get this
-ridiculous business swiftly and mercifully over,” which Jack imitated to
-the life, continuing, indeed, to burlesque every one of his adversary’s
-movements throughout the encounter. Our hero parried every blow, easily.
-Skogan’s jaunty smile deepened into rather an ill-favoured grin. He had
-made the serious mistake of underrating his opponent’s powers. Jack, on
-the other hand, had well calculated the weight of the peril he was
-incurring, and now brought all his nerve, muscle, and intellect to bear in
-meeting it. He depended on a chance for a peculiar stroke—one of Wat
-Smith’s teaching—of which he had seen Skogan to be ignorant. An
-opportunity for this offered itself. It was seized like lightning. A sharp
-ringing sound was heard. Skogan let fall his sword-arm, put his left hand
-up to his brow, and tried an unconcerned smile, as though the thing were a
-mere nothing, in the midst of which facial effort he fell senseless on his
-back with a fractured skull.
-</p>
-<p>
-This was the manner in which Jack Falstaff broke Skogan’s head at the
-Court Gate.
-</p>
-<p>
-A loud shout burst from the spectators. Shallow wept tears of rapture—mingled
-with envy.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, if I could but do it! If I could but have such a thing to talk of! If
-I could but once say I had broken a head like that!” he exclaimed
-frantically.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A word with you, sir,” said a rough, shockheaded fellow, drawing him
-aside confidentially.
-</p>
-<p>
-A flourish of trumpets announced the approach of the princes. Jack’s
-companions flocked round him, overwhelming him with congratulations and
-apologies. Jack affected to treat the whole matter lightly; the knowledge
-that he had more than recovered his lost ground enabled him to still the
-beatings of his heart. He had fought with wondrous coolness and apparent
-enjoyment, but had, in reality, suffered all the agonies which a keen
-intellect must always experience in an encounter with serious physical
-danger.
-</p>
-<p>
-Skogan was carried away to be plastered. It is to be hoped his poem would
-keep till the next birthday.
-</p>
-<p>
-By the time Sir Thomas Mowbray came out with the rest of the courtiers, he
-found his page fully equipped, and ready to accompany him to the tiltyard
-in Smithfield.
-</p>
-<p>
-When they reached the ground, as Jack was struggling with a crowd of men
-at arms to get through the narrow gateway, he felt his sleeve pulled from
-behind, and an eager voice cried—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Jack, Jack! don’t go in yet. Look here; I’ve fought too!”
- </p>
-<p>
-He looked round and saw Master Robert Shallow in a high state of
-excitement, dragging a man by the collar, whose head was bound with a
-cloth streaming with blood.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Look, Jack! mind, say you saw it. Sampson Stockfish his name is—he’s
-a fruiterer—I made him come here to show his broken head, or I
-threatened him with another.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Another head?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I pray you let me go, sir,” whined the wounded man; “you have hurt me
-sore enough for one day.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There! you hear him confess,” crowed the delighted Shallow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Out of the way, thou cobbler’s end,” said an authoritative voice. “What
-dost thou here among the Marshal’s men?”
- </p>
-<p>
-And Prince John of Gaunt, striding through the gateway, laid his sheathed
-sword across Master Shallow’s head—reducing that warlike gentleman
-to the same condition as his blood-stained victim.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow was led away howling, by the magnanimous Stockfish.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Why what eelskin had’st thou got hold of there, Jack?” inquired the
-prince, looking after the discomfited champion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A Gloucestershire lamprey,” answered Jack. “Your highness would have done
-well to kill him, for truly he puts your title in danger.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How so?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Why your highness is no more Gaunt than he is. He fairly beats your
-name.”
- </p>
-<p>
-When Master Sampson Stockfish and his conqueror were alone, the former
-very considerately took the bandage from his own forehead—previously
-wiping off the superfluous sheep’s blood—and bound it round his
-employer’s head, as having more need of it. He then requested to be paid,
-as he wanted to get home.
-</p>
-<p>
-“True; a silver mark it was, I think,” said Shallow, who was not much
-hurt, handing the sum he named.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A silver mark. Go hang! I’ll have forty.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Why it was thine own plan and bargain.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“All’s one for that. I must have forty if I’m to keep counsel. If not, out
-comes the whole tale.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow compromised the matter for twenty marks on the present
-occasion,—and, by occasional subsequent fees, was enabled to bind
-Stockfish over to permanent silence. He boasted incessantly of his
-victory, which he eventually led himself to believe he had gained.
-Moreover, he would have considered any price cheap for an adventure which
-led to his making the acquaintance of that renowned prince, John of Gaunt,
-with whom he was wont to declare he had enjoyed a most interesting
-conversation upon the political and theological questions of the day.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-BOOK THE SECOND, 1381.
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-I. HOW MR. JOHN FALSTAFF CAME INTO HIS PROPERTY, AND WAS KNIGHTED
-</h2>
-<h3>
-BY KING RICHARD THE SECOND.
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HERE is nothing in the latter and more publicly known portion of Sir John
-Falstaff’s career to make it surprising that he should have approached the
-middle period of life without having acquired greater nominal celebrity
-than that afforded by the registers of retail traders. Such greatness as
-he afterwards attained to, having for its foundation a profound knowledge
-of mankind, must needs absorb the study of a long life to develop its
-Aloetie splendours.
-</p>
-<p>
-Therefore, having clearly established my hero’s antecedents, and seen him
-launched on the sea of life, I might fairly take leave of him for many
-years to come, as of an adventurous emigrant crossing the ocean, with the
-perils of whose long voyage we have nothing to do, and who will only claim
-more attention when he shall have cleared his forest and founded his
-colony on the other side of the world.
-</p>
-<p>
-But it must not be forgotten that we are treating of a knight and a
-gentleman of the olden time. There are two events in the life of such a
-person which, injustice to chivalry and noble birth, the historian may not
-pass over: these are,
-</p>
-<p>
-1. His accession to the inheritance of his ancestors.
-</p>
-<p>
-2. The time and manner of his receiving the dignity of knighthood.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir Gilbert Falstaff, Knight, was gathered to his fathers early in the
-year 1381. The tidings of the melancholy event were conveyed to his son
-and successor, then residing in the English town of Calais, by a faithful
-attendant returning from England, whither he had been despatched on his
-young master’s business.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master John Falstaff, at this period, occupied apartments in one of His
-Majesty’s fortresses in Calais, in favour of which he had vacated an
-official suite in the Government-house of the same town. Here, for some
-months, he had discharged the duties of an onerous but subordinate post,
-wholly unsuited to his peculiar genius. Even at that early period the
-Government of England was celebrated for a habit of injudicious selection
-in the matter of public appointments—putting usually the right man
-in the wrong place, and <i>vice versa</i>. Falstaff—burning to
-distinguish himself in the service of his native land (and having his own
-private reasons for wishing to do so at a convenient distance)—exerted
-his court interest to obtain a colonial appointment. At the head of an
-invading army, or in command of a beleaguered city, there is no reason to
-doubt that he would have acquitted himself with satisfaction to all
-parties; but, Government having nothing more suitable to offer him than a
-deputy-collectorship of the wool duties (for which, it is true, he was
-certainly qualified on the grounds accepted by British Governments in all
-ages—his mother’s father having been a wool-stapler), what could be
-expected but a directly contrary result? The exact deficit in the Falstaff
-accounts has not been preserved in the public records. But there is no
-reason to doubt that it was on a scale commensurate with the greatness of
-our hero’s soul, inasmuch as, after a few months’ probation, an intimation
-was forwarded to him that his resignation of office would be accepted. It
-is at least probable that the nation required his services in a wider and
-more honourable field. But of this we have no means of judging accurately,
-an adverse destiny placing it out of the ex-deputy-collector’s power to
-avail himself of any such pending advantages. Adverse destiny, in his
-case, took the shape of an Anglo-French jailer.
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff, in fact, like all men born to sway large destinies, had a lavish
-disregard of trifling expenditure. Like Julius Cæsar, he contracted debts;
-that is to say, as much like Julius Cæsar as possible—our hero
-lacking that arch-insolvent’s facilities of obtaining credit. With two
-millions of somebody else’s money (about the amount, I believe, on the
-Julian schedule), what would not Falstaff have done? It is difficult to
-answer. It may be safely stated, however, that it was from no fault of
-John Falstaff’s that Julius Cæsar had the best of him in this respect.
-</p>
-<p>
-At any rate, having started this historic parallel between these two great
-men, we may bring it to a triumphant close by stating that young Falstaff,
-like young Cæsar, was now a captive in the hands of pirates and waiting
-for his ransom.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was in search of this talisman that the faithful attendant, alluded to
-in the opening of the present chapter, had been despatched, on a somewhat
-forlorn hope, to England. The faithful attendant returned without it,
-having no better substitute to offer than the tidings of Sir Gilbert’s
-death. The prodigal but philosophic son declared, with a sigh, that, under
-the circumstances, he must try and make that do.
-</p>
-<p>
-He sent for the pirate chieftains,—in modern English, for his
-detaining creditors,—a Flemish clothier and a Lombard money-lender.
-He informed them of the death of his obdurate parent, with whom he had
-been at variance for years, but of whose princely estate he was now the
-undisputed possessor. Now was the time for him to show his gratitude to
-the real friends who had stood by him in the hour of need; who had been
-long-suffering in his extravagance; lenient even in their tardy severity.
-What could he do for them?
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pay us our money,” suggested the matter-of-fact traders.
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff treated the proposition with disdain. Of course he would pay them—a
-dozen times over if they liked. But he would be still in their debt. No;
-nothing would satisfy him but that his dear friends should accompany him
-to England, to assist him in taking possession of his inheritance.
-Falstaff Castle was close to the coast—they might see it almost on a
-fine day. He would want their assistance in refurnishing his ancestral
-halls. He must take them to court, and introduce them to his bosom friend
-the young king, with whom (now the unnaturally adverse court influence of
-his father was removed) he was all powerful. In a word, the heir of
-Falstaff would not be able to enjoy his fortune unless he secured that of
-two friends at the same time.
-</p>
-<p>
-It is no discredit to the intellectual powers of these simple traders that
-they suffered themselves to be won over by the eloquence of their
-greathearted captive. They agreed to release him from durance—previously
-securing themselves by the most terribly binding documents (such as our
-hero, at all periods of his life, was ready to sign with the greatest
-alacrity)——and to accompany him to England.
-</p>
-<p>
-In those days the traveller crossed from Calais to Dover in an open
-galley; that is to say, when he crossed at all: for, in a large proportion
-of cases, the galley went down about half way and gave the traveller a
-premature opportunity of studying the engineering difficulties of the
-proposed submarine railway.
-</p>
-<p>
-In a still greater frequency of cases the traveller waited several days at
-Calais for a fair wind. When it came, the gallant rowers hoisted what they
-called a sail, stuck an image of the Virgin in the prow of the boat,
-prayed to it—and became sick like men.
-</p>
-<p>
-Jack and his faithful attendant, being Britons, and endowed with that
-peculiar native salt in their veins for which the analytical chemists have
-as yet found no name, were good sailors. The Fleming and the Lombard were
-bad ones, and howled dismally at the bottom of the boat. The crew were
-Frenchmen. No further explanation of their condition is necessary.
-</p>
-<p>
-When the galley had made about three parts of her course, our hero’s
-faithful attendant broke silence with—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Don’t you think now would be about the time, sir?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What for?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What for! why, to pitch them overboard, of course.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Falstaff wheeled suddenly round on his seat, and looked his faithful
-attendant full in the face. There was approval in the scrutiny, mingled
-with compassion.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And do you suppose, young man,” the master inquired, with a transparent
-assumption of severity, “that I am going to be guilty of such an act of
-treachery?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then what the plague else did you bring ‘em here for?” was the sulky
-reply. “They’ve got your bonds in their pockets. The sailors are all sick—none
-of ‘em would be a bit the wiser.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Away, tempter!” said Jack, with twinkling eyes. “How dare you lure an
-innocent youth to his destruction? <i>Avaunt</i> thee, fiend! <i>Vade
-retro Sathanas!</i>”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Come! I’m not going to stand being called out of names.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then hearken to the voice of Wisdom. Suppose I were to commit the breach
-of confidence and gratitude you so insidiously propose, and, in your own
-words, pitch these worthy gentlemen overboard. What then?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, it would be a matter between ourselves and the lobsters.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And pray, sir, in that case—who is to pay our expenses to London?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The faithful attendant opened his eyes as wide as they would go, which was
-not very far, and a grin of intelligence dawned upon his usually stolid
-countenance. Mutual esteem once more reigned between the master and
-servant.
-</p>
-<p>
-A word as to this faithful attendant. Two years ago, having borrowed
-sufficient money for his continental outfit, and to liquidate such debts
-as might militate against his departure, our hero, with a serene mind and
-an easy conscience, had entered St. Paul’s Church in search of a serving
-man. A certain aisle in the cathedral was at that period the central
-exchange or rendezvous for unhired domestics. A servant out of place would
-not attempt such profanation in the present day. In fact, a beneficent and
-considerate Dean and Chapter have wisely placed it beyond the means of
-such a person to do so.
-</p>
-<p>
-Our hero passed a great many candidates for employment, some of whom he
-rejected as being all fool, others as too exclusively rogue. Neither of
-which elements, unmixed, would suit him. At length he came upon a stern
-looking young man, with straight thick eyebrows, a gash for a mouth, and a
-nose vermilion beyond his years. The red pose argued chronic and perennial
-thirst. This, in its turn, was suggestive of easily-purchased fidelity.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My friend,” said Jack to him of the proboscis; “I like your looks.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You ought to,” replied the salamandrine; “<i>I have been twelve years
-looking after you</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was little Peter! subsequently nicknamed Bardolph, in honour of a fan
-cied resemblance to a nobleman of the Court. What wonderful vicissitudes
-Peter may have undergone since the memorable evening when he straddled
-away from home in that very small leathern suit we may not pause to
-inquire. He was promptly retained by his old leader, whom he never quitted
-alive. Peter took kindly to the name of Bardolph; and, in the course of
-time, believed himself allied to the noble family from which it had been
-derived.
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff and his travelling companions touched English soil between Dover
-and Deal. Who knows—for history delights in such coincidences—but
-it may have been on the very spot where some fourteen hundred years
-previously, that very identical Julius Cæsar, between whom and our hero so
-many points of resemblance have been established, landed on a similar
-errand—only with a few more people to back him?
-</p>
-<p>
-The Fleming and the Lombard were put on shore alive, to their considerable
-astonishment. Bardolph was despatched to the nearest inn, on the coast, of
-which he knew every inch, in search of horses.
-</p>
-<p>
-Our hero reviewed his position.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I don’t quite know what to do with them, now I have got them,” he
-meditated. “I am afraid they won’t find the Falstaff Estates quite up to
-my representations. I must make it out that I have been robbed by servants
-during my exile. At any rate, one thing is decided. They don’t go WITHOUT
-PAYING FOE IT.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Bardolph returned running, with yellow cheeks, purple lips, and a blue
-nose,—altogether a remarkable facial chromatic phenomenon.
-</p>
-<p>
-His tidings were startling.
-</p>
-<p>
-The lads of Kent had risen in open rebellion, and were devastating the
-land with fire and sword. They had burnt and sacked every gentleman’s seat
-in the county, having hanged such of the proprietors as they could lay
-hands on, and were now marching on to London. Horses, shelter, or
-provisions were out of the question.
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff was delighted. Had he been Destiny itself, he could scarcely have
-pre-ordained things more in accordance with his present wishes. He
-mastered his real emotion, and counterfeited another. He tore his hair,
-and threw himself writhing and moaning on the beach.
-</p>
-<p>
-His visitors were naturally curious to know what had happened.
-</p>
-<p>
-The matter was this, he told them—when he could collect his
-scattered thoughts:—he was a ruined man. The peasantry were in arms—had
-declared themselves against the landowners. His ancestral castle had
-doubtless, ere this, perished in the flames. Nothing remained for him but
-a nameless grave, which he would thank his companions to dig for him on
-the beach.
-</p>
-<p>
-The commercial mind is sceptical in all ages. The Fleming and the Lombard—not
-by any means sure that they had acted wisely in the first instance in
-trusting themselves to the mercies of their plausible debtor—became
-doubly suspicious. They held a brief consultation apart, the result of
-which was a somewhat lugubrious proposal that they should proceed
-experimentally to Dover.
-</p>
-<p>
-Towards Dover they walked; Falstaff mechanically yielding to his
-conductors, as one whom despair had robbed of volition.
-</p>
-<p>
-Remarkable as the statement may read, it soon proved that Bardolph had
-spoken the truth. Smoking homesteads, trampled crops, with here and there
-a smouldering rick or coppice, too well corroborated his story. Scared and
-crouching figures, emerging from concealment, warned the travellers not to
-approach the town as they valued their lives. Numbers of the rebels,
-maddened with success, were still in possession of the neighbourhood,
-vowing destruction to every man with a delicate skin and a whole coat over
-it.
-</p>
-<p>
-What was to be done?
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff, magnanimously forgetting his own troubles in his anxiety for his
-guests, suggested that the latter should return to whence they came,
-leaving him to his fate. In another hour it might be too late. Their boat
-would be seized.
-</p>
-<p>
-Not if the commercial gentlemen knew it. If every rebel in ten thousand
-rebels had been in ten parts, and every part a rebel, they would have
-faced the entire insurgent camp rather than those terrible waves a second
-time in the same day. Besides, the thing was out of the question. The
-gallant crew—including the body servants of the two merchants—learning
-that plunder was the order of the day, had hastened in divers directions
-across country to enrol themselves under the national banner like the
-truest imaginable Britons. The unlucky foreigners begged of our hero not
-to desert them, promising that, if he would see them safely through the
-present difficulty, he should have no cause to complain of their—ahem!—leniency.
-</p>
-<p>
-John winked—aside; and repressed an inclination to execute, there,
-on the beach, what might have anticipated the invention of hornpipes by
-some centuries.
-</p>
-<p>
-He wrung the hands of his two friends, and vowed that, at all hazards, he
-would stand by them. Still he was at a loss to decide for the present
-emergency.——
-</p>
-<p>
-The merchants suggested that they should proceed to the Falstaff Estate.
-It was possible that the incendiary spark had not yet reached so far. The
-fact was, these two gentlemen were rather anxious for a glimpse of the
-princely domain, of which they had heard such glowing accounts, under any
-circumstances. Even its blazing ruins would be a consolation, as proving
-that they had not been utterly taken in.
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff appeared to brighten at the proposal. Yes, he declared, there was
-hope in it. The people had been wronged and oppressed, and there was some
-excuse for their violence in certain quarters. But when he reflected what
-indulgent, beneficent masters—if, indeed, parents were not the
-fitter word—his ancestors had always been to their tenants:—no!
-for the sake of human nature, he could not believe in such black
-ingratitude as to suppose Falstaff had come to any harm. It would still be
-in his power to give his friends a cordial welcome. He led the way almost
-cheerfully, deploring only that the journey must be performed on foot.
-</p>
-<p>
-At the first opportunity he whispered Bardolph, “Slip on before us, borrow
-a horse, steal an ass, or run like mad. The lads may have spared the old
-den for my sake. If you find it standing, set a light to every room. I’ll
-detain these gulls so as to give you time. Burn every stick and rag except
-Wykeham’s tower. Fire won’t touch that.” Exit Bardolph in advance at a
-brisk trot.
-</p>
-<p>
-His master explained.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have sent him on to herald us, and to meet us with horses; if, as I
-still hope, honesty and good faith be not extinct upon earth.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Our hero was taken ill frequently on the road; the result of his agitation
-and irrepressible misgivings. It was found necessary to solace him with
-repose by the wayside, and refreshments from the private stores of his
-companions.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, my friends!” said Jack, in a voice wherein gratitude struggled
-bravely against exhaustion; “How shall I ever repay you for this kindness?
-And if it should be too late—too late!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Come! come! Don’t give way. We cannot have far to go now. We shall soon
-know the worst.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“True! let me strive to be a man, and remember that I am answerable for
-the safety of others.”
- </p>
-<p>
-They reached Maldyke, six miles from Falstaff.
-</p>
-<p>
-Here the sight of a goodly castellated mansion, gutted and smoking in the
-centre of a forest of charcoal, reduced our hero to a state of
-prostration. He threw himself on his face, imploring, as a last act of
-friendship, that his companions should despatch him with their knives.
-</p>
-<p>
-The gateway of this mansion was situated on the public road. From the
-raised portcullis of this gateway swung a human body, dead, and
-half-naked.
-</p>
-<p>
-Yesterday, this estate had belonged to Sir Simon Ballard. To-day, Sir
-Simon was its sole remaining occupant. But the rebels had hanged him by
-the neck, and he was dead.
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff groaned piteously.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Rouse, man, rouse!” said the Fleming. “Surely this is not your castle?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It’s—it’s—” sobbed Jack, spasmodically; “it’s one of them!!!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Then, falling upon his knees before the corpse of his old enemy, he
-clasped his hands, and exclaimed, piteously,
-</p>
-<p>
-“My poor uncle! my poor uncle George! And is this the reward for your
-devotion to my interests?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The two merchants led him away compassionately.
-</p>
-<p>
-For several roods they passed through the crops and woodlands of the
-ill-fated Ballard. The rebels had spared nothing.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You see, gentlemen,” said Falstaff, appealing to the devastation on
-either hand, “to what they have reduced me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-There could be no harm in Jack’s assuming right of property in the defunct
-Ballard’s possessions. In the first place, those possessions were no
-longer particularly worth having. In the second, it were unreasonable to
-suppose that their late proprietor could possibly have any further use for
-them.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Fleming and the Lombard felt extremely sorry for their unfortunate
-guide and debtor. Nay; they even hoped that, in the upshot of things, he
-might prove still to be in the possession of something valuable, as an
-excuse for their assisting him with further advances.
-</p>
-<p>
-As they neared the Falstaff Valley, Jack’s uneasiness increased visibly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is my home, gentlemen,” he explained, “where I first saw light.* It
-may be that they have spared me that. I scarcely dare hope it. But we
-shall know anon.”
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* See Book I. Chapter I. in explanation of this glaring
-breach of veracity.
-</pre>
-<p>
-They reached the summit of the hill overlooking the valley,—down
-which, fourteen years ago, Sir Thomas Mowbray, now Earl of Nottingham, had
-come, laughing and cantering with his friend Maître Jean, the Chronicler,
-now curé of Lestines, and a most respectable clergyman.
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff gave a rapid glance in the direction of his paternal mansion,
-then drew a long breath.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Enough! I know the worst,” he said; and seemed all the easier for the
-knowledge.
-</p>
-<p>
-Not a trace of Falstaff Castle was standing except William of Wykeham’s
-Tower. The rest was mere smouldering dunghill.
-</p>
-<p>
-Bardolph had been spared the crime of arson. The rebels had been before
-him. He had found the castle in the state I have described it, and——
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Lambert, the Reve, hanging by the heels from a beech tree, with his
-skull cleft. The travellers discovered the faithful messenger
-contemplating this edifying spectacle with mingled philosophy and
-satisfaction.
-</p>
-<p>
-At the sight of the steward’s corpse Falstaff uttered a piercing cry, and
-fled.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Follow him!” cried Bardolph, eagerly (he had caught and appreciated a
-flying wink from his broken-hearted patron), “or he will do himself a
-mischief.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The ruined landowner, after some search, was discovered in the orchard
-with his girdle slung to the arm of a pear tree. Into a noose, at the
-nether extremity of this, he was about to slip his neck, when his privacy
-was invaded. The rescuing party uttered a cry of thanksgiving for their
-timely arrival. They needed not to have hurried themselves. Our hero’s
-inherent good breeding would have induced him to wait for them under any
-circumstances.
-</p>
-<p>
-The merchants tried verbal consolation.
-</p>
-<p>
-Futile in the extreme! The intending suicide assured them that they had
-but frustrated his purpose for a time. He could have borne the loss of
-home and fortune—his friends might judge, from the sole remaining
-tower, of what a dwelling the rebels had deprived him (though, of course,
-they could have no conception of the extent of the family jewels, plate,
-&c.); but what he could not bear was the sight of his faithful
-steward, hung by the heels like an unclean beast, doubtless as a
-punishment for his fidelity!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Bardolph!” sobbed the ruined man. “How we loved him!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Don’t speak of it, sir!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Bardolph himself was so overcome that he did not venture to show his face,
-which he concealed within his palms. The latter, it should be stated, were
-more than capacious enough for the purpose.
-</p>
-<p>
-“He loved you, Bardolph!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Like a mother, sir. But don’t!”
- </p>
-<p>
-The Flemish merchant then tried vinous consolation from his private flask.
-Falstaff rejected it. Bardolph didn’t.
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff—calmed in a measure, but determined—begged of his
-friends to make the best of their way to London, and leave him to die. He
-had now nothing left in the world but his sword. That, he was now too
-brokenhearted to turn to advantage. Would they be kind enough to go,
-leaving him their forgiveness for the trouble he had so unwittingly caused
-them. That was all! Stay—another boon—a dying man’s request.
-Would they promise to be kind to his faithful Bardolph, the last of a
-thousand devoted retainers?
-</p>
-<p>
-“Don’t, sir!” that valuable relic gasped, kicking out his right leg
-spasmodically.
-</p>
-<p>
-Now, the Lombard creditor, in spite of his being a trader in money, was a
-good-natured fellow. He hit upon a third and more efficacious means of
-consolation—to wit, the pecuniary.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come, Master Falstaff’,” he said kindly, in the cosmopolite French of the
-period. “Things are not at the worst. You are young and strong, and, with
-a good name to back you, may recover lost ground. Who ever knew an
-outbreak of peasants last over a few days? If a few hundred marks will set
-you on your legs for a time, they are yours; and no questions about the
-past till you are ready to answer them. Remember you have promised to
-bring us to London and show us the Court. We are in your hands.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Jack leaped to his feet and dried his eyes. He was rebuked. This was no
-time for selfish considerations. His eyes were opened.
-</p>
-<p>
-“When I reflect,” he said, “that, without me, your lives are not safe;
-that those fierce Kentish rebels will spare nobody, unless guaranteed by
-the safe conduct of a true man of Kent; for, after all, they must respect
-my presence—come, gentlemen, I will see you safe to London, and the
-young king shall hear of your devotion.”
- </p>
-<p>
-What a good sort of fellow this poor ruined, broken-hearted Jack Falstaff
-was after all!
-</p>
-<p>
-They led him away from the scene of devastation. At a few paces from the
-ruins, he declared he must return for a minute or two. His friendly
-gaolers, for so they had constituted themselves, looked at each other. Was
-their prisoner to be trusted alone?
-</p>
-<p>
-“Gentlemen,” said Jack, with much earnestness, and real tears starting
-from his eyes, “I give you my honour, as a man and a soldier, that I will
-return immediately.”
- </p>
-<p>
-They let him go, and waited for him.
-</p>
-<p>
-Jack scrambled hastily over a heap of seething fragments, what had once
-formed the right wing of his father’s dwelling, and found himself in a
-patch of ground sloping down towards the stagnant moat.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was a wilderness of charred weeds. Nothing remained to tell that the
-spot had once been a dainty garden.
-</p>
-<p>
-Yes. One thing. A hardy Kentish rose-bush still asserted its life above a
-mass of filth, bricks, and potsherds. It bore one flower.
-</p>
-<p>
-Jack tore this fiercely from its stem, and concealed it in his bosom, as
-if he had been stealing a diamond. He hastened to rejoin his companions
-with the most unconcerned look he could assume.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What’s afoot now?” growled Bardolph, <i>sotto voce</i>. The worthy
-henchman was merely anxious to catch the new order of the day, if any.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Hold your tongue!” said his master angrily, and looking very much ashamed
-of himself, “Don’t speak to me!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lady Alice Falstaff had been dead four years. The long loved son who
-should have closed her bonny blue eyes, was away at the time;—never
-mind where, or what doing. The last flower of her pretty garden withered
-and dried up beneath Jack’s doublet. He never noticed its final
-disappearance: you see his time was so much occupied.
-</p>
-<p>
-This was the way in which Master John Falstaff came into his property, the
-residue of which he disposed of some few weeks later for the price of
-three new suits and a couple of horses, but which he never ceased to speak
-of as a princely inheritance, of which the troubles in 1381 had deprived
-him. Of course he found great advantage in this; for such is the
-inestimable value of rank and possessions, that the mere recollection of
-them—nay, the bare assertion of imaginary claims to them—will
-often procure for a gentleman credit and esteem.
-</p>
-<p>
-The manner of Sir John Falstaff’s attaining to the honour of knighthood,
-is a sequel to the same adventure.
-</p>
-<p>
-He conducted his foreign guests faithfully towards London, as he had
-promised. On their way, they were beset by several companies of rebels,
-amongst whose numbers Jack recognised old acquaintances, to whom he made
-himself known, and who were glad to let him and his company pass free, for
-the sake of old times. On all such occasions our hero was careful to have
-it impressed upon the merchants that they owed their safety entirely to
-his countenance; and the gratitude of those poor travellers knew no
-bounds. Still, great precautions were necessary. In the first place, Jack
-counselled them strongly to destroy all written papers they might have
-about them; assuring them, that of all public evils, the men of Kent
-looked upon the art of writing as the greatest, considering it a Norman
-invention, to which they owed the bulk of their misfortunes. Admitting the
-policy of this precaution, the merchants destroyed Jack’s bonds before his
-eyes. Next to manuscripts, he assured them the most dangerous thing they
-could possibly carry about with them was money. He courageously took upon
-himself the onus of bearing their purses for them, of the contents of
-which he distributed a considerable portion as <i>largesse</i> to the
-insurgents. The purses were faithfully restored to their owners.
-</p>
-<p>
-At Blackheath our travellers came up with the body of the insurgent camp,
-commanded by Jack’s old master of fence, Wat Smith, who had assumed the
-name of Tyler. Here it was Jack’s good fortune to rescue the Princess of
-Wales, the young king’s mother, from the fury of the malcontents, whom
-their honest but mistaken leader was unable to control. Jack asserted
-himself as a man of Kent, and claimed immunity for the princess as a
-Kentish woman—for had she not been known in the heyday of her beauty
-as the Fair Maid of Kent? Was she not the widow of the Black Prince, who
-had humbled the pride of the haughty Frenchmen, to whom it was notorious
-that all such evils as taxes, game laws, bad harvests, and expensive beer,
-were attributable? The princess, he assured them, had just been on a
-pilgrimage to Canterbury, to pray at the shrine of St. Thomas à Beckett
-for an extension of the peerage, by which every man of the age of
-twenty-one would be entitled to landed property and a seat at His
-Majesty’s council. In conclusion, he would simply state, that, in order to
-prove her sisterly affection, the princess was anxious to kiss them all
-round—a proposition whereat the populace was highly amused, and to
-which the princess readily assented, only too glad to be let off so
-easily.
-</p>
-<p>
-Thus did Jack Falstaff rescue the Princess of Wales from imminent danger,
-at no greater cost to her highness than a little sacrifice of personal
-dignity, and much subsequent expenditure of soap and water—all of
-which I have told briefly, seeing that the main incidents of the scene
-(doubtless taken down from the words of Falstaff himself) have been
-already chronicled by our old friend Maître Jean Froissart, curate of
-Lestines—and from his cheerful pages copied into the books of Hume
-and others.
-</p>
-<p>
-For this good service to the royal family was John Falstaff knighted, on
-the same day which saw the like honour conferred upon one William
-Walworth, a fishmonger, for knocking out the misguided brains of poor Wat
-Smith—a much honester man than himself. Jack witnessed the
-perpetration of this murderous act of snobbishness, and took a deeply
-rooted dislike to Sir William Walworth ever afterwards.
-</p>
-<p>
-Wat Tyler did not die unavenged. Sir John Falstaff dealt with Sir William
-Walworth for fish. When Walworth sent in his bill, he began to understand
-the meaning of Nemesis.
-</p>
-<p>
-Bardolph greatly distinguished himself in the sacking of London by the
-Kentish rebels, several of whom he had the honour of bringing to justice
-on the pacification of society.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-BOOK THE THIRD, 1410.
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-I. FOR THE MOST PART A TREATISE ON HEROES AND KNIGHTS-ERRANT.
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HY should we call Time old, when we constantly find him playing tricks
-like a schoolboy? Here we have him at the beginning of the fifteenth
-century, amusing himself by rolling Sir John Falstaff down a hill, which
-men have agreed to call Life, like a snowball—Sir John getting
-rounder, and bigger, and whiter, at every push.
-</p>
-<p>
-And now we approach that period in our hero’s life, when his acts are
-public history. Our task grows lighter, our responsibility heavier.
-Hitherto we have had to treat merely of Achilles in girl’s petticoats,
-Cæsar at school, Cromwell at the mash-tub, Bonaparte besieging snow
-castles. Now we are in sight of our hero’s Troy, Rubicon, Marston Moor,
-Toulon—whatever the reader pleases.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff will next appear in these pages as the ripe full-blown
-Falstaff of Shakspeare, the fat knight <i>par excellence</i>, the hero of
-Gadshill and of Shrewsbury; on the eve of the former of which great
-engagements we are supposed to resume the thread of our narrative.
-</p>
-<p>
-And here it may be as well that the historian and his reader should at
-once understand each other as to the purport of this work.
-</p>
-<p>
-It is impossible that a man should take the pains of research and
-compilation necessary for a voluminous biography without the preliminary
-inspiration of deep sympathy with, and exalted admiration for the
-character of his subject. This is, at any rate, indispensable to the
-satisfactory execution of his task. None but a man with a turn for such
-achievements as usually result in solitary confinement could have written
-the “Life of Robinson Crusoe.” The “Newgate Calendar” would not be the
-work it is, had not the last and present centuries been prolific in
-writers who, under a trifling depression of circumstances, might have
-changed places with their heroes.
-</p>
-<p>
-I do not mean to say, that had I lived in the fifteenth century I should
-have been a Sir John Falstaff. Morally, in his position, I should have cut
-as sorry a figure as, physically, in his garments. Boswells need not be
-Johnsons. Sympathy and admiration, I repeat, are the necessary
-qualifications. I sympathise with, and admire the heroic character as
-developed in all ages; and I look upon Sir John Falstaff as the greatest
-hero of his own epoch.
-</p>
-<p>
-Earthly greatness, like everything else to which the same adjective
-applies, is comparative—to be measured only by besetting
-difficulties.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Italian captive, who blots down his autobiography on fragments of old
-linen, with his forefinger nail nibbed into a pen, and dipped in an
-exasperatingly gritty fluid of soot and water, is not to be tested by the
-same severe rules of criticism as the literary patrician, writing in his
-well filled library, to the mellifluous gurgle of his eastern pipe, and
-with every advantage that Bath post, gold pens, Webster’s dictionaries,
-and the most carefully annotated editions of Lindley Murray can offer. As
-just would it be to compare the struggling unguided crudities of a mere
-Shakspeare or Æschylus, with the more polished productions of a modern
-dramatist, in the enjoyment of private means, and a troisième on the
-Boulevard des Italiens, having a running contract with the nearest
-theatrical printer for the earliest first-proof sheets of his
-publications. Mr. Hobbs, the American locksmith, with his multifarious
-means and appliances of picklocks, “tumblers,” and what not, is entitled
-to our respect as a skilful mechanician; but placed in comparison with
-Jack Sheppard and his rusty nail, what becomes of Hobbs and his
-reputation?
-</p>
-<p>
-It has been beautifully observed of Sir John Falstaff (by no less an
-authority than himself), that having more flesh than most men, he should
-be excused for displaying a greater amount of that frailty to which flesh
-is heir. On the other hand, having fewer advantages than most heroes, he
-may easily be proved to have displayed a more than proportionate share of
-heroism.
-</p>
-<p>
-I consider it too late in the day to attempt a new definition of the word
-hero. The world has been agreed for ages upon the only acceptation of
-which it is susceptible,—namely, a man who takes a more than common
-advantage of his fellow-creatures in furtherance of his own interests, or
-those of his nation, county, township, street, row of houses, family, or
-self. Exclusive devotion to the latter interest marks the real hero. But
-this is a demi-god pitch of excellence rarely attained. Even Sir John
-Falstaff fell short of it.
-</p>
-<p>
-Achilles was invulnerable (with a contemptible exception of which the
-oversight is a disgrace to the shoe-making science of the period), and had
-a supernatural mother to look after him. I think little of his heroism.
-Cæsar, as we have seen, had the vast advantage of almost unlimited credit.
-Cromwell had the majority of a nation at his back;—so had Napoleon.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff won a hero’s laurels, and attained a hero’s ends, (which
-may be briefly summed up as the privilege of doing pretty much as you like
-at the expense of other people), by the almost unaided exercise of his
-head and arm. Is he to be blamed for only having gained purses, where
-Cæsar or Alexander pocketed kingdoms? As ridiculous would it be to find
-fault with him for making no greater speed than four miles an hour from
-the disputed field of Gadshill, because swift travelling carriages had not
-been invented. Imagine Napoleon with fifty-eight years and thirty stone of
-flesh at his back, and none but pedestrian means of exit from Moscow
-before him! Who would ever have heard of Waterloo or St. Helena?
-</p>
-<p>
-It may be objected, that of the recognised heroes I have cited for
-comparison, two at least (the last mentioned of the number) were
-originally actuated by the desire to free an oppressed people. Here, even,
-the parallel does not fail. Sir John Falstaff, too, had his subjects and
-followers, whose condition required ameliorating. It is true that these
-were limited in number, and that their most stringent oppressions were the
-severe debtor and creditor laws of the period, aggravated by a season of
-scarcity in the matter of wages. But, as I have said before, every thing
-in this world is comparative.
-</p>
-<p>
-A great deal of misconception as to my hero’s real character, may be
-traced to a deplorable ignorance of the time in which he lived. Many
-celebrated writers on the Falstaffian era (that is to say, people who know
-nothing at all about it) have declared the age of chivalry, in that great
-man’s time, to have been extinct. This has led modern thinkers—who,
-according to the improved lights of their age, look upon speculations on
-the Stock Exchange, joint-stock banks, Samaritan institutions, cheap
-clothing warehouses, the adulteration of coffee, pickles, &c. &c.,
-as the only legitimate means of plundering your neighbours—to apply
-harsh names to the more primitive mode of transferring capital adopted by
-our hero. The fact is, <i>Sir John Falstaff was a knight-errant</i>,—the
-only one of his time, perhaps—the last ray of the setting sun of
-chivalry, if you will; but its most gorgeous! To paraphrase the words of
-an eminent historian, “he was the greatest, as well as the last, of those
-mighty vagabonds who formerly overhauled the purses of the community, and
-rendered the people incapable of paying the necessary expenses of their
-legal prosecution.” He was, in short, the Earl of Warwick of
-knight-errantry.
-</p>
-<p>
-Let us prove our theory by an extension of the parallel lines.
-</p>
-<p>
-The knight-errant of antiquity rode out, armed at all points, to win
-renown. Even in the most Arcadian times, the acquisition of that commodity
-appears to have been contingent on the display of a certain amount of
-spoil, in the shape of weapons, prisoners, ransoms, and so forth. The
-public enemies against whom the knight-errant’s attention was chiefly
-directed, were—
-</p>
-<p>
-1. <i>Giants</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-Which, I take to mean, people who had grown so big as to require more land
-and larger houses to live on and in than their neighbours.
-</p>
-<p>
-2. <i>Magicians</i>; i. e. people rather cleverer than their non-conjuring
-fellow-citizens.
-</p>
-<p>
-It will be admitted that Sir John Falstaff did a great man’s best to
-reduce the influence of these two varieties in his own favour.
-</p>
-<p>
-The knights-errant had their esquires and men-at-arms, who were allowed
-the privilege of fighting under their leader’s banner. It was not
-customary for the chroniclers of the period to mention the names of these
-subordinate personages. The dawn of a more equitable state of things, in
-this respect, may be traced to the time of Falstaff. The names of his
-immediate followers have been honourably preserved.
-</p>
-<p>
-The list is as follows:—
-</p>
-<p>
-1. P. Bardolph, <i>Esquire</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-[The ancient title of Esquire has been recently much abused; being assumed
-by mere writers, painters, and even members of the legal professions.
-Though it originally meant nothing more than “ostler,” in those barbarous
-times, when manual labour was not a positive disgrace, yet, in the heyday
-of chivalry, it was promoted to an equivalent of “bearer of arms.”
- Esquire-ship was the brevet rank of knighthood. The esquire, in order to
-become a knight, having served his lord faithfully for a certain number of
-years, was expected to sit up all night watching the arms by which he had
-earned distinction. These, in the case of Bardolph, adopting the heraldic
-acceptation of the word “arms,”—may be described as a bottle gules,
-on an oak table proper, with a corkscrew trenchant, supported by thirst
-rampant. These Bardolph is known to have sat up watching, not merely all
-one night, but for several hundred nights in succession. And yet this
-gallant soldier never attained to the distinction of knighthood. It is
-true that gentle blood was an indispensable qualification for the honour.
-Bardolph’s blood was not gentle, but of the most obstinately opposite
-description. Coax it as he would, it persisted in flying to his nose.]
-</p>
-<p>
-2. Pistol, <i>Ancient</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-[Ancient—pardon the apparent contradiction of terms,—is a
-comparatively modern expression, certainly not dating further back than
-the time of Falstaff. The term has been corrupted into “Ensign.” In those
-days, the most “ancient” and proved soldier in the ranks was supposed to
-earn the right of bearing the standard of the troop. I say “supposed,”
- because I would not have it imagined that, even then, folks were so
-uncivilised as invariably to promote common people for mere desert. Then,
-as now, a loud tongue, a timely service, or a family connection, were
-excellent substitutes for personal merit. The individual under notice was
-a striking example of this truth. The distinguishing mark of the ancient
-in Pistol’s time, was a white feather.]
-</p>
-<p>
-3. Peto.
-</p>
-<p>
-4. Gadshill.
-</p>
-<p>
-[Two subordinate officers belonging to a class described by the
-convertible terms of “knaves,” “villains,” or “varlets.”]
-</p>
-<p>
-5. Nym, <i>Corporal</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-[The Corporal in our time is distinguished by two stripes. In those days a
-deserving officer was more liberally treated; Corporal Nym having marks to
-show for a thousand. Neither Nym nor Pistol make their appearance till
-rather late in the Falstaff annals; each doubtless having his period of
-time to serve in another sphere of action.]
-</p>
-<p>
-6. Robin, <i>Page.</i>
-</p>
-<p>
-[Also a late acquisition to the Falstaff forces, to be noticed more
-particularly in his fitting place.]
-</p>
-<p>
-The knight-errant had the privilege of putting up, with his retinue, at
-the most hospitable mansion he found in his way.
-</p>
-<p>
-<i>He never paid rent.</i>
-</p>
-<p>
-Formerly this billet system was applied to the mansions of powerful
-barons. A succession of anti-chivalric monarchs had weakened the
-hospitable resources of these establishments. Taverns were their modern
-substitutes. Our hero, even as the commercial traveller in the present day
-(latest type of the knight-errant) is fain to put up with Railway
-carriages, where he once enjoyed his own gig,—accommodated himself
-to the change. But, whatever alteration had taken place around him, he
-himself was still true to the traditions of his order. Yes! John Falstaff
-could lay his hand on his heart and say,—that he never entered the
-meanest hostelry without treating the host and hostess exactly as, two
-hundred years earlier, he would have treated a baron and his lady. The
-favoured mansion at present enjoying his high consideration in this
-respect, was the renowned Boar’s Head Tavern in Eastcheap—of which
-more anon.
-</p>
-<p>
-The knight-errant of old occasionally acted as the tributary vassal to a
-powerful prince. Herein is the vast superiority of Falstaff manifest. He
-made the most powerful prince of his time act as tributary vassal to him.
-</p>
-<p>
-Yes; it is not the smallest laurel in the Falstaffian crown, that our hero
-alone, of all men that ever lived, could boast of having conquered the
-Conqueror of Agincourt. That he did so is unquestionable. The prince
-himself, like a true Englishman, who never knows when he is beaten, was
-not aware of the fact himself. Those who may be inclined to doubt it, are
-requested to study the lives of the two men, and to decide calmly whether,
-in the long run, Sir John Falstaff had or had not decidedly the best of
-His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, afterwards Henry the Fifth.
-</p>
-<p>
-This young prince was a very great prince indeed; and has been justly held
-up as an example to the youth of succeeding generations. His claims to
-admiration are indeed somewhat remarkable, being founded apparently less
-upon the fact of his having proved a respectable character in later life,
-which might be questioned by detractors, than upon that of his having been
-an intolerable reprobate at the outset of his career—as to which
-there can be no doubt whatever. I cannot too highly commend the conduct of
-schoolmasters and writers in encouraging young people to the adoption of
-this effective principle of, what may be termed, Rembrandt Respectability,—a
-little streak of pure light looking so excessively brilliant when touched
-on to a background of utter darkness. Oh! my young friends, declaimers of
-Pinnock and readers of Goldsmith! adopt the Henry the Fifth philosophy as
-you hope to rise and be honoured. Would you aspire to a reputation for
-excessive humanity? In that case, kick your grandmother daily for ten
-years; then suddenly leave off and present the old lady with a new bonnet
-in a neat speech on gentleness. Is sobriety your ambition? Get intoxicated
-two or three times a day up to the age of, let us say thirty. By that time
-you will have sufficiently disgusted your neighbours with your life and
-conduct to make your sudden appearance in the character of a healthful,
-temperate, and well-ordered citizen (which, of course, it will be the
-easiest thing in the world for you to assume at a moment’s notice,
-throwing off your old habits like a harlequin’s cloak), matter of
-startling commentary. Would you shine by the light of your honesty? Then
-begin with robbing orchards, and proceed in due order to shop-tills,
-culminating with bank-safes and plate-baskets. Having thus attracted the
-public attention, you need only send your five pounds to the Chancellor of
-the Exchequer for unpaid Income Tax, and take your place amongst the
-honest folk, who will be delighted to receive you.
-</p>
-<p>
-It is true, that for the modern commoner the same advantages do not exist
-for the safe pursuit of this line of conduct as were enjoyed by the crown
-prince of the fifteenth century. But, for the last time, let it he stated
-that greatness is to be measured by its besetting obstacles. Above all,
-there can be no harm in trying.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales acted on this principle of contrast through life.
-Being a slim, well-built young gentleman, he liked to be seen walking with
-a stout overgrown elderly gentleman like our hero. Knowing he would be a
-king some day, when he would find it as advantageous to be thought an
-honest man as it would be easy to hang anybody who might say he wasn’t, he
-considered that his future would shine all the brighter from present
-companionship with rogues—such as a prejudiced society agreed to
-consider Falstaff and his followers. So Prince Henry studied the first
-crude principles of taxation by plundering his father’s subjects on the
-public roads in company with Sir John Falstaff. And Sir John Falstaff,
-like a sagacious treasurer, had usually the first pickings of the revenues
-thus acquired.
-</p>
-<p>
-Prince Henry, in his princely heart, had a great contempt for Sir John
-Falstaff, whom he looked upon as a mere tool to be thrown aside when no
-longer needed. It is to be feared that he had not properly calculated the
-sharpness of the implement, nor its probable effect upon his own fingers.
-It would have been gall and wormwood to his Royal Highness to know that,
-in the estimation of our philosopher, he ranked no higher than a second
-edition—more neatly got up, and with gilt edges—of Master
-Robert Shallow, formerly of Gray’s Inn, and now of His Majesty’s
-Commission, in the county of Gloucester.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John was willing to be led wherever His Royal Highness pleased, and to
-dance to any tunes of the Prince’s dictation. Only it invariably happened
-that His Royal Highness had to pay the piper!
-</p>
-<p>
-And now we have carefully reviewed our hero’s position; we have
-ascertained the site of his head-quarters, the number of his forces, the
-strength and disposition of his allies. Pegasus, bestridden by the
-historic muse, snorts impatiently for his first feed of warlike beans. Let
-us cling to the tail of the noble animal, and suffer him to drag us (with
-no more than necessary interruptions) to the field of Gadshill. At any
-rate, let us close the chapter; for we shall not come across such a
-splendid classical peroration again in a hurry.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-II. HOW SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, WITH HIS SATELLITES THE PRINCE HENRY...
-</h2>
-<h3>
-AND MR. EDWARD POINS, IN COUNCIL ASSEMBLED, PLANNED THE FAMOUS GADS HILL
-EXPEDITION.
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE reader is invited to assist at a council of war.
-</p>
-<p>
-The scene is a private room in the palace of Westminster. The members
-present are, 1. His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. 2. Sir John
-Falstaff, Knight. The latter gentleman in the chair (which he finds rather
-a tight fit).
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff opened the proceedings by asking His Royal Highness what
-time of the day it was.
-</p>
-<p>
-<i>The Prince of Wales</i>.—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old
-“sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after
-“noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldest
-“truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of day? unless
-“hours were cups of sack and minutes capons?”
- </pre>
-<p>
-For the remainder of His Royal Highness’s speech (the language of which is
-not strictly parliamentary) see Mr. William Shakspeare’s verbatim report;
-where, indeed, all particulars of the meeting are minutely chronicled. It
-is the present writer’s business merely to offer a brief summary.
-</p>
-<p>
-After some general discussion (in the course of which Sir John moved for
-the Abolition of the Punishment of Death for larcenious offences, in the
-ensuing reign, but was induced to withdraw his motion by a promise of
-office under the crown, as public executioner), the meeting proceeded to
-the order of the day.
-</p>
-<p>
-<i>His Royal Highness</i>.—“Where shall we take a purse to-night,
-Jack?”
- </p>
-<p>
-<i>Sir John Falstaff</i>.—“Where thou wilt, lad; I’ll make one: an I
-do not, call me villain and baffle me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Carried <i>nem. con</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-At this juncture, a new member entered the council chamber in the person
-of Master Edward Poins. This was a young gentleman of good family, but bad
-morals; that is to say, for the present. He was one of those loyal natures
-who, in all ages, are to be found attaching themselves instinctively to
-some great man, taking their tone and colour in all things from the
-illustrious model. Mr. Poins cut his hair and his conscience in exact
-imitation of the Prince of Wales. The existing court fashions, as
-established by the Prince, were long hanging sleeves, pointed shoes, late
-hours, intoxication, and roystering. Mr. Poins followed them all with
-scrupulous fidelity; but was quite ready to change them for sad-coloured
-doublets, square toes, early rising, temperance, and respectability, at a
-moment’s notice.
-</p>
-<p>
-The following debate ensued upon the order of the day:
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-Poins.—
-“But my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning by four o’clock, early at Gadshill!
-“There are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings,
-“and traders riding to London with fat purses.” (Hear, from the chair).
-“I have visors for you all, you have horses for yourselves: Gadshill lies to-night
-“in Rochester: I have bespoke supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap; we may
-“do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of
-“crowns: if you will not, tarry at home, and be hanged.”
-
-Sir John Falstaff.—
-“Hear me, Edward; if I tarry at home, and go not, I’ll hang you for going.”
-
-Me. Poins.—
-“You will, chaps?”
-
-Sir John Falstaff.—
-“Hal, wilt thou make one?”
-
-The Prince of Wales.—
-“Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith.”
-
-“Sir John Falstaff.—
-“There’s neither honesty, manhood, nor good fel
-“lowship in thee, nor thou earnest not of the blood royal, if thou darest not
-“stand for ten shillings.”
-
-The Prince of Wales.—
-“Well, then, once in my days I’ll be a madcap.”
-
-Sir John Falstaff.—
-“Why, that’s well said.”
-
-The Prince of Wales.—
-“Well, come what will, I’ll tarry at home.”
-
-Sir John Falstaff.—
-“I’ll be a traitor then, when thou art king.”
-
-The Prince of Wales.—
-“I care not.”
-
-Poins—
-“Sir John, I pr’ythee, leave the prince and me alone; I will
-“lay him down such reasons for this adventure, that he shall go.”
-
-Sir John Falstaff.—
-“Well, mayst thou have the spirit of persuasion,
-“and be the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may move, and what he
-“hears may be believed, that the true prince may (for recreation sake) prove a
-“false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want countenance. Farewell;
-“you shall find me in Eastcheap.”
-
-The Prince of Wales.—
-“Farewell, thou latter spring! Farewell All-hallown summer!”
- </pre>
-<p>
-The meeting then, as far as concerns Sir John Falstaff, broke up. The
-Prince of Wales and his friend Poins, may be left to their own devices.
-</p>
-<p>
-Thus do we see how a great man works silently to his own ends by
-encouraging his inferiors to think for him. Here was the campaign of
-Gadshill ready planned and arranged down to the very moment of attack, and
-the equipment of the forces, without a personal effort on the part of our
-hero.
-</p>
-<p>
-Forestalling the policy of a more modern general, Louis the Fourteenth—who
-never showed himself on a field of battle till he was assured that his
-subordinate officers had made victory certain, and who then, in the most
-considerate manner, always came up in time to take the credit of it out of
-their hands—the task of Falstaff was simply to gather the ripened
-fruit, which, <i>but for the blackest and most unparalleled act of
-treachery that ever disgraced the annals of warfare</i>——But
-let us not anticipate.
-</p>
-<p>
-Had I the pen of Homer (who, by the way, supposing that fabulous person to
-have existed, could not possibly have known the use of such an article) I
-might write out a list of the warlike preparations made by Sir John
-Falstaff and his followers, in the course of the day, that might equal, in
-vivid dramatic interest, the famous catalogue of ships. Mine would it be
-to enumerate the scores of Kentish oysters, the hundreds of
-Gloucestershire lampreys, the skins of Canterbury brawn, the breasts of
-capons, the green-goose pies, the veal toasts, the powdered mutton, the
-marchpanes, the hartshorn jellies, the stewed prunes, the pippins and the
-cheese, stowed away in the vast resources of our hero’s commissariat
-department, as provisions for the approaching campaign. Then would ye
-have, in succession, the vast and irresistible phalanx of sturdy oaths and
-light-winged cajoleries arrayed against the hostess of the tavern (a
-married woman, it must be admitted, but whose husband was already ailing)
-to induce her to yield further credit for the victualling and liquoring of
-the troops, resulting in the entire rout of her scruples, and the
-unconditional surrender of her cellar keys. Nor would be forgotten the
-hundreds, nay thousands, of matchless libs, by which Patroclus Bardolph
-obtained a new saddle for his master from a dealer in Watling Street, and
-released the knight’s steed from the spells of enchantment, which a cruel
-magician (in what we should now call the livery stable interest) had cast
-about the animal for some weeks.
-</p>
-<p>
-All these details, and many more—down to a list of the snores of the
-thunder-vying Falstaff as he took his after-dinner nap to fortify himself
-for the coming fatigues, and of the glasses of strong waters tossed off by
-the lightning-shaming Bardolph while his master wasn’t looking—would
-I enumerate had I the pen of Homer.
-</p>
-<p>
-But as it has been already satisfactorily proved that neither I nor any
-other writer, ancient or modern (especially Homer), could ever have
-enjoyed the possession of that article, I will not attempt anything so
-ambitious.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-III. THE BATTLE OF GADSHILL.
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>OW did the chaste Diana despatch Mercury with a message to her brother
-Phoebus, requesting the latter to pull up his horses for an hour or two,
-so that Sir John Falstaff might not be incommoded by the light of his
-solar gig-lamps; promising the messenger that, if he would make haste
-back, she would show him a little sport in his own Une. It is not
-positively on record that, on the morning of the battle of Gadshill, the
-sun rose two hours later than his regular appointment with society. But,
-on the other hand, historic fairness compels me to state that there is no
-proof whatever to the contrary.
-</p>
-<p>
-Then did Diana throw her hooped petticoat of clouds over her head, so as
-to conceal the silver light of her countenance—merely reserving a
-peep-hole large enough to enable her to wink at the doings of her chosen
-minions.
-</p>
-<p>
-She could not resist the temptation of showing her full face just once, to
-bestow an Endymion kiss upon a solitary pedestrian who emerged from the
-wood of Gadshill into the chalk-white Rochester Road. The Moon embraced
-him coquettishly—and hid herself immediately. He was a fine looking
-man, and portly—albeit advanced in years. There was certainly every
-excuse for the Moon. However, as she has quite enough scandals to answer
-for, let us hope that nobody saw her.
-</p>
-<p>
-The stout person was of martial aspect, and clad in the terrible panoply
-of war. I will not say he was armed <i>cap-à-pie</i>. A full suit of
-armour to his measure would have had a terrible effect, not merely upon
-the wearer, but on the iron market of the period. But he bore weapons,
-offensive and defensive, sufficient to indicate the most desperate
-intentions. To add to the terror his presence was calculated to inspire,
-the warrior was under the influence of a passion which, though ridiculous
-in its influence on ordinary mortals, becomes sublime and awful when in
-possession of an heroic nature. I allude to Anger. Sir John Falstaff was
-in a towering rage. It is no stretch of poetical license to say that the
-earth shook beneath his angry tread (there had been a little rain in the
-night, and the soil was tremulous). Streams of perspiration poured from
-his massive brow. His breathing was short and thick. Several times he
-essayed to speak, but rage impeded his utterance. At length he cried, in a
-voice of thunder—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Poins!”
- </p>
-<p>
-It must be understood that the thunder of Sir John’s voice was rather of a
-muffled and distant character. Thunder, to be heard distinctly, requires a
-favourable wind—an advantage not enjoyed by Sir John Falstaff at
-this period of his existence.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Poins, against whom the culverin of Sir John’s wrath, primed and
-loaded to the muzzle, was especially directed, had withdrawn himself
-prudently from the range of that fearful ordnance, and returned no answer.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was about four o’clock in the morning. The enemy, that is to say, the
-travellers, were momentarily expected to make their appearance. At this
-critical juncture, Mr. Poins had removed the knight’s horse, and tied the
-animal its owner knew not where. What is the knight at any time without
-his charger—especially when he labours under physical disadvantages
-which make “eight yards of uneven ground” a journey as terrible as
-“threescore and ten miles afoot?” This was the case with Sir John
-Falstaff. Here he was, burning with martial ardour; Victory, as it were,
-about to rush down hill into his arms; and the treachery of an inferior
-had placed him utterly <i>hors de combat!</i> There is only one point of
-view from which the conduct of Poins appears at all excusable: it was an
-act of real humanity to the horse.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Poins! and be hanged; Poins!” the knight repeated.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Peace, you fat-kidneyed rascal!” said the Prince of Wales, from a
-neighbouring hedge. “What a brawling dost thou keep!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Where’s Poins, Hal?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He is walked up to the top of the hill: I’ll go seek him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And the Prince walked up the hill in an airy and unconcerned manner, <i>pretending
-to seek Poins</i>. Herein is exemplified the habitual duplicity and
-dissimulation of this young prince’s character. He knew as well that Poins
-was close behind him, grinning in a hollow tree, as that in their own
-hearts (much hollower than the tree, by the way, only not nearly so big)
-they were gloating over a scheme of malice and treachery, of which their
-unsuspecting senior was to be the victim. “A plague on’t,” as that
-moralist himself observed, a few seconds afterwards, “when thieves cannot
-be true to one another!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Sir John himself was the soul of honour among——men of his own
-order.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“If I travel but four foot by the square further afoot,
-“said the knight, sitting on a fallen tree and chafing
-“like a caged lion—still more like a stranded whale,
-“I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a
-“fair death for all this, if I ‘scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have
-“forsworn his company, hourly, any time these two-and-twenty years; *
-“and yet I am bewitched with the rogue’s company. If the rascal have not
-“given me medicines to make me love him, I’ll be hanged! it could not
-“be else. I have drunk medicines. Poins! Hal! a plague upon you both!
-“Bardolph! Peto! I’ll starve ere I’ll rob a foot further.”
-
-* Either this is an illustration of the hereditary Falstaff
-looseness as to dates and figures, or a proof of our hero’s
-marvellous insight into human character. Accepting the
-latter hypothesis, Sir John must have discovered Mr. Poins
-to have been a dangerous acquaintance in embryo, before that
-young gentleman had emerged from his cradle.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Sir John felt sick of rogues. In his wrath he even meditated the terrible
-vengeance of turning honest, and thus depriving his false-hearted comrades
-of the advantages of his counsels and alliance. But it had needed a more
-implacable nature than our hero’s to carry animosity to such a deadly
-pitch. Moreover, Sir John, for one, would not set the base example in the
-camp of sacrificing duty to private feeling. Besides, there was another
-weighty consideration—he was in want of money.
-</p>
-<p>
-These and other reflections calmed our hero; so much so, that by the time
-Gadshill, their scout (evidently from his surname a native of Kent, son,
-perhaps grandson, of one of Jack’s deerstalking comrades in the days of
-yore; who knows?), arrived with tidings that there was money of the King’s
-coming down the hill and going to the King’s Exchequer, Sir John was
-himself again; forgetting fatigue, danger, and resentment, everything but
-that there was money of the King’s going to the King’s Exchequer.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You lie, you rogue!” he said, “‘tis going to the King’s Tavern.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There’s enough to make us all,” said Gadshill.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Be hanged,” put in Jack, in the highest spirits imaginable.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sirs,” said the Prince, “you four shall front them in a narrow lane. <i>Ned
-Poins and I will walk lower. If they ‘scape from your encounter, then they
-light on us</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And will any one make me believe that this man won the battle of
-Agincourt?—unless, indeed, by some parallel stratagem. There, as at
-Gadshill, I doubt not but he had his Falstaffs, Bardolphs *, and Petos to
-bear the first brunt of the battle, while he and his congenial fellows
-walked lower—reserving themselves to enjoy the fruits of victory.
-Never tell me what historians have said! I am an historian myself; and I
-know that there are some people of that profession who will write anything—provided
-they are properly paid for it.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* This unpremeditated association of the names of Bardolph
-and Agincourt causes the historian to drop a tear on his
-proof sheet, in anticipation of a painful event that
-inexorable duty will compel him to chronicle by and by.
-</pre>
-<p>
-“How many be there of them?” General Falstaff inquired, previous to
-arranging his plan of battle.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Some eight or ten.”
- </p>
-<p>
-A prospective difficulty, such as could not have been foreseen by any but
-a comprehensive mind capable of embracing all emergencies, presented
-itself to our hero, who exclaimed—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Zounds! will they not rob us?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What, a coward, Sir John Paunch!” asked the Prince, mockingly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather” (a favourite play on
-words with our hero); “but yet no coward, Hal.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, we leave that to the proof.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Sirrah Jack!” said Poins, as he sneaked away to ‘walk lower’ with the
-Prince of Wales; “thy horse stands behind the hedge: when thou need’st him
-there thou shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Now cannot I strike him if I should be hanged!” exclaimed the magnanimous
-John.
-</p>
-<p>
-Footsteps sounded, lanterns glimmered on the summit of the hill.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now my masters,” said Jack, grasping his broadsword. “Happy man be his
-dole, say I; every man to his business.”
- </p>
-<p>
-They withdrew into “the narrow lane.” This was a short cut, down which the
-travellers would probably walk, leaving their horses to be led round by
-the high road. Such proved to be the case. The travellers, four in number,
-were plebeians of the vulgarest description; shopmen, farmers, carriers,
-and the like,—people with large hands and coarse minds, such as in
-all cases have been reserved by destiny as the legitimate prey of the
-superior classes: the only observable variation of their treatment being
-in the manner of levying taxation.
-</p>
-<p>
-Four terrible figures rushed out of the darkness, and four terrible voices
-cried:—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Stand!”
- </p>
-<p>
-The unfortunate travellers would have been most happy to do so, only they
-were too frightened. They fell on their knees instead, and roared.
-</p>
-<p>
-As you may suppose, this was not the way to get rid of the assailants. The
-four terrible figures attacked the four terrified ones. The leader of the
-former, a man of colossal stature and intrepid behaviour, let fall in his
-fury some remarkable words—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Strike! down with them, cut the villains’ throats! * * * Bacon-faced
-knaves! <i>they hate us youth</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff was the speaker. Who shall presume to count a great
-man’s life by years? Sir John, in the heat of action, was a mere boy
-again. Nay, in proof that his weight of flesh even sat no heavier on him
-than his weight of years, he exclaimed almost in the same breath:
-</p>
-<p>
-“Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No, ye <i>fat chuffs!</i> I
-would your store were here. On, bacons, on! What, ye knaves; young men
-must live”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0009" id="linkimage-0009"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/095s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="095s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/095.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/095m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-Why prolong the scene? Surely the mere statement that a man like Sir John
-Falstaff <i>fell upon four travellers</i>, is fully equivalent to saying
-that the latter were completely crushed.
-</p>
-<p>
-The enemy retreated, leaving their stores in possession of the victors.
-The glorious field of Gadshill was unstained by a drop of blood. Nor was
-there a single prisoner taken. In fact the victory was undisputed, which
-appears to me the most desirable kind of victory. A man who will not let
-you get the better of him without a great deal of trouble, is obviously
-almost as good a man as yourself. And pray what is the object of a battle,
-except the establishment of decisive superiority?
-</p>
-<p>
-Flushed with victory, and laden with spoils, Falstaff and his companions
-sat down on the grass to divide the latter. No signs were visible of the
-Prince or of Poins. Public opinion went strongly against those defaulters,
-who were treated as mere amateurs, with no real soul or aptitude for
-business. Of course, it was decided unanimously that neither of them
-should derive any benefit from the proceeds of an action wherein they had
-taken no part.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There is no more valour in that Poins than in a wild duck,” said our hero
-with trenchant scorn.
-</p>
-<p>
-Had the selection of good Master Cruikshank’s subjects rested with me, I
-would have pointed out, as the theme for one picture, Jack Falstaff,
-sitting on the ground, with a bag of silver between his thighs, stirring
-it round unctuously with his hand from right to left, sniffing its odour,
-as it were, and smacking his lips over it as over the ingredients of a
-choice pudding, whereof he knew the flavour and nutritive qualities by
-anticipation. To this, though, honest Master George might well object that
-Falstaff remained not long enough in that attitude to sit for a picture.
-Time rarely favours the world with a sublime moment, scarcely ever with
-many of them in succession.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Your money!” cried a strange voice.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Villains!” cried another.
-</p>
-<p>
-And two men in buckram suits, with masked faces, rushed out of the wood
-and attacked the freebooters.
-</p>
-<p>
-I will state the issue of this second and most unforeseen engagement,
-briefly, and then comment upon it. Falstaff and the rest, after a blow or
-two, <i>ran away, leaving their booty behind them</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-Now perhaps you have fallen into the vulgar error of imagining Sir John
-Falstaff a coward? Allow me to help you out of it.
-</p>
-<p>
-The reflections and decisions of genius are instantaneous and almost
-simultaneous. The instinctive conclusions of Sir John Falstaff, on being
-thus unexpectedly attacked, may be summed up and classified as follows:—
-</p>
-<p>
-1. That men, who can afford buckram suits (defensive armour of the period,
-of considerable costliness), are not common men.
-</p>
-<p>
-2. That men out of the common seldom venture upon a dangerous undertaking
-without plenty of satellites in reserve.
-</p>
-<p>
-3. That no sensible man will attack superior numbers unless supported by
-the reasonable certainty of some advantages.
-</p>
-<p>
-4. That a man who watches a thief rob an honest man, and then takes upon
-himself to rob the thief, is decidedly a sensible man.
-</p>
-<p>
-5. That a purse of silver is more easily replaced than a forfeited
-existence.
-</p>
-<p>
-6. That the men in buckram hit rather hard; and that the sensation of
-being thrashed was decidedly unpleasant.
-</p>
-<p>
-7. That he, (Sir John), had better be off.
-</p>
-<p>
-Acting upon these rapid convictions, Sir John Falstaff performed one of
-the most renowned manouvres in his warlike career—the retreat from
-Gadshill.
-</p>
-<p>
-Ordinary prose is inadequate to the emergency of describing this great
-event. A moment’s grace, reader, while the historian calls on the poetic
-Muse—just to see if she be at home. Yes. It is all right.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-Flashing sparks from clashing blows
-Dimm’d the glare of Bardolph’s nose;
-Gadshill, Peto, screaming ran,
-(Warriors prompt to lead the van!)
-Falstaff last withstands the pressure,
-Strikes three blows to guard the treasure;
-But the warrior braying death
-Can but fight while he has breath:
-Falstaffs stock is quickly done;
-Foes are on him two to one.
-
-What’s of martyrdom the fun,
-Or of gold the value? None—
-When compared to flesh and bone
-To the weight of half a ton!
-White as moon three-quarters done,
-Hot and moist as autumn sun;
-Bound and swift as shot from gun,
-Down the valley see him run-
-Thus was Gadshill lost and won!
-</pre>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-IV. THE DAY AFTER THE BATTLE.
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE Boar’s Head Tavern, in Eastcheap—the head-quarters of our hero,
-and where he drew his last breath—like the Old Swan, near the Ebgate
-Stairs, where he uttered his first cry—like the church of St.
-Michael, Paternoster, where his mortal remains found honourable asylum—was
-utterly destroyed in the memorable fire of London. Authorities differ as
-to the exact site of this famous hostelry. Some maintain that it stood at
-a certain distance, in a given direction, from some part of the present
-Cannon Street—the immediate vicinity of the Old London Stone being,
-not improbably, the implied locality. Others are of a contrary opinion,
-and insist stoutly that it stood elsewhere. Many archaeological writers,
-whose verdict would have placed the matter beyond question, are silent on
-the subject. It is to be hoped that the antiquarian reader is satisfied.
-</p>
-<p>
-Towards this establishment, on the night after the battle of Gadshill
-under the friendly cover of darkness, rode Sir John Falstaff—and the
-remains of his discomfited army. Do not be alarmed. No one had been
-killed. The only loss of numbers had been caused by the desertion of the
-Prince and Poins. But the march to London had been terrible. The troops
-were utterly without provisions. The exchequer was empty. Foraging
-excursions had been attempted, but in all cases had failed. To the horrors
-of war had succeeded those of famine—still worse of thirst. To give
-you an idea of the desperate condition to which they were reduced, it is
-actually on record that Esquire Bardolph was seen to <i>drink water</i>
-from a horse-trough near Deptford. Singular phenomena are said to have
-attended on this prodigy. It is asserted that, on the gallant officer
-bringing his face to a level with the noxious element, a hissing sound was
-heard, and a rapid cloud of steam ascended from the surface. The water, on
-the warlike gentleman’s withdrawal, was discovered to be lukewarm, as if a
-heated iron had been thrust into it. Sir John Falstaff is the authority
-for these remarkable occurrences—which probably were but the
-creations of a distempered fancy, the result of his own exhausted bodily
-condition. At any rate, it is certain that the Falstaff troops reached the
-metropolis sadder and lighter men.
-</p>
-<p>
-Still I would not have my readers imagine that I have fallen into the
-common view with regard to the issue of the battle of Gadshill; namely,
-that Sir John Falstaff was utterly routed, discomfited, and bamboozled in
-that engagement; that he was made by it a butt, a laughing-stock, and a
-victim; that he lost fame, wealth, and standing by it; that he repented,
-and was ashamed of it for the rest of his days.
-</p>
-<p>
-For much of this erroneous impression, we are, no doubt, indebted to
-certain players, who, taking advantage of the dramatic form of
-Shakspeare’s Chronicles, have attempted the personation of Sir John
-Falstaff on the public stage. I have frequently been moved almost to tears
-by the temerity of these people in daring to disport themselves in the
-lion skin of Falstaff. I have never been deceived by any one of them for a
-moment. Even before they have commenced braying, I have invariably
-recognised them by the patter of their hoofs, even though some of them
-have been the greatest ———— creatures of their
-species. These ———— creatures stuff themselves out
-with certain pounds of wadding, glue on a pair of white whiskers, ruddle
-their countenances, and say to themselves, “Now I’m Falstaff;” just as on
-the previous night they may have rolled an extra flannel waistcoat or so
-into a lump between their shoulders, and conceived themselves Richard;
-just as on the following night, in virtue of a goat-like beard, a long
-gown, and a stoop in the shoulders, they will constitute themselves
-Shylock! What is the Falstaff of which these libellers give you an idea? A
-bloated, ridiculous poltroon. Now, in the first place, cowards do not get
-fat. They are a nervous race—unquiet and dyspeptic. The stage
-Falstaff runs away from Gadshill like a boy from a turnip-ghost; not like
-a sensible man with a respect for his skin, having reason to believe the
-latter in some peril. He lies about his adventures as if he expected
-Prince Hal to believe him—or cared two pins whether he did or not.
-On being detected in his fictions, I have invariably observed the stage
-Falstaff conduct himself in the following manner. He covers his face with
-his shield, hides in a corner like a schoolgirl, and kicks out one leg
-behind him in a fashion peculiar to baffled old gentlemen on the stage. At
-Shrewsbury he behaves so like an arrant nincompoop, as to make it
-preposterous that he should ever have shown his face on a field of battle,
-let alone have been entrusted with the command of a troop. Altogether he
-appears before us a ridiculous, giggling, spluttering, snorting,
-inconsistent pantaloon,—a personage widely differing from the
-majestic figure faithfully copied, line for line, by my excellent friend
-George Cruikshank from the immortal full-length drawn by William
-Shakspeare,—and a man whose life I would no more condescend to write
-than that of the next potato-man who may become bankrupt through lack of
-brains to roast his merchandise properly for the market.
-</p>
-<p>
-Those who wish to have my opinion of Gadshill in the abstract and in its
-upshot, as proving Sir John Falstaff the real master of the situation
-after all, are requested to accompany me critically through a chapter in
-the great Universal History of Shakspeare, section Falstaff. Refer to the
-Chronicle of King Henry the Fourth, part the first, act the second.
-</p>
-<p>
-The scene is the Old Boar’s Head (interior). The time midnight, succeeding
-the Gadshill engagement. The persons first present are the Prince of Wales
-and Mr. Poins, his obsequious companion in infamy. (It is quite right to
-abuse the Prince at this period of his life, when it was his own wish to
-be thought a scoundrel. When he becomes a great man, I hope I shall know
-how to conduct myself towards him with becoming respect.) They have been
-in London some hours. There are no travelling difficulties for princes.
-</p>
-<p>
-His Royal Highness has been amusing himself for a quarter of an hour or so
-by a series of practical jokes on a harmless waiter, which the Prince
-himself appears to have thought excessively clever, but which Shakspeare
-and the present writer have agreed to consider excessively stupid. Even
-the obliging Poins has not been able to see the jest. He is trying his
-hardest to discover it; and is determined to be convulsed with laughter,
-or perish in the attempt, when the landlord makes his appearance in the
-room, announcing the arrival of Sir John Falstaff and his followers.
-</p>
-<p>
-A word as to this landlord,—though, indeed, he is scarcely worth it.
-This is the first and last we hear of him. In the course of a few weeks we
-find his wife a perfectly reconciled widow, and sole mistress of the
-establishment. There are two hypotheses as to the sudden disappearance of
-her husband from the scene. The first—which I have already formally
-adopted—is, that, at the period alluded to, he was ailing,—probably
-from the fatal facility of the bar-parlour;—that he died soon
-afterwards; that he was a fool, and not worth regretting or remembering.
-The second is, that his fair helpmate (of whom we shall have much to say
-hereafter) being a credulous woman, with a defective sense of legal
-obligation, had been entrapped into a fragile marriage,—whereof the
-only consolation existed in its fragility. It is not of the slightest
-consequence: the vintner has made his sole appearance, and has been sent
-about his business to introduce Sir John Falstaff. Neither you nor I need
-care two-pence what became of him. At any rate, I don’t;—you,
-reader, being a free-born Englishman, are at liberty to do as you please.
-</p>
-<p>
-And now I will save myself the trouble of writing the next three or four
-pages, by allowing Shakspeare to speak for me without interruption. I
-shall be happy to hear anybody find fault with the substitution, and will
-even go so far as to consider it a compliment.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Poins.—Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance
-too! marry, and amen!—Give me a cup of sack, boy.—Ere I lead
-this life long, I’ll sew nether-stocks, and mend them, and foot them too.
-A plague of all cowards!—Give me a cup of sack, rogue.—Is
-there no virtue extant? [He drinks The Prince of Wales.]—Didst thou
-never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted
-at the sweet tale of the sun! if thou didst, then behold that compound.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—You rogue, here’s lime in this sack too: There is
-nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man: Yet a coward is worse
-than a cup of sack with lime in it; a villainous coward.—Go thy
-ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not
-forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live
-not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat, and grows
-old: God help the while! a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver; I
-could sing psalms or any thing: A plague of all cowards, I say still.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—How now, wool-sack! what mutter you?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—A king’s son! If I do not beat thee out of thy
-kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like
-a flock of wild geese, I’ll never wear hair on my face more. You prince of
-Wales!
-</p>
-<p>
-Prince of Wales.—Why, you abominable round man! what’s the matter?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Are you not a coward? answer me to that; and
-Poins there?
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Poins.—‘Zounds! ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I’ll stab
-thee.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—I call thee coward! I’ll see thee damned ere I
-call thee coward: but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as
-thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who
-sees your back. Call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such
-backing! give me them that will face me.—Give me a cup of sack:—I
-am a rogue, if I drunk to-day.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou
-drunk’st last.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—All’s one for that. [He drinks.] A plague of all
-cowards, still say I.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—What’s the matter?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—What’s the matter? there be four of us here have
-ta’en a thousand pound this day morning.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—Where is it, Jack? where is it?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Where is it? Taken from us it is: a hundred upon
-poor four of us.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—What, a hundred, man?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a
-dozen of them two hours together. I have ‘scap’d by miracle. I am eight
-times thrust through the doublet; four through the hose; my buckler cut
-through and through; my sword hacked like a handsaw, ecce signum. I never
-dealt better since I was a man; all would not do. A plague of all cowards!—Let
-them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and
-the sons of darkness.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0010" id="linkimage-0010"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/113s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="113s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/113.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/113m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—Speak, sirs; how was it?
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Babdolph.—We four set upon some dozen,—— *
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Sixteen, at least, my lord.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Bardolph.—And bound them.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Peto.—No, no, they were not bound.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or
-I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Bardolph.—As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set
-upon us,——
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* I have ventured to modify a few of the old dramatist’s
-expressions. My sole motive for doing so has been a natural
-objection to being pointed out in the streets as the one
-living writer who never did anything towards the improvement
-of Shakspeare’s text.—Biographer.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—What, fought ye with them all?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—All? I know not what ye call, all; but if I
-fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish: if there were not
-two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack then am I no two-legged
-creature.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Poins.—Pray God you have not murdered some of them.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Nay, that’s past praying for: I have peppered two
-of them: two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell
-thee what, Hal,—if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me
-horse. Thou knowest my old ward;—here I lay, and thus I bore my
-point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me,—
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—What, four? thou saidst but two, even now?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff—Four, Hal; I told thee four.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Poins.—Ay, ay, he said four.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at
-me. I made me no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target,
-thus.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—Seven? why, there were but four, even now.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—In buckram.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Poins.—Ay, four, in buckram suits.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Seven by these hilts, or I am a villain else.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—Pr’ythee, let him alone; we shall have more
-anon.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Dost thou hear me, Hal?
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These
-nine in buckram, that I told thee of,—
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—So, two more already.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Their points being broken,—
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Poins.—Down fell their hose.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Began to give me ground; but I followed me close,
-came in foot and hand; and with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales—O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of
-two!
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—But, as the devil would have it, three
-misbegotten knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me;—for
-it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—These lies are like the father that begets
-them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts,
-thou knotty-pated fool, thou villainous, obscene, greasy tallow-keech,—
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—What! art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the
-truth, the truth?
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal
-green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come tell us
-your reason: what sayest thou to this?
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Poins.—Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the
-strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on
-compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plenty as
-blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion!
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—I’ll be no longer guilty of this sin; this
-sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back-breaker, this huge hill
-of flesh.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried
-neat’s tongue, you stock-fish,—O, for breath to utter what is like
-thee!—you tailor’s yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing
-tuck;—
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again: and
-when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Poins.—Mark, Jack.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince or Wales.—We two saw you four set on four; you bound
-them, and were masters of their wealth.—Mark now, how plain a tale
-shall put you down.—Then did we two set on you four, and, with a
-word, out-faced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you
-here in the house:—and Falstaff, you carried your guts away as
-nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and
-roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy
-sword as thou hast done; and then say, it was in fight! What trick, what
-device, what starting-hole, canst thou now find out, to hide thee from
-this open and apparent shame?
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Poins.—Come, let’s hear, Jack; What trick hast thou now?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made
-ye. Why, hear ye, my masters: Was it for me to kill the heir apparent?
-Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as
-Hercules: but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince.
-Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the
-better of myself and thee, during my life. I for a valiant lion, and thou
-for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the
-money__Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow.—Gallants,
-lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you!
-What! shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore?
-</p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales.—Content;—and the argument shall be thy
-running away.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Ah! no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me.
-</p>
-<p>
-Now, reader, do you know the opinion I have formed, after a careful study
-of the above historic dialogue? Perhaps you will not guess, as it is
-widely remote from the common one. It is, that Sir John Falstaff did know
-it was the Prince. I don’t mean to say in the heat of battle, when the
-outside of the knight’s head monopolised all his attention; but I believe,
-on after reflection, by calmly putting that and that together, he would
-have more than a shrewd guess at the character of his assailants. Why,
-then, all the lies and subterfuges? Why the hacking of the Falstaffian
-sword with the Falstaffian dagger? Why the tickling of the noses with
-spear grass to draw blood? and the subsequent “beslubbering” of their
-garments therewith, under pretence of its being the blood of true men (a
-stratagem somewhat unworthily betrayed by Lieutenant Bardolph)? Wherefore
-all these devices, with the certainty of detection?
-</p>
-<p>
-The answer is very simple.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was Sir John Falstaff’s object to make the Prince of Wales <i>believe
-himself a much cleverer fellow than he really was</i>; and I maintain that
-he succeeded most triumphantly in the present instance.
-</p>
-<p>
-Well, the money was safe. The Prince was satisfied—Falstaff
-perfectly contented. Credit was unlimited—sack abundant. Nothing
-remained but to make a night of it. A night was accordingly manufactured;
-the principal ingredient in its composition being the first specimen of a
-now popular class of entertainment on record,—namely, an amateur
-play, in which Sir John Falstaff, with much dignity, sustained the
-character of King Henry the Fourth, the Prince of Wales being represented
-(on that occasion, and by particular desire), by His Royal Highness in
-person. The two leading comedians subsequently exchanged parts. The
-performance was received with thunders of applause by a select, if
-unfashionable, audience. For the libretto of this highly successful
-production, the reader is referred to the collected works of the able
-dramatist who has already met with such frequent and encouraging notice in
-these pages.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0011" id="linkimage-0011"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/117s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="117s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/117.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/117m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-V. HISTORIC DISSERTATION UPON THE GREAT CIVIL WAR
-</h2>
-<p>
-WAGED BETWEEN THE REVOLTED HOUSES OF PERCY AND MORTIMER, ABETTED BY THE
-WELSH CHIEFTAIN, OWEN GLENDOWER, AND THE SCOTS, UNDER ARCHIBALD EARL OF
-DOUGLAS, ON THE ONE SIDE; AND KING HENRY THE FOURTH AND SIR JOHN FALSTAFF,
-WITH THEIR ALLIES AND FOLLOWERS, ON THE OTHER: WITH THE ARMING OF SIR JOHN
-FALSTAFF’s TROOPS, AND THE MARCH TO COVENTRY.
-</p>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>N order to appreciate fully the position of Sir John Falstaff amid the
-stirring national events succeeding upon the action of Gadshill, it
-behoves us to quit, for a while, the private park of Biography, and turn
-into the high road of History; that is to say, to leave Sir John to his
-fate for a page or so, and give some passing attention to the doings of
-practitioners in his own line, but in a more extensive way of business.
-</p>
-<p>
-In the commencement of the fifteenth century, the Scotch, obeying the
-hereditary instincts of their race, made repeated incursions into England—not,
-it should be stated, with that invariable success which has attended their
-more modern attempts in a similar direction. After various reverses, the
-flower of Scottish chivalry, commanded by Hepburn of Hales, were
-effectually routed by an English force, under the Earl of March, at Nesbit
-Moor, in the spring of 1402.
-</p>
-<p>
-Archibald, Earl of Douglas, “sore displeased in his mind for this
-overthrow, procured a commission to invade England.” So writes Hollinshed.
-It appears singular to us, that a Scottish gentleman should, at any time,
-have thought it necessary to apply to his government for permission to
-fulfil a portion of his natural destiny; but, of course, every age has its
-own manners. The Douglas, with an army of ten thousand men, advanced as
-far as Newcastle, but finding no army to oppose him, he retreated, loaded
-with plunder, and satisfied with the devastation he had committed, and the
-terror he had produced. The King, at this time, was vainly chasing
-Glendower up and down his mountains; but the Earl of Northumberland, and
-his son, Hotspur, gathered a powerful army, and intercepted Douglas on his
-return to Scotland. This army awaited the Scots near Milfield, in the
-north of Northumberland, and Douglas, upon arriving in sight of his enemy,
-took up a strong post upon Homildon Hill. The English weapon, the long
-bow, decided the contest, for the Scots fell almost without fight. Douglas
-and the survivors of his army were made prisoners.
-</p>
-<p>
-Events immediately ensuing upon this engagement led to a rupture between
-King Henry the Fourth and the family of the Percies. The origin of the
-quarrel is thus described by Hollinshed:—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Henry, Earl of Northumberland, with his brother Thomas, Earl of
-Worcester, and his son, the Lord Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, which were
-to King Henry, in the beginning of his reign, both faithful friends and
-earnest aiders, began now to envy his wealth and felicity; and especially
-were they grieved, because the king demanded of the earl and his son such
-Scottish prisoners as were taken at Homildon and Nesbit, for, of all the
-captives taken in the conflicts fought in those two places, there was
-delivered to the king’s possession only Mordake, Earl of Fife, the Duke of
-Albany’s son, though the king did at divers and sundry times require
-deliverance of the residue, and that with great threatenings: wherewith
-the Percies, being sore offended, for that they claimed them as their own
-proper prisoners and peculiar prizes, * * * * came to the king unto
-Windsor (upon a purpose to prove him), and then required of him, that,
-either by ransom or otherwise, he would cause to be delivered out of
-prison Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, their cousin-german, whom (as they
-reported) Owen Glendower kept in filthy prison, shackled with irons, only
-for that he took his part, and was to him faithful and true.
-</p>
-<h3>
-****
-</h3>
-<p>
-“The king, when he had studied on the matter, made answer, that the Earl
-of March was not taken prisoner for his cause, nor in his service, but
-willingly suffered himself to be taken, because he would not withstand the
-attempts of Owen Glendower, and his complices; therefore he would neither
-ransom him nor release him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The Percies, with this answer and fraudulent excuse, were not a little
-fumed, insomuch that Henry Hotspur said openly: ‘Behold, the heir of the
-realm is robbed of his right, and yet the robber with his own will not
-redeem him.’ So in this fury the Percies departed, minding nothing more
-than to depose King Henry from the high type of his royalty, and to place
-in his seat their cousin Edmund, Earl of March, whom they did not only
-deliver out of captivity, but also (to the high displeasure of King Henry)
-entered in league with the foresaid Owen Glendower.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The rapidity with which I have dashed off the foregoing paragraphs
-convinces me that I must have a vocation for what is called the higher
-walk of history. It is true that this, my first attempt of the kind, has
-been favoured by great facilities such as I might not always be so
-fortunate as to meet with; seeing that the whole of the above—quotations
-from Hollinshed included—has been copied out of a printed book now
-lying open before me (the name of which I see no necessity for divulging),
-with but few interpolations and excisions. Perhaps if I were to push on a
-little further in the same path, I might be able to surmount greater
-difficulties than have yet presented themselves. I say nothing. But time
-and the publishers say something to me,—namely, that I have no
-business to trouble myself with writing the History of England in these
-pages, at all events except so far as it concerns Sir John Falstaff.
-Therefore, I must reserve myself for a future occasion.
-</p>
-<p>
-However, as Sir John Falstaff took a most active part in the civil
-dissensions excited by the feud above alluded to, the Knight’s biographer
-must be permitted to dwell awhile upon the merits of that quarrel, ere
-resuming the thread of his personal narrative.
-</p>
-<p>
-The “merits” of the case, in one sense of the term,—namely,
-according to the logic of the young naval officer who was ordered to
-report upon the “manners” of a barbarous people, may be briefly summed up,
-in the words of that marine authority, as “none whatever.” It was simply a
-carboniferous contest between the forces of King Pot on the one side, and
-those of the revolted chieftain Kettle (aided and abetted by divers of his
-brother Smuts) on the other. Do not suppose me capable of wilfully
-depreciating great names and achievements below their legitimate value.
-Only, let us have justice. My especial business is with the reputation of
-Sir John Falstaff. If, in spite of my convincing arguments and
-unanswerable facts, certain wrong-headed moralists will adhere to the
-opinion that my hero was a mere thief, and as such to be reprehended, I,
-in defence of my own position, must insist—upon the showing of my
-adversaries—that King Henry the Fourth, Hotspur, Glendower, and
-Company, only differed from Sir John Falstaff as pilchards do from
-herrings, “the pilchard being the greater.” * Hold me my knight virtuous;
-accept me the moonlit field of Gadshill as glorious; and I will honour
-Bolingbroke, glorify Shrewsbury, and weep over Percy with the most
-orthodox among you. But I will have no two laws,—one for the rich,
-the other for the poor. If Sir John is to hang, he shall make a fat pair
-of gallows. All the Harries of the period—old Harries and young
-Harries—shall hang with him!
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Vide the Clown in Twelfth Night, an Illyrian wit of the
-Middle Ages, who was indebted for most of his bons mots to
-an acquaintance with Sir Toby Belch, an English émigré of
-the period, and, obviously, a personal friend of Sir John
-Falstaff. A companion work to the present (in two volumes
-octavo, on thick paper, with plates), to be entitled Sir
-Toby Belch; his Life and Difficulties, with his Inducements
-to Foreign Travel, has not yet been commanded by the
-publishers. The author bides his time.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Have the kindness, with all your dignity of History and what not, to show
-me the difference between the Gadshill expedition and the war of the Percy
-rebellion. What is it but one of magnitude? The King and the Percies had
-been in league to take advantage of certain Scotchmen—a people who,
-at that barbarous period, (however incredible it may appear now-a-days,)
-were not very well able to protect themselves—just as had been the
-King’s son and the Falstaff fraternity, quoad the helpless Kentish
-travellers. The Percies took all they could lay their hands on, and wanted
-to keep it. The King was jealous, and would’nt let them. History delights
-in these <i>bizarre</i> coincidences. At the same time, it is remarkable
-that the chief bone of contention should have been the right of
-proprietorship in a few Scotchmen,—a commodity which must have been
-much more scarce, and proportionately precious, in England at that period
-than in our own favoured time, when the supply of the article may
-certainly be pronounced equal to the demand.
-</p>
-<p>
-The story abounds in instructive morals. In the first place, the Earl of
-Douglas ought not to have attempted to return to his own country. It was
-an unnatural proceeding in a Scotchman; and the Nemesis of his people
-overtook him accordingly. It is but just to state that on his being made
-prisoner he remained in England as long as was practicable, even on the
-condition of fighting under the banner of his late conqueror; and only
-recrossed the Tweed upon compulsion. But the atonement came too late.
-</p>
-<p>
-Enough of these wholesale dealers in the general Falstaff line for the
-present. Suffice it that the Percies were in the field at the head of a
-powerful army; and were known to all loyal subjects (i.e. cautious people
-waiting to see the issue of hostilities) as “the rebels” an offensive
-epithet, but they were used to it. They had been rebels more than a dozen
-years before, when they had stolen a crown for Henry Bolingbroke, who was
-then a rebel with them. Henry was a king now, and had turned round on
-them; just as his son was foredoomed to turn round upon Falstaff,
-Bardolph, &c., a few years later. It was in the blood, you will say?
-Possibly. Still it is a plague when princes and warriors cannot be true to
-one another.
-</p>
-<p>
-The leaders on the Royalist side were the King himself, the Prince of
-Wales, some more princes, dukes, and earls, whose names are of no
-importance, and SIR JOHN FALSTAFF!
-</p>
-<p>
-It will readily be believed that under these terrible circumstances the
-rebels had their work cut out for them.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff stood in need of warlike excitement. In his own words,
-“he had fallen off vilely since the last action.” Many things had occurred
-to sadden him. In the first place, the Prince of Wales, with
-characteristic meanness, had refunded the spoils of Gadshill to its
-original owners; and Sir John “liked not that paying back,” properly
-considering it “double labour.” He had grown hypochondriac, and took
-strange fancies. Amongst others, he preposterously imagined that he was
-becoming thin. Mistress Quickly, hostess of the Boar’s Head Tavern, knew
-better than this, having recently taken the knight’s measure for a dozen
-holland shirts, at eight shillings an ell, provided at her own expense,
-and supplied to Sir John on the faith of his knightly promise to pay.
-These shirts were a sore subject with Mistress Quickly. Let us respect the
-memory of her feelings, even at this distance of centuries. None but a
-sailmaker, who has equipped, on credit, an Indiaman, which has gone down
-with all the wealth of its owner on board, could fully appreciate them.
-Altogether, Sir John was out of sorts: he lacked society. The Prince of
-Wales—an amusing young man enough in his better moments—was
-busily preparing his programme for the future astonishment of the world.
-Mr. Poins was, of course, in close attendance upon his highness, and
-rarely showed. Gadshill and Peto were uninteresting plebeians, only to be
-used when wanted. Bardolph was very well in his way; but his way was not
-an enlivening one, at the best of times; he so rarely opened his mouth,
-except to put something into it. With regard to Mrs. Quickly, she was
-becoming intolerable: she wanted her bill.
-</p>
-<p>
-Also, with regard to Mrs. Quickly, at this juncture of our narrative (when
-I say “our” reader, I mean yours and mine—I have no intention of
-adopting the mysterious “we” of conventional literature) it behoves the
-writer to digress and apologise. The latter let us consider done. The
-former process I will get over as rapidly as possible.
-</p>
-<p>
-I professed, a few pages back, to have done with Mistress Quickly’s
-husband for good and all. Justice to my view of the lady’s character—which
-is one Of high admiration—compels me to allude to that shadowy
-person once more. I have stated that I believe him to have been ailing,
-giving the most probable cause of his indisposition. At this period, I
-believe his malady was approaching the final crisis, and that he lay on
-his deathbed <i>babbling, not like Sir John Falstaff, some years later</i>
-(in the same chamber who knows?) of green fields, but of black cats and
-other flitting shapes phenomena, I am informed, frequently witnessed by
-sufferers in the last stages of a complaint caught in the dangerous
-atmosphere of a spirit cellar too easy of access. I am sure there was some
-such domestic calamity harassing poor Mrs. Quickly at this time. There
-were heavy apothecaries’ bills to be met; and, perhaps, tradesmen’s
-accounts, (for which she had given her husband the money months ago,
-believing it duly paid,) pressing upon her. Otherwise she would never have
-troubled Sir John Falstaff as she did—for pitiful dross. Poor lady!
-it was not in her nature to give pain, and she knew how distasteful such
-questions were to the sensitive organisation of her illustrious guest. But
-that she had pressed him somewhat warmly is evident. For had not Sir John
-been compelled, in self-defence, to ward off her importunities by
-something in the shape of un-knightly fiction, as to certain valuables
-abstracted from his pocket in her house? There was no way else. The woman
-would not be appeased save by money or plausible excuses. If Sir John had
-possessed plenty of the former, and not had the slightest occasion for its
-immediate use, he would doubtless have paid her, in coin, and honourably
-commenced a fresh account. Having none, he could only offer her the
-substitute alluded to. The loss of “three or four bonds of forty pound a
-piece, and a seal ring of my grandfather’s,” is surely a fair reason for a
-gentleman of moderate means being temporarily straitened. After all, there
-was some truth in the matter. Sir John Falstaff’s pocket had been picked
-(by those miscreants, the Prince and Poins—<i>vide</i> Shakspeare),
-and in Mrs. Quickly’s house. The details of the robbery are of secondary
-importance. Nothing can be justly called a lie save that which is utterly
-divested of truth!
-</p>
-<p>
-Worthy Dame Quickly! I regret to find that it is the custom to consider
-her a very ridiculous and improper personage. I think she was a very good
-woman in her own foolish way. If Hero Worship be a true creed, she
-deserves honour amongst the foremost ranks of the faithful. She believed,
-rightly or wrongly, in one whom she considered a great man; and clung to
-him till the last, suffering for her faith in purse and credit, like a
-simple-minded, illogical, immoral, ungrammatical martyr, as she was. I
-believe myself that she was right. Her powers of perception were limited,
-but correct, as far as they could range. She had just wit enough to see
-the good that was in Sir John Falstaff—no more; and obeyed him like
-a slave or a soldier, pandering with unquestioning loyalty to his very
-vices, on the principle that the king can do no wrong.
-</p>
-<p>
-To dispose of Mrs. Quickly’s husband at once and for ever. I have already
-said that nothing certain can be ascertained about him; but a
-well-supported theory on the subject may be some consolation to those
-restless Shakspearian commentators who spend their lives in hunting after
-the unpublished facetiæ attributable to Juliet’s nurse’s husband—who
-write folios upon the probable birthplace of the undertaker’s journeyman
-in Richard the Third, who doesn’t want the Duke of Glocester to interfere
-with his professional duties,—and the like. It is, then, my
-confident opinion, that Mrs. Quickly became a widow at about the time of
-the battle of Shrewsbury—that is to say, if a lady can be said to
-become a widow who has never been legally married. That Mrs. Quickly had
-believed herself married let us hope. She was the most likely person in
-the world to be imposed upon, in this, as in other matters. But, assuming
-a legal contract to have taken place, how could she have preserved her
-maiden name? That Quickly was her maiden name is certain. For, in the <i>Merry
-Wives of Windsor</i>, Shakspeare introduces us to a second Mistress
-Quickly, housekeeper to the celebrated Dr. Caius, who wrote the well-known
-treatise on English dogs *, a spinster, and most obviously the sister of
-our hostess—the family likeness being, indeed, so strong between
-them, as to have led to a confusion of their identities by the ignorant
-and unobserving. It is no doubt in search of sisterly consolation from
-this second Mrs. Quickly, in a time of great tribulation, that the
-heart-broken hostess of the Boar’s Head, in the third scene of the second
-act of the history of King Henry the Fifth, implores to be “carried to
-Staines,” near Windsor.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* First printed in the reign of Elizabeth—with
-interpolations: hence the erroneous belief that Dr. Caius
-was a physician of that later period.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Ha! an unexpected solution to the moral difficulty! one that may remove
-the last taint of suspicion from the lady’s reputation. May not our Mrs.
-Quickly have been celebrated as the hostess of the Boar’s Head in her
-spinsterhood? May she not have taken to herself a husband, changing her
-name, to the church and the law, but not to her customers, according to
-the practice of queens, opera singers, poetesses, and other celebrated
-women? The conclusion is at least charitable; and those who like, are at
-liberty to adopt it. For my own part, I cling to the belief that her
-husband, “the vintner” of the first part of <i>Henry the Fourth</i>, was a
-sponge and an impostor, one who probably made a trade of marrying
-unprotected landladies for their taps and cash-boxes, who most likely had
-half-a-dozen wives living, whom he had fleeced and ill-treated, of which
-fact Mistress Quickly, his latest victim, had full knowledge; but was,
-nevertheless, kind to her betrayer, in an upbraiding, petting, devoted,
-inconsistent, womanly fashion, to the very last. I may be doing gross
-injustice to the memory of a most harmless and respectable citizen; but I
-am supporting my theory of Mrs. Quickly’s character admirably. Argument,
-like progress, according to a modern imperial authority, cannot march
-without its martyrs and its victims. If the vintner, in his lifetime, were
-really a good man, he would have forgiven me. So that upon the whole, we
-may consider the matter settled.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff, at the suggestion of Prince Henry, was entrusted with a
-charge of foot. It was all very fine to laugh at Sir John in time of
-security. When danger made its appearance, they were only too glad to rush
-to him for assistance. Prince Henry had staked his future reputation on
-the issue of the coming struggle, and chose his officers accordingly.
-Historians fix the date of the battle of Shrewsbury on the 21st of July,
-1403. I am inclined to regard this as a proof that historians know nothing
-about it. At that period, the Prince Henry (who, it must be admitted,
-distinguished himself honourably in the action), could not have been more
-than fifteen years of age. Was this the sort of person, likely, not only
-to inspire the renowned and terrible Hotspur with jealousy of his fame and
-valour, but, moreover, to have previously obtained advantages, however
-temporary, over a man like Falstaff? I think not. Besides, the historians
-betray their habitual looseness in making Hotspur himself thirty-five
-years of age at the same period. This is simply preposterous. Would a
-weather-beaten warrior, whose spur had ne’er been cold since his
-thirteenth year, at a time of life approaching that, when, in the words of
-a chivalric bard, “grizzling hair the brain doth clear,” express thus
-passionately his eagerness for a personal encounter with an unfledged
-stripling:—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Come, let me take my horse,
-Who is to bear me, like a thunderbolt,
-Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales;
-Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
-Meet and ne’er part till one drop down a corse...”
- </pre>
-<p>
-Who says the above speech is not historical? I tell you, I find it in
-Shakspeare, who is for me the most authentic of historians. He may be
-wrong, occasionally, in a date or a name, and may, perhaps, at times allow
-his imagination to run away with him. What then? if in nine cases out of
-ten, as I believe to be the case, his imagination, in two or three bounds,
-carries him nearer to the truth than the plodding foot-passengers of
-history can ever reach in their life’s time, encumbered as they are with
-their thick-soled shoes, clumsy staves, and ponderous knapsacks? In
-matters of remote history, we must take many things for granted, and can
-only sift the true from the false by our own instinctive sense of
-probability. When I compare a history of Shakspeare’s with a more prosaic
-record of the same events, the odds of verisimilitude are infinitely in
-favour of the former; and—as the less must be contained in the
-greater—when I find a man invariably right upon matters of real
-importance, why should I suppose him wrong upon trifles? Never tell me
-that a great mind will not stoop to the consideration of petty details,
-however essential. That is a weak invention of the incapable, who dread an
-invasion of the giants in their own little territory. The great mind knows
-that the world is made up of atoms, and can see a fly as well as a dragon.
-Virgil, in the present day, would have been a better authority upon steam
-ploughs and liquid manure than Mr. Mechi, of Tiptree Farm; Herodotus could
-have written a better sixpenny catechism of geography than Pinnock; I
-warrant Raphael Sanzio knew how to sharpen a crayon in less time, bringing
-it to a better point, and with less damage to his penknife, than any
-School of Design boy of the present century.
-</p>
-<p>
-And so, upon the whole, I have decided to pin my historical faith—for
-great and for small, for positive and for doubtful—upon the
-representations of Shakspeare, as many wise men have not been ashamed to
-confess, in solemn assemblies, they have done before me.
-</p>
-<p>
-This decision leads me to fix the date of the battle of Shrewsbury at the
-21st of July (I yield the day of the month to Hollinshed and Co.), in the
-year 1408. At this time the Prince of Wales—history is generally
-pretty correct as to the birth of princes—was in his twenty-first
-year, and being a handsome youth, well trained to warlike exercises, with
-of course a princely command of ornamental outfit, would justify Sir
-Richard Vernon’s glowing description:—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
-His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm’d,
-Rise from the ground like feather’d Mercury,
-And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
-As if an angel dropp’d down from the clouds,
-To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
-And witch the world with noble horsemanship.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff at the same date would be (alas!) in his sixty-second
-year. Hotspur, according to the new reading I am sanguine of establishing,
-could not have been born earlier than the year 1382.
-</p>
-<p>
-It must have been on or about the 10th of the same month (.e. July, 1408)
-that Sir John Falstaff, having got the nucleus of his troops in marching
-order, prepared to lead them against the enemy, proceeding from London in
-a north-westerly direction.
-</p>
-<p>
-The departure of the Falstaff troops from the metropolis, though an event,
-judged by its results, worthy of celebration by the historic pencil, was
-not, <i>per se</i>, one of sufficient importance to call forth any such
-public demonstrations as the closing of shops, the erection of triumphal
-arches, or of balconies for spectators, the turning out of municipal
-authorities, the reading of addresses, &c. &c. The Lord Mayor of
-London on that day attended to his business, cuffing his ‘prentices and
-mixing his wines, stretching and powdering his broadcloth, washing his
-stale ribs of beef with fresh blood, or prematurely ripening his hides
-with marl and ash bark,—according to the civic chair in that year
-happened to be filled by vintner, clothier, butcher, or tanner,—just
-as though nothing were going forward. There was not even so much as a
-procession of virgins to scatter flowers before the warriors’ footsteps;
-not even a band of music to play before them; not so much as a wooden
-barrier to keep off the crowd that did not come to look at them!
-</p>
-<p>
-There were two good reasons for this apparently contemptuous indifference
-on the part of the public. In the first place, it was not then customary
-to celebrate great victories until after they had been obtained. In the
-second place, the Falstaff troops were not, at their setting forth,
-conspicuous either by numbers or equipment. They amounted altogether to
-certainly not more than fifteen warriors, for the most part indifferently
-armed and clad. Of these, two were our friends Bardolph and Peto, the
-latter holding the rank of Lieutenant, to Captain—or, as he would
-now be called, Lieutenant-Colonel Sir John Falstaff. The exact grade of
-Bardolph in the expedition is not easy of definition: it is to be presumed
-he officiated as a sort of aide-de-camp, varying his titular distinction
-according to his audience. * The remainder of the troop were, it is true,
-men of some considerable renown, but owing their celebrity to achievements
-which made their gallant leader by no means over anxious to be seen in
-their company; so that the march from London was commenced in an
-unobtrusive, not to say straggling manner, Sir John Falstaff himself not
-taking horse till his forces had been some half-hour before him on the
-road to glory.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* A distinguished member of the Shaksperian Society has, I
-am informed, a quarto in preparation devoted to the solution
-of the following vital question:—“Was Gadshill killed at
-the battle of Shrewsbury? and if not, how is it we hear no
-more of him after the date of that action?” I can answer the
-question in two lines. Gadshill was hanged at Dulwich, ten
-days before the setting out of the expedition, for robbing
-an aged farmer of two geese, and a pair of leathern
-inexpressibles.
-</pre>
-<p>
-And was this intrepid chieftain actually about to risk the chances of
-battle against the armies of Percy, Douglas, and Glendower, with such
-fearful disadvantages of number and discipline as these? No, reader. Let
-us guard against exaggeration. There are limits to everything—even
-the heroism of Sir John Falstaff. We must not lose sight of the fact that
-our hero would have a king, with several princes and noblemen, with their
-followers, to support him in his expedition;—moreover, he was to
-recruit forces as he went along.
-</p>
-<p>
-The mode of raising soldiers in those days was very simple, and much more
-efficacious than at present. There was, then, no occasion for foreign
-legions, militia nurseries, and such tedious devices. The king, who could
-only do one wrong—namely, that of allowing himself to be kicked off
-the throne by the other king—when he was in want of soldiers,
-resorted to the simple expedient of taking them. That is to say, he
-appointed his officers—who, instead of having to ruin themselves in
-scarlet cloth, bullion lace, sabres, feathers, and horseflesh, as in the
-present day—were merely expected to find their own soldiers, a
-commodity as cheap as dirt, and treated accordingly. This the king’s
-commission enabled them to do with great facility. Armed with the royal
-authority, the officer entered a parish or township, and said he wanted a
-certain number of men. The local authorities were compelled to furnish the
-number required, subject to the officer’s approval; and the men selected
-were compelled to go, whether they liked it or not. This admirable system
-of recruiting, subjected to slight modifications, is still in vogue on the
-continent. Its discontinuance in our own country fully accounts for the
-fact—so often pointed out to us by our neighbours, who of course are
-more qualified to judge of us than we are ourselves—that we have
-long ceased to be a great military nation; a fact which, though
-humiliating, is incontrovertible—witness the notorious incapacity of
-our Guards in the late Crimean war!
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff was empowered to press into the service of King Henry
-the Fourth a hundred and fifty men. Amongst them there may have been
-several who looked upon that monarch as an usurper, and might object to
-fighting against the partisans of Mortimer, Earl of March, who, if English
-law meant anything, was certainly their lawful monarch. This was no
-business of Sir John Falstaff’s.
-</p>
-<p>
-And how did Sir John speed with his recruiting? Admirably, as he did in
-most of his undertakings. His number was soon complete. Of the quality of
-his troops and his manner of raising them let him speak for himself. No
-description of mine could approach his own inimitable picture. (Let it be
-premised, in justification of this great captain’s occasional regard of
-his own interest in the matter, that the commanders of regiments in those
-days had no such privileges as tailoring contracts, &c., and were fain
-to avail themselves of such advantages as offered.)
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0012" id="linkimage-0012"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/134s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="134s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/134.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/134m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“If I be not ashamed of my soldiers I am a soused gurnet. I have misused
-“the king’s press most damnably. I have got, in exchange for a hundred
-“and fifty soldiers, three hundred and I press me none but good
-“householders, yeomen’s sons: inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as
-“had been asked twice on the banns; such a commodity of warm slaves as
-“had as lief hear the devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caviler
-“worse than a struck fowl or a hurt wild duck. I pressed me none but such
-“toasts and butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins’ heads,
-“and they have bought out their services; and now my whole charge
-“consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies, slaves
-“as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton’s dogs licked
-“his sores: and such indeed as were never soldiers; but discarded unjust
-“serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters and
-“ostlers trade-fallen; the cankers of a calm world and a long peace; ten
-“times more dishonourably ragged than an old-faced ancient: and such have I
-“to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their services, that you
-“would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals lately come
-“from swine-keeping, from eating chaff and husks. A mad fellow met me
-“on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets, and pressed the
-“dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I’ll not march through
-“Coventry with them, that’s flat:—Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt
-“the legs, as if they had gyves on; for, indeed, I had the most of them out
-“of prison. There’s but a shirt and a half in all my company; and the half
-“shirt is two napkins tacked together, and thrown over the shoulders like a
-“herald’s coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from
-“my host at St. Alban’s, or the red-nosed innkeeper of Daintry; but that’s
-“all one; they’ll find linen enough on every hedge.
-</pre>
-<p>
-The above profound reflections (which every officer of irregular infantry
-would do well to lay to his heart) were made by Sir John Falstaff, on the
-occasion of a review of his troops near Coventry—at which the Prince
-of Wales and the Earl of Westmoreland assisted. I am inclined to fix the
-date of this important military display on the third day previous to the
-battle of Shrewsbury. The Royalist forces were proceeding towards that
-city by forced marches. Sir John Falstaff, as is well known, came upon the
-field in ample time to give battle to the rebels; and it is improbable
-that any system of forcing could have got him over sixty miles of ground
-in less than three days.
-</p>
-<p>
-Whether or not the knight found the hedgerows of Warwick, Stafford, and
-Salop of such fruitfulness—in the matter of linen—as he had
-anticipated, the historian has no means of ascertaining. The shirt in
-those days, it should be stated, was a comparatively recent invention—nor
-had the art of the laundress been brought to its present perfection.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-VI. HOW SIR JOHN FALSTAFF WON THE BATTLE OF SHREWSBURY.
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>VEN had the Royalist side been deprived of the immense weight of Sir John
-Falstaff’s counsels and support, the issue of the struggle could not have
-been doubtful. Fortune seemed to have declared against the rebels from the
-outset. The Earl of Northumberland was taken ill at Berwick, and unable to
-join his gallant son in the field. The Welsh under Glendower did not come
-up in time for the battle. All the efforts of their gallant and patriotic
-chieftain to bring his troops past the neighbouring cheese districts of
-the border county of Chester had proved ineffectual.
-</p>
-<p>
-Nevertheless the rebels determined on giving battle, which was perhaps a
-superfluous piece of generosity on their part, as the king, the princes,
-and Sir John Falstaff had come determined to take it. Hotspur—the
-warmth of whose heels would not seem to have produced in him any
-remarkable coolness of head—sent, on the eve of the engagement, an
-epistle to the king, which is strikingly illustrative of the knightly
-courtesy of the period. In this document he accuses Henry of murder,
-perjury, illegal taxation, obtaining money under false pretences,
-kidnapping, and bribery at elections. * The crimes of garrotting and
-stealing drinking vessels from the railings of private dwellings were not
-then known, or it is more than probable that these too would have entered
-into the wholesale list of accusations. Such a document, it will be
-admitted, was not calculated to dispose the king to leniency or
-placability. He was a monarch of the bilious temperament, and not at any
-time remarkable for excessive amiability or good humour. A popular
-historian has informed us that “he was subject to fits, which bereaved him
-for a time of reason.” ** The effect of such a communication on a monarch
-so constituted may be imagined.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Hall, folio 21—‘22, &c.
-
-** Pinnock on Goldsmith—a work that has not come within
-the sphere of my observation for many years. The passage
-quoted, however, and many others from the same, were
-indelibly impressed on my memory at the time of perusal by a
-system of mnemonics now unhappily falling into disuse.—
-Biographer.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Whether it was that the insurgent chieftains had formed a mistaken
-estimate of the king’s nature, and imagined that he required a great deal
-of provoking before he could be induced to give them the thrashing they
-seemed so ardently to desire, it would be difficult to say. At any rate,
-on the morning of the battle, Sir Thomas Percy, the Earl of Worcester,
-thought it advisable to look in on the royal camp, as he happened to be
-passing, with a flag of truce, and favour his Majesty with a <i>viva voce
-resume</i> of some of the heads of his nephew’s spirited epistle of the
-preceding night, which might have slipped the royal memory. To Percy’s
-address—which has been put into excellent blank verse by Shakspeare—the
-king replied with a proposal that the rebels should lay down their arms
-and go home quietly, which he knew would not be accepted. Percy departed,
-and the royal council of war at which he had been heard—and at the
-deliberations of which the Princes Henry and John, with Sir Walter Blunt
-and Sir John Falstaff, had assisted—broke up to prepare for action.
-</p>
-<p>
-The rival armies were drawn up on a large plain near the town of
-Shrewsbury overlooked by Haughmond Hill. The character of the ground is
-indicated in the opening lines of the fifth act of the chronicle of “Henry
-the Fourth” (Part I.):—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“How bloodily the sun begins to peer
-Above yon bosky hill!
-The day looks pale
-At his distemperature.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-Herein we have one of ten thousand proofs of Shakspeare’s fidelity to
-historic and natural truth on all occasions. Mr. Blakeway says that great
-author has described the scene as accurately as if he had surveyed it. “It
-still merits the appellation of a bosky hill.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bosky” must be taken in its ancient and poetical sense, signifying
-“wood-covered,” and not in its more modern and familiar acceptation, which
-the presence of Sir John Falstaff, Bardolph, and other warriors of their
-way of living, might have rendered applicable to the aspect of the
-country.
-</p>
-<p>
-The opposing forces were about equal in number, each army consisting in
-round numbers of twelve thousand men. In point of discipline and training
-the advantages were also fairly balanced. The light infantry, under Sir
-John Falstaff, consisted, as we have seen, of raw recruits, indifferently
-clad and nourished. But, as an offset to this must be taken into
-consideration the condition of the Scots under Douglas—large numbers
-of whom, being from the northern highlands, were, according to English
-notions, of necessity more imperfectly clothed than even the Falstaff
-troops themselves. For courage on either side there could not have been
-much to choose; Englishmen and Scotchmen could hit as hard, and were quite
-as fond of doing it, then as in the present day.
-</p>
-<p>
-Hume, writing of this decisive engagement, says:—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“We shall scarcely find any battle in those ages where the shock was more
-“terrible and more constant. Henry exposed his person in the thickest of
-“the fight: his gallant son, whose military achievements were afterwards so
-“renowned, and who here performed his novitiate in arms, signalised himself
-“on his father’s footsteps; and even a wound, which he received in the face
-“with an arrow, could not oblige him to quit the field. Percy supported that
-“fame which he had acquired in many a bloody combat; and Douglas, his
-“ancient enemy, and now his friend, still appeared his rival amongst the
-“horror and confusion of the day. This nobleman performed feats of valour
-“which are almost incredible: he seemed determined that the King of England
-“should that day fall by his arm: he sought him all over the field of battle;
-“and as Henry, either to elude the attacks of the enemy on his person, or to
-“encourage his own men by the belief of his presence everywhere, had
-“accoutred several captains in the royal garb, the sword of Douglas rendered
-“this honour fatal to many: but while the armies were contending in this
-“furious manner, the death of Percy, by an unknown hand, decided the victory,
-“and the royalists prevailed. There are said to have fallen on that day, on
-“both sides, near two thousand three hundred gentlemen; but the persons
-“of greatest distinction were on the king’s: the Earl of Stafford, Sir Hugh
-“Shirley, Sir Nicholas Ganoil, Sir Hugh Mortimer, Sir John Massey, Sir
-“John Calonly. About six thousand private men perished, of whom two-
-“thirds were of Percy’s army. The Earls of Worcester and Douglas were
-“taken prisoners: the former was beheaded at Shrewsbury; the latter was
-“treated with the courtesy due to his rank and merit.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-The above account is substantially correct. To the list of killed and
-wounded it is necessary to add the names of Sir Walter Blunt amongst the
-two thousand three hundred gentlemen, and amongst the six thousand private
-men, one hundred and forty-seven hapless warriors whose particular fate
-will be presently mentioned. Sir Walter Blunt was one of the several
-captains whom the king had “accoutred in the royal garb,” with the view
-“either to elude the attacks of the enemy on his person, or to encourage
-his own men by the belief in his presence everywhere.” The reader may
-accept which theory he pleases. I myself incline to the former, having the
-greatest confidence in Henry Bolingbroke’s wisdom as a general and sense
-of his own value as an individual.
-</p>
-<p>
-Of the violence of the shock between the conflicting armies, one
-circumstance alone is sufficient corroboration. Sir John Falstaff,
-emulating his royal chieftain, also “exposed his person in the thickest of
-the fight”—nay, may very reasonably be asserted to have been “the
-thickest of the fight himself.” We will not pause to dwell upon the
-magnitude of risk incurred by Sir John—much greater in proportion to
-his bulk than that of the slender and dyspeptic monarch—in exposing
-so vast a target to the arrows of the enemy. Our knight’s heroic
-achievements are too numerous to need any stress to be laid on one
-solitary instance. Suffice it, that Sir John, at an early stage of the
-battle, conducted his troops to a position of the greatest danger, where
-they perished almost to a man. In his own light-hearted words, uttered
-amidst the most terrible carnage and peril, “he led his ragamuffins where
-they were peppered!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive!” said Sir John,
-wiping his brow, that was clotted with dust and blood, “and they are for
-the town’s end, to beg during life.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And with this historic fact staring them in the face, there are not
-wanting people to pronounce Sir John Falstaff a coward! Well, well! Sir
-John himself has told us what the world is given to!
-</p>
-<p>
-The heroism of the Douglas and his gallant Scots has not been exaggerated
-by their compatriot historian, in whom exaggeration on the subject might
-well be pardoned. Those intrepid warriors—their movements, for the
-most part, unencumbered with nether garments—performed prodigies of
-valour and ubiquity. It was said of the field of Shrewsbury in the
-fifteenth, as of the four quarters of the globe in the nineteenth century,
-“You found Scotchmen everywhere!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Amongst the Royalist gentlemen with whom the gallant Scotch leader had the
-honour of crossing swords in the course of the day, but to whom the
-reciprocal honour was not “fatal,” as Hume has told us it had been to so
-many, we must class Sir John Falstaff. The fact that the hero of these
-pages was sought out for single combat by the “hot, termagant Scot,” is a
-proof of the high estimation in which our knight’s valour was held even by
-his enemies. The Douglas could not have mistaken him for the King, of whom
-he was in such active pursuit. Sir John’s costume and personal appearance
-must have placed that out of the question. At any rate, they met and
-fought. After a brief encounter—in which the training of poor Wat
-Smith, the Maldyke cudgeller, was doubtless not forgotten—the
-fortune of war decided against our hero. He fell wounded,—not
-dangerously, or even severely, but wounded. The Douglas seeing his
-formidable enemy hors de combat, and—let us assume—espying one
-of the King’s counterfeits in the distance, retreated without following up
-his advantage. I might revive national jealousies, which had better be
-left at rest for ever, were I to hint that the unquestionably brave
-Caledonian had <i>possibly had enough of it</i>, and had found his
-stalwart English adversary rather more than he had bargained for. I will
-content myself with the statement that the Earl of Douglas quitted the
-scene of action abruptly, leaving Sir John Falstaff alive,—not
-seriously injured, but for the moment incapable of doing mischief.
-</p>
-<p>
-And now I approach what I confess to be a most delicate question, and one
-whereof the solution causes me much perplexity. The question is—“Who
-killed Hotspur?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Hume, as we have seen, asserts that the young Northumbrian fell by an
-unknown hand; Shakspeare, as the world knows, represents him to have been
-slain by the Prince of Wales, after a brief hand-to-hand combat.
-</p>
-<p>
-Which is the truth? Is either the truth?
-</p>
-<p>
-As I have professed to abide by the representations of Shakspeare on all
-occasions, in preference to those of other historians, consistency bids me
-to adopt his views on this momentous problem. But I hesitate. After all,
-even Shakspeare was but a man. May not the wish to glorify a popular
-favourite have lulled his conscience to sleep just for once, and induced
-him to crown one hero with another’s laurels? He <i>has</i> been known to
-falsify history for the gratification of popular feeling—in one
-instance most glaringly. Has he not loaded the shoulders of Richard the
-Third with more hump and iniquity than that monarch is historically
-licensed to carry? And why? Because he happened to be writing in the time
-of Henry the Seventh’s granddaughter, and the name of the last Plantagenet
-was still execrated in the land; just as was that of the now respected
-Cromwell in the fine old English reign of the great and good King Charles
-the Second.
-</p>
-<p>
-Let us, however, calmly consider Shakspeare’s view of the case in point,
-and sum up the probabilities before coming to any definite decision.
-</p>
-<p>
-According to Shakspeare, at the moment when the Earl of Douglas <i>was
-running away from Sir John Falstaff</i>—I repeat that I impute no
-unworthy motives to that possibly intrepid act on the part of the noble
-Earl—while the Earl of Douglas was running away, and Sir John
-Falstaff lay panting and bleeding (the Prince of Wales saw him bleed) on
-the field of battle, the two young Henrys, Percy and Plantagenet, had met,
-at a short distance from the scene of the last recorded struggle, and were
-exchanging formal civilities previous to the laudable operation of cutting
-each other’s throat, after the chivalrous manner of our prize-ring
-gladiators, derived traditionally from the practice of the Dacian Pet and
-the Herculaneum Slasher, as chronicled in the writings of Tintinabulus. *
-The Game Chicken, from the wilds of Northumberland, complimented the Larky
-Boy—champion of the Westminster Light Weights—with some irony
-rather implying a regret that the latter bantam should be in a recently
-hatched and inadequately-fledged condition, and scarcely entitled to the
-honours of immolation at the hands, or rather the red-hot spurred heels of
-himself, the Northumberland Chicken, which he declared the Larky One was
-nevertheless foredoomed to undergo; to which Larky replied by advising his
-adversary not to crow prematurely, nor too loudly, nor yet to waste
-arithmetical calculation upon chickens whose incubation was at least
-problematical. He admitted that he was not an old bird, but at the same
-time implied that he was not to be caught by the peculiar species of
-conversational bait of which his opponent was so over liberal. Briefly,
-they flapped their wings, and, without further cackling, flew to the
-attack.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Vita in Roma... De Pugnatoribus. Cap. I.
-</pre>
-<p>
-“The pen of Homer” has been worn by myself and others into a rather stumpy
-condition for the recital of warlike encounters. Let me borrow the pen of
-Jones, the latest London successor of the graphic Tintinabulus, to
-describe the event in question, which Shakspeare represents as having
-“come off” at Shrewsbury.
-</p>
-<h3>
-ROUND THE FIRST.
-</h3>
-<p>
-The two plucky ones were in admirable condition. At first it might have
-been feared that the Westminster Boy, who had bolted from his training a
-short time previously, would not be able to come to the scratch; while it
-was presumed that the Northern Customer, having been for some weeks out of
-collar, and at grass, might have accumulated a troublesome superabundance
-of pork; whereas it proved——
-</p>
-<p>
-But no! The penholder of Jones is too much for the grasp of my attenuated
-fingers. I cannot manage it. I may not attempt to particularise the
-various fibbings, sloggings, grassings, and chancery suits to which the
-conflicting champions subjected one another. I will confine myself to a
-statement in plain language,—that the gallant Percy, having more
-than once drawn claret from the heroic Plantagenet, and the latter
-mountain of courage having given birth to a ridiculous mouse under the
-left ogle of his opponent, both champions having repeatedly kissed the old
-woman *, and risen from that filial process in a piping condition, the
-future winner of the Agincourt belt had it all his own way, until the
-terror of the Scottish borders was eventually gone into and finished.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Mother Earth. Vide “Tintinabulus.” London edition, 1857.
-</pre>
-<p>
-After all, there is nothing like plain, straightforward, intelligible,
-unadorned English!
-</p>
-<p>
-Then, says Shakspeare, the Prince of Wales, having wiped his ensanguined
-sword, and, let us assume, briefly congratulated himself on being well out
-of a serious difficulty, delivered a funereal oration over the body of his
-late adversary, which proved his Royal Highness to be gifted with the most
-eminent qualifications for a popular lecturer. This burst of eloquence
-being terminated to his own satisfaction, he looked round with the
-pardonable vanity of a public speaker, to see if anybody had been
-listening to him. He was disappointed to discover no one but Sir John
-Falstaff, apparently dead, on the ground.
-</p>
-<p>
-However, being in the oratorical vein, his Royal Highness was not to be
-deterred from speaking, by so contemptible a reason as the absence of a
-living auditory. He accordingly let off the following speech, addressed to
-what he considered a dead gentleman. A foolish proceeding, if you will,
-but princes are privileged:—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“What! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh
-Keep in a little life?
-Poor Jack, farewell!
-I could have better spar’d a better man.
-O! I should have a heavy miss of thee,
-If I were much in love with vanity.
-Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day,
-Though many dearer, in this bloody fray.
-Embowell’d will I see thee by and by;
-Till then, in blood by noble Percy lie.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-Having delivered himself of this laboured composition, the Prince of Wales
-went away to tell his father what a clever thing he had done.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then Sir John Falstaff—got up! He had had ample breathing time,
-and felt, upon the whole, much better. He had sufficiently recovered his
-faculties to overhear and understand the concluding phrases of the
-Prince’s soliloquy.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Embowelled!” said Jack, rising slowly (the expression is Shakspeare’s);
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“If thou embowel me to-day, I’ll give you leave to powder me, and eat me
-“to-morrow. ‘Sblood, ‘twas time to counterfeit, or that hot, termagant Scot
-“had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit! I lie; I am no counterfeit.
-“To die is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath
-“not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth,
-“is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The
-“better part of valour is—discretion; in the which better part I have saved
-“my life.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-The unapproachable wisdom of these words, which have claimed the
-discussion of the subtlest modern commentators, it is too late in the day
-to dwell upon.
-</p>
-<p>
-And then Sir John Falstaff looked round and saw the dead body of poor
-Harry Percy. He was frightened, and confessed himself so. But let it be
-borne in mind <i>he only confessed it to himself</i>. The bravest are
-subject to fear. The faculty of apprehension implies comprehension. Lord
-Nelson had a dread of the sea to his dying day, because he knew it would
-be sure to make him sick for the first few days of a voyage. “You were
-frightened,” said a bantering subaltern, after the Battle of Inkermann, to
-a veteran whose cheeks had turned as white as his hair on entering the
-action. “Quite true,” said the brave old man, who had been nearly cut to
-pieces; “if you had been half so frightened as I was, you would have run
-away.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0013" id="linkimage-0013"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/144s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="144s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/144.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/144m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-Let Sir John Falstaff speak for himself on the occasion:—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Zounds! I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if he
-should counterfeit too, and rise?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Quite possible! Sir John knew very little of the defunct Percy’s
-character. How was he to divine that Hotspur had but been distinguished by
-the worser part of valour—brute courage? For aught he knew, the
-young Northumbrian might have been as sensible a man as himself. But let
-us not interrupt the knight’s soliloquy.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make
-him sure; <i>yea, and swear I killed him</i>. Why may not he rise as well
-as I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-(This episode of the civil war may be supposed to have taken place in a
-sheltered ravine of the plain of Shrewsbury, then intersected by the
-numerous branches of a stream, the source of which—on the hill of
-Haughmond—is now dried up.)
-</p>
-<p>
-“Therefore, sirrah, with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with
-me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Saying these words, Sir John Falstaff inflicted a gash upon the still warm
-body of Percy, which he proceeded to hoist on his shoulders. Not an easy
-task, considering our knight’s bulk; but he was born to face and conquer
-difficulties!
-</p>
-<p>
-The native impetuosity of the Prince of Wales’s character cannot be better
-illustrated than by his impatience to procure a witness of some kind or
-another to his recent achievement. In the absence of a better, he pounced
-upon his little brother John, Prince of Lancaster, and possibly the most
-uninteresting character in English history. He dragged that mild prince to
-the scene of action, which they reached just in time to meet Sir John
-Falstaff bearing off the mortal remains of the illustrious Percy.
-</p>
-<p>
-Bewilderment and utter confusion of the distinguished visitors—especially
-Prince Henry.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now then, Hal,” said Prince John (I translate the stilted versification
-of Shakspeare into familiar prose); “I thought you told me this stout
-party had gone to that thingamy from which no what-do-you-call-it
-returns?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ahem! so I did,” replied the elder, stammering and blushing a little.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I saw the individual in question in a positively door-nail condition, not
-ten minutes ago; and I can scarcely believe my senses——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Mr. Paunch—are you dead?”
- </p>
-<p>
-No reply.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Because, if you are, be so kind as to say so—like a man. Seeing is
-by no means believing in this exceptional case. I should be an ass,
-indeed, if I were to say I am all ears; but I listen attentively for your
-own testimony as to whether you are what you appear to be, or not.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No, that’s certain,” replied Sir John, throwing down his body (I now
-quote the chronicler textually). “I am not a double man. There is Percy:
-if your father will do me any honour, so; if not, let him kill the next
-Percy himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The Prince of Wales scratched his ear, and looked very uncomfortable. The
-Prince of Lancaster eyed his brother with an unmistakeable expression of
-opinion that the latter was the greatest humbug in the family—which
-was saying a good deal.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Why,—” Prince Henry stammered awkwardly, addressing himself to Sir
-John Falstaff,—“Percy I killed myself, and saw thee dead.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Prince John of Lancaster whistled a popular melody in a low key.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff lifted up his hands, and exclaimed—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Didst thou? Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying! I grant you I
-was down, and out of breath; and so was he: but we rose both at an
-instant, and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believed,
-so; if not, let them that should reward valour take the sin upon their own
-heads. I’ll take it upon my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh: if
-the man were alive and would deny it, I would make him eat a piece of my
-sword.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Prince John of Lancaster continued to whistle, and implied that the story
-was, to say the least,—singular. It was evident he was inclined to
-attach more credit to the representations of Sir John Falstaff than to
-those of his elder brother. You see, they had been, at school together. No
-man is a hero in the eyes of the valet who takes off his boots when he is
-not in a condition to remove them himself; or in those of the little
-brother whom he has fleeced, fagged, and bullied at a public college.
-</p>
-<p>
-Appearances were certainly against the Prince of Wales, and he was, at any
-rate, philosopher enough to make the best of the difficulty. For once, the
-conqueror of Agincourt—Englishman and warrior as he was—knew
-and confessed himself beaten. He felt that in this particular contest Sir
-John Falstaff had got decidedly the best of him, and morally yielded his
-sword with princely grace.
-</p>
-<p>
-He contented himself with remarking to the Prince of Lancaster, “this is
-the strangest fellow, brother John.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And then, addressing Falstaff,
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back.
-For my part, if a lie may do thee grace,
-I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-At this juncture a retreat was sounded, proving that the fortune of war
-had decided in favour of the Royalist faction. The two princes hastened to
-their father’s tent, Sir John Falstaff following, with the body of Hotspur
-on his back, soliloquising as follows:
-</p>
-<p>
-“I’ll follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, Heaven reward
-him! If I do grow great, I’ll grow less; for I’ll purge, and leave sack,
-and live cleanly as a nobleman should do.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The above is the Shakspearian account, and—as I have already stated—in
-consistency I am bound to adopt it. But what I want to know is this,—why,
-if the Prince of Wales really killed Hotspur, the paid chroniclers of the
-period have not reported it? I admit I can come to no definite conclusion
-upon the subject, and will confine myself to the expression of an opinion
-that <i>the death of Hotspur is still an open question</i>,—with the
-supplementary reminder that Sir John Falstaff, being only a private
-gentleman of limited means, could not hope for the historic recognition of
-an honour disputed with him by the heir-apparent of England. And—to
-come to the point at once—I really believe that Sir John Falstaff <i>did</i>
-kill Hotspur, and that his royal patron bore him a grudge on that account
-to his dying day. It is the only logical explanation of Henry the Fifth’s
-notorious ingratitude to his former boon companion, whom it would have
-been so easy and natural for him to load with honours.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Earl of Douglas, as we have seen, was punished by being sent back to
-Scotland. Sir John Falstaff, contrary to his reasonable expectations, was
-not made either Duke or Earl, in recompense of an achievement for which,
-whether really performed by him or no, he at least obtained credit in the
-opinion of many impartial persons. Herein we find not merely an
-illustration of the proverbial ingratitude of monarchs, but also one, by
-implication, of the personal jealousy of Prince Henry towards Sir John
-Falstaff, whom, as the sequel will show, the Prince of Wales treated with
-the most pointed malignity from the date of the Shrewsbury action to that
-of the knight’s death.
-</p>
-<p>
-I will merely remark that Henry Plantagenet—fifth English king of
-that name—<i>was not a man to do anything without a motive</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-What Sir John Falstaff really gained by his glorious victory of Shrewsbury
-shall be seen in future chapters. It will be found that he was not a loser
-by the transaction. I will conclude the present chapter by a quotation
-from our knight’s expressed opinions before entering the field of battle:—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour pricks me off when I
-“come on? How then? Can honour set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No.
-“Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery
-“then? No. What is honour? A word. What is that word honour?
-“Air; a trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died o’ Wednesday?
-“Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible, then?
-“Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why?
-“Detraction will not suffer it;—therefore, I’ll none of it. Honour is a
-“mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-I think the above observations prove that Sir John Falstaff knew rather
-more about honour than most people of his time, and therefore deserves a
-prominent position amongst the honourable men of the age he lived in.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-BOOK THE FOURTH, 1410—1413.
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-I. OF THE SIGNAL VICTORY GAINED BY SIR JOHN FALSTAFF
-</h2>
-<h3>
-OVER THE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE OF ENGLAND.
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HERE is reason to believe that Sir John Falstaff remained for some months
-in the north-west of England, doubtless employed in pursuit of the
-scattered remnants of the rebel forces. Some considerable time must have
-elapsed from the date of the battle of Shrewsbury to that of his next
-appearance in London of which we have any positive record. Sir John was
-most favourably received on his return to the metropolis, where he was
-more than compensated for the ingratitude of the court by the hospitable
-treatment of the citizens, at whose expense he and his retainers feasted
-in great profusion for many weeks, solely on the strength of the glowing
-accounts received (never mind from what source) of our knight’s
-achievements in Shropshire.
-</p>
-<p>
-But a warrior like Sir John may not long rest on his laurels. A new enemy
-had to be faced, arising in an unexpected quarter.
-</p>
-<p>
-One of the most eminent men of the reign of Henry the Fourth (after Sir
-John Falstaff) was William Gascoigne, Knight and Chief Justice of England.
-The biography of this wise and excellent judge will be found in Master
-Fuller’s work upon English Worthies; a book which would be irreproachable
-but for the culpable and glaring omission of a personage so eminently
-entitled to prominence in such a collection as the hero of these pages.
-The anecdote of Sir William’s courageous committal of the Prince of Wales
-for contempt of court—in the celebrated criminal action of the King
-<i>versus</i> Bardolph—is too well known to need recapitulation
-here. It is true that, bearing as it does on two of the most conspicuous
-characters in this narrative, some slight discussion might be opportunely
-employed on the occurrence; for instance, as to the nature of the offence
-which originally got our rubicund friend “into trouble,” and what was the
-real extent of the magnanimity displayed by the Prince, on the one hand,
-and the Lord Chief Justice, on the other. It would be valuable to the
-cause of historic truth to make quite certain whether the whole affair
-was, or was not, what, in the parlance of modern criminal jurisprudence,
-is called a “put up concern” between the two distinguished actors, having
-for its object a harvest of mutual popularity. The fact that Bardolph <i>was
-at liberty</i> in an incredibly short space of time after the event, lends
-a slight colour of such suspicion as I have hinted at to the transaction;
-but the rights of the matter are involved in such hopeless obscurity as to
-render all investigation on the subject worse than idle.
-</p>
-<p>
-Though in the enjoyment of much and well-merited court favour, and public
-approbation, and being a man of modest integrity, it is still not
-unnatural or inexcusable that Sir William Gascoigne should feel some
-little jealousy of the more brilliant attainments and more enviable renown
-of a warrior, statesman, wit, and scholar like Sir John Falstaff.
-</p>
-<p>
-The weakness of envy is perhaps the most difficult of all Adam’s legacy
-for the best of us to rid ourselves of. History, ancient and modern,
-abounds in illustrations of the tenacity of this vice, even in the noblest
-natures. Dionysius the elder, and the great Cardinal Richelieu, though the
-one an absolute monarch of the fairest island in Greek colonised Europe,
-and the other the virtual master of the most warlike and polished realm of
-the seventeenth century, were both jealous of the pettiest scribblers of
-their respective days. The author of “The Vicar of Wakefield,” and “The
-Citizen of the World,” could not see a mountebank throw a summerset but he
-must risk the scattering of his valuable brains in an attempt to do the
-same thing better. To seek an illustration nearer our own time, have we
-not the celebrated little boy of the United States of America, who, though
-he had carried away the prizes for writing and arithmetic, committed
-suicide because an inferior mathematician of his own class defeated him in
-the correct spelling of “phthisic!”?
-</p>
-<p>
-Is it then a great wonder that the Lord Chief Justice of England (an
-office which, after all, was then of little more importance than that of a
-police magistrate of the present day) should have felt envious of a man so
-vastly his superior in every way (except in the trifling matters of
-solvency and conventional honesty), as Sir John Falstaff, and should have
-sought to annoy his brilliant rival by every means in his power; of which,
-considering the official position of the one man, and the habits of the
-other, there could have been no scarcity?
-</p>
-<p>
-Amongst other illustrations of what must be called <i>petty persecution</i>—(for,
-in a work of this serious description, things should receive their right
-names without respect to persons)—on the part of Sir William
-Gascoigne towards Sir John Falstaff, it may be mentioned that the former
-chose to consider the Gadshill expedition as a grave offence, punishable
-by the defective criminal code of the period. He summoned Sir John to
-appear before him to answer the charge. Sir John treated the invitation
-with the contempt it deserved, and went off to kill Percy—stay, that
-is a slip of the pen—I should say, to distinguish himself in the
-glorious field of Shrewsbury.
-</p>
-<p>
-It will hardly be supposed that the tidings of Sir John Falstaff’s safe
-return from action under a perfect forest of fresh-grown laurels were
-particularly agreeable to Sir William Gascoigne. Gall and wormwood, on the
-contrary, may be assumed to have been the flavour imparted by them to the
-chief judicial mind. At any rate, it is indisputable that his lordship had
-not many days heard of our hero’s safe arrival and honoured treatment in
-London when he took a walk, attended only by a single follower, for the
-express purpose of taking Sir John Falstaff into custody. There is but one
-consideration which makes such a proceeding <i>wholly inexcusable</i>—namely,
-that the Justice should have nursed his vindictiveness for a period of so
-many months. This, it must be admitted, argues a relentless and
-unforgiving nature.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Chief Justice was an artful man, as will be believed from his having
-risen to high rank in the legal profession. He thought it prudent to veil
-his malignant design even from his attendant.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What’s he that goes there?” He enquired, breaking off a general
-conversation to point towards a stout gentleman whom he saw walking
-leisurely down the street followed by a diminutive page.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Falstaff, an’t please your Lordship.”
- </p>
-<p>
-His Lordship affected absence of mind.
-</p>
-<p>
-“He that was in question for the robbery?”
- </p>
-<p>
-<i>The</i> robbery! You observe, reader? There was but one robbery present
-to his Lordship’s mind, and that one committed possibly more than a
-twelvemonth back.
-</p>
-<p>
-“He, my Lord: but he hath since done good service at Shrewsbury; and, as I
-hear, is now going with some charge to the Lord John of Lancaster.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What, to York?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The countenance of his worship fell considerably. These tidings were
-baffling to his hopes of vengeance. Sir John Falstaff was once more in the
-king’s commission, and consequently not liable to arrest. Still Sir
-William was loth to let his prey slip wholly away from him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Call him back,” he said to his servant.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was some difficulty in getting the knight to arrest his course.
-</p>
-<p>
-In the first place, he was afflicted with a sudden deafness. This
-temporary obstacle overcome, he showed an obtuseness of understanding as
-to what was said to him that was really surprising in a man of his
-intellectual antecedents. At length the Justice attacked him personally,
-with—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sir John Falstaff, a word with you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The Chief Justice had his wish—rather more than his wish, in fact.
-Sir John Falstaffs manner of gratifying it shall be given in the exact
-words of the chronicler *:—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* “Henry IV” (Part II.) Act I. Sc. 2.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—My good lord! God give your lordship good time of
-day. I am glad to see your lordship abroad; I heard say your lordship was
-sick: I hope your lordship goes abroad by advice. Your lordship, though
-not clean past your youth, hath yet some smack of age in you, some relish
-of the saltness of time; and I most humbly beseech your lordship, to have
-a reverend care of your health.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—Sir John, I sent for you before your expedition to
-Shrewsbury.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sik John Falstaff.—An’t please your lordship, I hear his majesty is
-returned with some discomfort from Wales.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—I talk not of his majesty:—You would not come
-when I sent for you.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff__And I hear, moreover, his highness is fallen into this
-same villainous apoplexy.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—Well, heaven mend him! I pray you, let me speak with
-you.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sib John Falstaff.—This apoplexy is, as I take it, a kind of
-lethargy, an’t please your lordship; a kind of sleeping in the blood, a
-rascally tingling.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—What tell you me of it? be it as it is.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—It hath its original from much grief; from study,
-and perturbation of the brain: I have read the cause of his effects in
-Galen: it is a kind of deafness.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—I think you are fallen into the disease; for you hear
-not what I say to you.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Very well, my lord, very well: rather, an’t
-please you, it is the disease of not listening, the malady of not marking,
-that I am troubled withal.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—To punish you by the heels would amend the attention
-of your ears; and I care not, if I do become your physician.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient;
-your lordship may minister the potion of imprisonment to me, in respect of
-poverty; but how I should be your patient to follow your prescriptions,
-the wise may make some dram of a scruple, or, indeed, a scruple itself.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—I sent for you, when there were matters against you
-for your life, to come speak with me.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—As I was then advised by my learned counsel in
-the laws of this land-service, I did not come.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in great
-infamy.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—He that buckles him in my belt cannot live in
-less.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—-Your means are very slender, and your waste great.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—I would it were otherwise; I would my means were
-greater, and my waist slenderer.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—You have misled the youthful prince.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—The young prince hath misled me: I am the fellow
-with the great belly, and he my dog.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—Well, I am loath to gall a new-healed wound: your
-day’s service at Shrewsbury hath a little gilded over your night’s exploit
-on Gads hill: you may thank the unquiet time for your quiet o’er-posting
-that action.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—My lord?—
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.’—But since all is well, keep it so: wake not a
-sleeping wolf.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—To wake a wolf is as bad as to smell a fox.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—What! you are as a candle, the better part burnt out.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—A wassel candle, my lord: all tallow: if I did
-say of wax, my growth would approve the truth.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—There is not a white hair on your face, but should
-have his effect of gravity.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice__You follow the young prince up and down, like his ill
-angel.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Not so, my lord; your ill angel is light; but, I
-hope, he that looks upon me will take me without weighing: and yet, in
-some respects, I grant, I cannot go, I cannot tell. Virtue is of so little
-regard in these coster-monger times, that true valour is turned bearherd.
-Pregnancy is made a tapster, and hath his quick wit wasted in giving
-reckonings: all the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of this
-age shapes them, are not worth a gooseberry. You, that are old, consider
-not the capacities of us that are young: you measure the heat of our
-livers with the bitterness of your galls; and we that are in the vaward of
-our youth, I must confess, are wags too.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth,
-that are written down old with all the characters of age? Have you not a
-moist eye? a dry hand? a yellow cheek? a white beard? a decreasing leg? an
-increasing belly? Is not your voice broken? your wind short? your chin
-double? your wit single? and every part about you blasted with antiquity?
-and will you yet call yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John!
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—My lord, I was born about three of the clock in
-the afternoon, with a white head, and something a round belly. For my
-voice,—I have lost it with hollaing, and singing of anthems. To
-approve my youth farther, I will not: the truth is, I am only old in
-judgment and understanding; and he that will caper with me for a thousand
-marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him. For the box o’ the ear
-that the Prince gave you, he gave it like a rude prince, and you took it
-like a sensible lord. I have checked him for it, and the young lion
-repents; marry, not in ashes and sackcloth, but in new silk, and old sack.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—Well, God send the Prince a better companion!
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—God send the companion a better prince! I cannot
-rid my hands of him.
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—Well, the King hath severed you and Prince Harry. I
-hear you are going with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop and
-the Earl of Northumberland.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Yea; I thank your pretty sweet wit for it. But
-look you pray, all you that kiss my lady peace at home, that our armies
-join not in a hot day; for, by the Lord, I take but two shirts out with
-me, and I mean not to sweat extraordinarily: if it be a hot day, an I
-brandish any thing but my bottle, I would I might never spit white again.
-There is not a dangerous action can peep out his head, but I am thrust
-upon it: well, I cannot last ever. [But it was always yet the trick of our
-English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common. If you
-will needs say I am an old man, you should give me rest. I would to God,
-my name were not so terrible to the enemy as it is: I were better to be
-eaten to death with rust, than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual
-motion. ]
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—Well, be honest, be honest; and God bless your
-expedition!
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Will your lordship lend me a thousand pound to
-furnish me forth?
-</p>
-<p>
-Chief Justice.—Not a penny, not a penny: you are too impatient to
-bear crosses. Fare you well: commend me to my cousin Westmoreland.
-</p>
-<p>
-I consider this utter defeat of my Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne one of the
-most brilliant triumphs of Sir John Falstaff’s victorious life.
-</p>
-<p>
-“If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle,” said Jack, looking after the
-retreating form of his defeated adversary with ineffable contempt. “Boy!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Sir?” said the small page.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What money is in my purse?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Seven groats and twopence.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only
-lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. Go, bear this letter to my
-Lord of Lancaster; this to the Prince; this to the Earl of Westmoreland;
-and this to old Mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I
-perceived the first white hair on my chin. About it; you know where to
-find me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And pray, who was old Mistress Ursula? We may chance to hear of her by and
-bye.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-II. THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED:
-</h2>
-<p>
-DEFENCE OF THE CHARACTER OF THE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE GASCOIGNE: CHARITABLE
-CONSTRUCTION OF HIS CONDUCT IN THE CELEBRATED ACTION OF QUICKLY
-</p>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> WOULD that full justice to the greatness, wisdom, and magnanimity of my
-much calumniated hero could be accomplished without the painful task of
-censuring and exposing the conduct of those enemies to whose machinations
-he owed penury, neglect, and persecution in his lifetime—obloquy and
-misrepresentation after death. To censure at any time is a disagreeable
-task; more especially when the object of your strictures is a personage
-whose memory successive generations have held in reverential esteem. It is
-a thankless office to be the first to call attention to a stain on a
-reputation hitherto deemed spotless—as it is to be the first to tell
-your sleeping neighbour that his roof is burning. The raven is an honest
-bird and croaks the approach of bad weather with unerring truthfulness;
-but the raven is universally hated. I am aware that there are certain
-writers who have a taste for this kind of discovery, whose minds’ eyes may
-be compared to a solar telescope, finding out an unsightly mass of blots,
-blurs, and creases, when the world at large can see nothing but uniform,
-cheering light. These gentlemen—who, supposing the mind to have a
-nose as well as an eye, may be called the carrion crows of literary
-judgment—so keen is their scent for a decomposing reputation, and so
-intense their enjoyment of dead excellence that has turned bad—are
-not desirable models for imitation. Neither are their antipodes—the
-<i>couleur de rose</i> critics, who deaden their mental nostrils to any
-“fly-blown” indications in a character they are compelled to digest;
-preferring to swallow the whole with hopeful self-persuasion that all has
-been good, wholesome, and nutritious. The conscientious and impartial
-writer will endeavour to observe a medium course between these two. But
-that course, how difficult to discover and observe! The soundest human
-judgment, like the strongest eyesight, is fallible. What we think are
-spots on the sun may but be the dazzling effect of more pure light than
-our imperfect optic nerves can sustain. We may think we are about to strip
-a masquerading daw, and at our first rude grip a heartrending cry will
-tell us that we have ruined the jewelled train of a majestic peacock!
-</p>
-<p>
-The above I admit to be a specimen of that logical process known as
-“beating about the bush,” a proof that I am staggering, like the
-pencil-leg of a knock-kneed compass, round a point which I have much
-hesitation in coming to. The case of the obscure youth who acquired
-immortality by burning Diana’s temple, is a stale illustration, but I am
-fain to use it for want of better. It might be thought that I am aspiring
-to a renown like that of Erostratus, if the arguments of this chapter
-should result—as I hope and trust they will not—in a balance
-of probability to the effect that the venerated name of Sir William
-Gascoigne was really that of one of the most contemptible scoundrels that
-ever occupied his wrong place in a court of justice. I repeat that I hope
-my patient pursuit of truth in this very trying matter will not bring me
-to a standstill at so awkward a point. Nay, so terrified am I at the bare
-possibility of doing irreparable injustice to a great man’s memory, that I
-will lose no time in admitting that very probably Sir William Gascoigne
-was a ten times greater, wiser, and more immaculate being than even his
-eulogists have represented him, and that, in a still greater likelihood, I
-myself am an obtuse purblind personage, with no soul to appreciate the
-more exalted virtues, and with a deplorable squint in my critical vision.
-Having admitted this as a possibility—without asserting it as a fact—of
-myself, I may be surely allowed the same speculative margin quoad the
-hypothesis of the Lord Chief Justice now under discussion, not having
-been, to use the mildest expression, the man he has been taken for. At the
-same time the reader will understand that I do not wish him to attach to
-my opinion (should I succeed in forming one on this most trying subject)
-more weight than is due to the honest expression of a private individual’s
-most impartial judgment, the result of patient, untiring investigation of
-the most copious and incontrovertible facts, aided by a paramount thirst
-for truth and an intellect habituated to moral analysis.
-</p>
-<p>
-I trust that it will now be felt I am prepared to do Sir William Gascoigne
-the amplest justice; and will lose no more time in enumerating the moral
-enormities whereof I am so anxious to prove he could not possibly have
-been guilty. The decision I have already been reluctantly brought to—explained
-in the last chapter—that his Lordship’s character was not free from
-a strong taint of envy, which only induces me to be the more careful. Let
-us shun prejudice above all things. Envy, as we all know, if not kept in
-check by the worthier attributes of our nature, will lead to the
-commission of every earthly crime, especially of offences such as those
-which I think—yes, I think—I am about to show you Sir William
-Gascoigne was incapable of meditating, or, at any rate, of putting into
-execution.
-</p>
-<p>
-And now I have worked myself up into a perfectly sanguine condition. I am
-sure I shall be able to clear the Justice’s reputation from the last
-lingering blemish of suspicion. If I do not succeed I shall be very much
-disappointed.
-</p>
-<p>
-In the first place it is improbable that any close degree of intimacy
-should have existed between a man of Sir William’s exalted position and an
-obscure person like Mistress Helen Quickly, widow and licensed victualler,
-proprietress of the Old Boar’s Head Tavern, Eastcheap.
-</p>
-<p>
-It is true that the great legal functionaries of that period—as of
-many much later—were usually men of obscure birth, raised, in most
-cases (unquestionably in that of Gascoigne), to power and distinction by
-the exercise of their own talents and virtues; allowing for this, it is
-not unlikely that Sir William, in early life, may have been acquainted
-with, and even befriended by, Mrs. Quickly. There is even reason to
-believe that they were blood relations. A statement from Sir John Falstaff
-that the lady was in the habit of going about London asserting—with
-pardonable arrogance—that her eldest son bore a striking physical
-resemblance to the Chief Justice would lend some probability to this
-theory. A suspicion on Sir John’s part that this boast might have
-originated in mental hallucination may, or may not, be considered to
-weaken the evidence. We will pass this over, and confine ourselves to the
-supposition that Sir William Gascoigne, when a struggling law-student, was
-possibly greatly indebted to the maternal or sisterly hospitality of Mrs.
-Quickly. There would be no harm in his accepting gratuitous board—nay,
-even in his borrowing money—at her hands. Well! as a just man and a
-grateful, he would, of course, not forget his old benefactress in the days
-of his prosperity. Duty to his high position would not enable him to avow
-the acquaintance publicly (more especially if the by no means disproved
-relationship really existed). Still, it is not unreasonable to suppose
-that Sir William may have occasionally looked in at the Boar’s Head, for a
-quiet flagon and a confidential chat with his friend the hostess, to whom
-as a lone woman and a confiding innkeeper, his sage counsels—more
-especially on questions connected with the debtor and creditor laws of the
-period—would be in the highest degree serviceable. The fact of an
-illustrious legal dignitary having a marked predilection for tap-rooms and
-bar-parlours is by no means without parallel in English history. The great
-Judge Jeffries was given to that species of amusement. So was a celebrated
-Speaker of the House of Commons, in the reign of George the Second, whose
-name I read the other day in a penny morning newspaper, but which I am
-quite sure I have now forgotten.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mind, I am very far from asserting that Sir William Gascoigne ever saw the
-inside of a tavern. The only positive record of a personal meeting between
-him and Mrs. Quickly represents them as utter strangers to each other. But
-to assume this attitude—supposing the idle suggestions I have
-propounded (with a view to their ultimate refutation) to have the
-slightest foundation in probability—would be their most obvious
-policy. Let that pass: I merely think it remarkable that on <i>the very
-day after the conversation recorded in the last chapter</i>, good,
-kind-hearted Mrs. Quickly, who had known Sir John Falstaff twenty-nine
-years come peascod time, who, as we have seen, was one of our knight’s
-most devoted admirers, and to whose nature an act of voluntary severity
-was a moral impossibility, should, at the moment when Sir John was
-husbanding all his resources for his second campaign against the northern
-rebels (a position indicated in the conversation just alluded to), from
-which he might never come back alive, suddenly belie the purport of her
-whole existence by arresting her ever-honoured guest for a pitiful sum of
-a hundred marks. Mrs. Quickly did this; and the act would be
-incomprehensible, but for a light thrown on its motives by the unerring
-luminary of Sir John Falstaff’s intellect. He explained it in eight
-syllables:
-</p>
-<p>
-“I know thou wast set on to this.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0014" id="linkimage-0014"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/162s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="162s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/162.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/162m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-I do not state that Mrs. Quickly was “set on” by Sir William Gascoigne.
-But I should very much like to know who else could possibly have been her
-instigator in the transaction? I do not suppose Mrs. Quickly would have
-known where to find Messrs. Fang and Snare—representatives of the
-Sheriff of London—without some legal advice on the subject. And
-allow me to ask, without prejudice, <i>What was Sir William Gascoigne
-doing, hanging about the neighbourhood woth a strong posse of retainers at
-the moment of Sir John Falstaff’s attempted arrest, unless to promote, and
-exult in, the discomfiture of his victor of the preceding day?</i> Perhaps
-the learned judge’s personal biographers can clear up this matter on
-honourable grounds. Nothing would give me greater satisfaction. But, till
-something of the kind be really done, the thing certainly wears an
-unfavourable aspect.
-</p>
-<p>
-Leaving the motives of the case an open question, and wishing to give them
-the most charitable construction, I will confine myself to the facts. Sir
-John Falstaff, returning from the city, where he had been making purchases
-for the coming campaign, was waylaid by Messrs. Fang and Snare aforesaid,
-who attempted to arrest him at the suit of Quickly, that lady being
-present in person. The terror of Sir John’s name had been almost enough to
-keep the myrmidons of an oppressive law from entering upon their dangerous
-mission. That of the knight’s presence spread a panic amongst their craven
-forces. Sir John Falstaff was not alone. He was accompanied by the
-formidable Bardolph—more than a match for any bailiff, as countless
-well-contested actions had proved—and the less terrible personality
-of little Robin, the page, before whom Master Fang’s boy quailed abjectly.
-After a brief engagement, the troops of the Sheriff were routed. Victory,
-as usual, declared herself on the side of Sir John Falstaff—when,
-also as usual, invidious destiny interfered to deprive him of the fruits
-of conquest in the shape of the Lord Chief Justice, who suddenly made his
-appearance, “attended,” (observe the precaution) from round the corner—quite
-by accident, of course!
-</p>
-<p>
-The Lord Chief Justice, after a brief show of wishing to keep the peace (I
-wonder if Lord Chief Justices then, any more than now, were in the habit
-of doing duty as <i>common policemen</i>, unless for some private
-purpose), enquired the grounds of dispute. He certainly said or did
-nothing to prove that lie had any previous knowledge of them; but he fell
-to abusing Sir John Falstaff, for being then detained in London instead of
-being on his way to York with his troops, with something like indelicate
-precipitancy—displaying a predisposition to quarrel unpleasantly
-suggestive to the modern reader of the fable of the wolf and the lamb.
-</p>
-<p>
-It may have been a fault of the defective judicial science of the period,
-and no proof of personal bias, that Sir William conducted himself
-throughout the hearing of this case more as an advocate than as a judge.
-At any rate he sided with Mrs. Quickly from the outset, and “summed up”
- dead against Sir John Falstaff before he had heard a word of the evidence.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mrs. Quickly stated her complaint in a rambling, disconnected speech, in
-which I do not say she was absolutely prompted by her learned friend
-(there is no offence in the designation; if Gascoigne were really what he
-pretended to be, to call him the friend of the poor, the widowed and the
-oppressed, is surely a compliment), but which—from the looseness of
-the speaker’s diction—was clearly a got-by-rote affair, and in no
-instance an expression of the heart’s feelings. The first count in the
-verbal indictment was a matter of money lent, and debt incurred for board
-and lodging. The second was one of breach of promise of marriage.
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff appealed to the <i>Justice</i>, in words, the purport of which I
-have already quoted.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My lord, this is a poor mad soul: and she says up and down the town that
-her eldest son is like you: she hath been in good case, and the truth is
-poverty hath distracted her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I have said that I decline giving an opinion as to the foundation of this
-report. I will only say, now, that the Lord Chief Justice had no better
-reply to make to it than a quibble. <i>He did not contradict it. Moreover,
-he suddenly became civil to Sir John Falstaff, and recommended a friendly
-compromise</i>. Curious, was it not?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff took Mrs. Quickly aside. The result of their <i>tête-à-tête</i>
-was an almost momentary reconciliation, proving the shallowness of the
-artificial soil on which the exotic plant of the hostess’s animosity had
-been forced by the subtle devices of her legal adviser, <i>whoever that
-may have been</i>. Scarcely fifty seconds had elapsed, and ere the same
-number of words could have passed between them, the following colloquial
-fragment was audible:—
-</p>
-<p>
-Sin John Falstaff.—As I am a gentleman.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mistress Helen Quickly.—Nay, you said so before—
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—As I am a gentleman; come, no more words of it.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mistress Helen Quickly.—By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must
-be fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of my dining chambers.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Knight—-Glasses, glasses is the only drinking; and for thy
-walls,—a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the Prodigal, or
-the German hunting in water-work is worth a thousand of those bed-hangings
-and those fly-bitten tapestries. <i>Let it be ten pound if thou canst</i>.
-Come, an it were not fur thy humours, there is not a better wench in
-England. Go, wash thy face, and draw thy action. Come, thou must not be in
-this humour with me; dost not know me? Come, come, I know thou wast set on
-to this.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Lady.—Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles; i’ faith
-I am loath to pawn my plate in good earnest, la!
-</p>
-<p>
-The Brave.—Let it alone; I’ll make other shift; you’ll be a fool
-still.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Fair.—Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown. I hope
-you’ll come to supper. You’ll pay me altogether?
-</p>
-<p>
-The Invincible.—Will I live?
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0015" id="linkimage-0015"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/167s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="167s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/167.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/167m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-And what was the upshot of this colloquy? Simply that Mrs. Quickly
-returned placidly to her home, under the friendly convoy of Bardolph and
-Robin, the former commissioned by his master to look well after the poor
-lady, and to see that no designing persons should a second time wean her
-from obeying the dictates of her better nature. It is worthy of remark
-that Mrs. Quickly did not say so much as “good morning” to the Lord Chief
-Justice. I suppose there was some motive for this, as for every other
-impulse of human action. For my part, I will maintain that course of
-dispassionate reserve I have so scrupulously adhered to throughout this
-trying inquiry, and offer no opinion whatever on the subject.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mind, there is one thing I cannot, and will not, and do not intend to,
-allow anybody else to believe. I will not have it supposed, for a moment
-even, that Sir William Gascoigne could have been interested in the issue
-of this action on any grounds so contemptible as pecuniary commission in
-the event of recovery. Emphatically—No! If personal feeling <i>had</i>
-anything to do with his interference, it must have been a feeling far
-nobler than that of mere avarice—to wit, revenge! He had been
-baffled, discomfited, eclipsed by Falstaff, and he was human. That he may
-have wished to blight the prospects of Falstaff, is, alas! for our fallen
-nature, but too possible! But I cannot believe that he would even have
-accepted so much as a clerk’s fee from Mrs. Quickly,—in spite of the
-notorious corruptibility of judges in the Middle Ages, and the absence of
-any proof of such greatness of character in the subject of these remarks
-as should have placed him above the besetting weaknesses of his race and
-order.
-</p>
-<p>
-And now I trust I have performed the difficult task I proposed to myself
-of doing the fullest justice to Sir William Gascoigne’s character. More; I
-flatter myself that when mere barren justice has failed to reestablish the
-memory of that great man in a sufficiently favourable light, I have at
-times even soared into chivalry. As his champion defender I have
-fearlessly grappled with all the accusations that could be brought against
-him in connection with this critical portion of his career. If I have
-failed in refuting them, the fault is mine.
-</p>
-<p>
-It may be asked why I have taken all these pains in clearing up the
-character of a man who forms but a passing accessory to my main subject?
-In the first place, reader, let justice be done though the heavens fall.
-In the second place, if I had not satisfactorily proved—(for I have
-proved it, have I not?)—Sir William Gascoigne’s innocence of those
-charges, of which he might otherwise have been believed guilty, there are
-certain matters connected with the close of my hero’s public career which
-it would have been impossible for me to explain away, except on grounds
-which I will here say nothing about, and which I hope it will not be my
-painful duty to allude to on a future occasion.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-III. SIR JOHN FALSTAFF AN AUTHOR.
-</h2>
-<p>
-FRAGMENTS OF HIS CORRESPONDENCE.—EPISODE OF THE FAIR DOROTHEA AND
-ANCIENT PISTOL.
-</p>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ET us turn awhile from the sickening horrors of war, and the scarcely
-less revolting machinations of statecraft, faction, and personal rivalry,
-to contemplate Sir John Falstaff under the soothing influences of the arts
-and the affections.
-</p>
-<p>
-With the valour and generalship of Hundwulf Falstaff, the necessities of
-Roger, the thirst of Hengist, the humour and, alas! the ill-luck of Uffa,—our
-hero inherited the literary tastes of his celebrated ancestor, Peter. A
-deficiency in that poet’s praiseworthy attribute of industry may have been
-one reason for his not having enriched the literature of his country by
-any legacy of first-class importance. Moreover, it must be borne in mind
-that the principle of encouraging authors to composition by adequate
-pecuniary rewards—defectively understood even in the present day—was,
-at that time, not even recognised; and the bare idea of aimless labour to
-a logical intellect like that of Sir John Falstaff would be naturally
-revolting.
-</p>
-<p>
-Nevertheless, high rank may be claimed for Sir John as a British author—not
-so much from his actual achievements in the field of letters, as from the
-fact of his having been one of the earliest pioneers in the cause. Viewed
-by this light, he is entitled to classification in the same category with
-Chaucer, Lydgate, and others. He lacks the learning and polish of the
-first-mentioned writer, and is deficient in the patient observation of the
-second; while both surpass him in fecundity. On the other hand, he is
-vastly superior to the Monk of Bury in richness of imagination and daring
-boldness of invention; while the charges of gross plagiarism and
-corruption of the English language by the adoption of foreign idiom, from
-which the fondest partiality has been unable to clear the memory of the
-author of the <i>Canterbury Pilgrimage</i>, have never been brought
-against Sir John Falstaff, that I am aware of.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Falstaff papers—such fragments of the author’s composition as
-have been saved from the wreck of ages (of which a perfect Spanish Armada
-has gone down, under the heavy fire of Rear-Admiral Time, since Sir John
-Falstaff trod the deck of earthly existence)—are not voluminous.
-Cause has been already shown to suppose that they could never, in any
-case, have attained to any considerable bulk. But on this head we have no
-accurate means of deciding. It has already been seen that <i>Sir John
-Falstaff had powerful enemies</i>. It would be to the interest of such
-people to destroy, or cause to be destroyed, any relics of our knight’s
-greatness that might lead to the perpetuation of his glories and their own
-infamy. But I am getting upon dangerous ground again.
-</p>
-<p>
-The favourite form of composition adopted by Sir John Falstaff was the
-epistolary; and he may be confidently set forth as the first English
-writer who brought that delightful branch of literature to anything like
-perfection. I would not have it supposed that Sir John was a mere idle
-gossip, like Horace Walpole, Cowper, and such latter-day <i>dilettanti</i>.
-He was essentially a practical man—literature was with him a means,
-not an end. His pen to him was like his sword—a weapon only to be
-used upon pressing occasion; but which, once assumed, was seldom laid
-aside till it had done good service. When he wrote, it was with the view
-to remedy some glaring want of the age he lived in. Being essentially the
-man of his age, he always knew, from the unerring test of his own
-necessities, what the age wanted, and wrote for it accordingly. There were
-no journals or magazines in those days. When our knight felt that any
-crying hardship or calamity inflicted upon suffering humanity—typified
-in the personality of Sir John Falstaff—might be removed by the
-exercise of a little eloquence, persuasion, or even casuistry, he had no
-alternative but to address his arguments, prayers, or remonstrances, to
-private individuals. And trust me, Sir John Falstaff was not the man to
-write letters for nothing.
-</p>
-<p>
-The earliest specimen of Sir John Falstaff’s correspondence extant (and of
-any such, I can fearlessly assert, there exists not one in a single
-antiquarian collection in Europe which the diligent researches of myself
-and emissaries have failed to discover) is a little schoolboy letter
-written in a villanous, sprawling attempt at the Gothic character,
-scarcely legible, owing to the ravages of time and the defective education
-of a lad of fourteen, at a period when English had barely begun to be a
-written language. How boys learnt to write at all under a caligraphic <i>régime</i>
-which made it almost as difficult to pen a syllable as to design a
-cathedral, is to me a marvel, only explained by the unwelcome theory that
-our ancestors were much cleverer and more persevering fellows than
-ourselves. However, that young Jack Falstaff, soon after he found himself
-put in the way of making his fortune, as a reward for stealing poor Sir
-Simon Ballard’s venison (mythical foreshadow of its owner’s doom, whom we
-have seen so cruelly hung and roasted!), was able to build up his groined
-“m’s,” “v’s,” and “n’s,” to erect the transepts on his “t’s,” and ornament
-the façades of his capitals generally, so as to leave them intelligible at
-this distance of centuries, is to me a proof that that good, kind,
-blue-eyed Lady Alice Falstaff,—of whom I regret to have so long lost
-sight,—was., amongst her other social recommendations, an excellent
-schoolmistress. For Jack’s sake, I am inclined to regret that he did not
-stop at home to finish his education. But in that case, what would have
-become of this instructive biography—not to mention one or two
-amusing works on the same subject by a previous writer encouragingly
-alluded to in these pages? Here is the letter—at least, such
-fragments of it as can be interpreted into modern English with any degree
-of certainty:—
-</p>
-<p>
-“My good sweet mother, I am very well; London is a rare place, nothing but
-houses. I have seen King Edward, he is an old man, ill-favoured, and ever
-groaning. He laughs pleasant though, and tweaked me by the ear, giving me
-a gold florence, saying it was to keep me from hurting his deer. I live in
-a fine rare house, but there are finer houses-here, and Sir Thomas not
-near so fine as the princes are. You never told me there was a Queen. She
-is the same name as you, and very fair. The princes call her Mistress
-Perrers—why, I know not, except it be for sport. I saw the Princess
-of Wales that we call the fair maid of Kent. She is not so fair as the
-queen. She passed by the queen tossing her head quite disdainful. I asked
-why that was, and the queen said she had unruly sons who set their wives
-against her—whereat the king laughed, and the princes. The queen is
-not so old as you, and Prince John looks nearly as old as my good father.
-The queen is a merry lady, kissed me, and said I should be Mercury in her
-next pageant. She gave me a gold florence too, but my good father had it
-of me, Thursday last, saying,
-</p>
-<h3>
-* * * *
-</h3>
-<p>
-“Master Jehan says he will give me as many skins to write on as I will, so
-it be to write to you. Which he says good for me. He calls you that sweet,
-noble gentlewoman, my mother, and ever lifts his cap at your name. He
-makes sport for the princes with his sayings. I find no mirth in him, save
-his bad way of speaking English. He is sad enough with me. He lays his
-hand on my brow, looks at me, and sighs. I would fain please him, for,
-with all his tristeness, he is kind to me.” [Here three lines are
-carefully effaced; the words “saved” and “whipping” being alone
-decipherable.] “When I ply him with questions, he says ever, ‘write to my
-mother, boy, and love her.’ Why, see, now I do write, and ***** says he is
-struck by the falling sickness,—and truly he fell thrice up the pan
-tier’s stairs, coming to see me secretly, for Sir Thomas will not have him
-about the house * * * his chamber so sorry it would make you weep. The
-sanctuary is hard by the abbey. I found him much restored, and had got him
-canary with the gold florence I sent him—for medicine, he said; but
-other distressed gentlemen were drinking it with him that seemed not much
-in need of medicine. He is nigh ragged, and takes it to heart that I
-should go in brocaded satin. I pray you send me the six shillings—for
-I would not have Sir Thomas know of the torn doublet. he comes home
-Wednesday. The Prince of Wales is yet sick in Gascony. My good father
-would have me borrow him a suit of Sir Thomas’s—for one day—that
-he might visit a nobleman, owes him money, as he says. I was taking it
-from the house, no one seeing me but Master Jehan, who is ever prying. I
-was fain to tell him what I was carrying, and where. To see the rage he
-flew into, shedding tears, and chattering French, and yet not angry with
-me, for he said French for poor boy, poor child, many times. He bade me
-take the things back, and said he would go speak to my good father in
-sanctuary. I learn that he did so, and said bitter words to my good father—who
-hath not since named dress to me or bringing him aught of Sir Thomas’s.
-Master Jehan is going again into
-</p>
-<p>
-Hainault, in Flanders, and in truth I grieve not much. **** My lady, Sir
-Thomas’s mother, gave me a shilling, saying I did well to defend our badge
-against the Ferrers’s—their’s is the ‘Six Horse-shoes,’—but
-this will not pay the doublet. I said not, I beat him for that he said my
-good father ran from Creçy; and taunted me with my uncle keeping the sign
-of the ‘Fleece,’ in Watling Street. I warrant you I shall hear no more of
-it. Master Pollen, the pantler, tells me it is true my father had the
-tablecloth cut cross-ways in front of him, in sign of disgrace to his
-knighthood, which is a sore shame to us. I would thou and he were friends,
-that I might not hear him say such bitter things of thee—which I
-know thou dost not merit. I pray thee forget not the six shillings
-(easterling). Master Pollen knows a skilful tailor, his brother, will
-repair it for that money, and Sir Thomas never know. I am bound to an
-archery play on the moor—whereat Prince John says there is none to
-match me. I would Wat Smith knew of this. I would fain see him and Hob,
-and you and Mistress Adlyn and Peter. I pray you send me the six
-shillings.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Your loving dutiful Son,
-</p>
-<p>
-“John Falstaff”
- </p>
-<p>
-The above letter * is not dated; but was obviously written towards the
-autumn of 1365. From this date—to that of our hero’s ripest maturity—there
-is a deplorable gap in the Falstaff correspondence. Indeed, with the
-exception of the above specimen, the earliest relic or mention of any
-manuscript in Sir John’s handwriting may be traced to the conversation
-recorded in the first chapter of the present book.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Preserved in the Strongate collection, to which valuable
-depository of antiquarian lore (and the facilities afforded
-by its enlightened owner for its inspection) the writer
-cannot sufficiently express his obligations. He has much
-pleasure in being the first to announce that it is the
-intention of the fortunate possessor, Mr. Roderick Bolton,
-F. S. A., of Kemys-Commander, Monmouthshire, to bequeath
-this priceless collection to the British Museum at his
-decease. Long may the melancholy event be delayed which
-shall establish the nation in possession of so inestimable a
-legacy!
-</pre>
-<p>
-Of the four letters entrusted by Falstaff to his page for delivery—the
-contents of two only can be known with any degree of certainty. The
-missing epistles are those addressed respectively to Prince John of
-Lancaster, and Ralph Nevil, Earl of Westmoreland—nominal leaders of
-the second Royalist expedition which Sir John Falstaff had pledged himself
-to conduct (it will be seen how the pledge was redeemed) against the
-northern rebels. The loss of these letters is scarcely to be regretted.
-Being written on the eve of the setting forth of the expedition, they were
-doubtless mere official despatches—containing reasons for the
-writer’s not having taken the field as early as he was expected to—or
-some other device in warlike stratagem, and therefore of no interest to
-any but the student of military science. The two remaining epistles—which
-have been fortunately handed down to us—are of far higher
-importance, as throwing light upon the author’s condition in mind, body,
-and finances, at this critical period of his career; when, as has been
-shown, he was about to raise his mailed heel, a second time, to crush the
-serpent of Rebellion—which reptile had most unaccountably managed to
-wriggle away from him alive on the field of Shrewsbury.
-</p>
-<p>
-The first of these documents is a brief, playful note addressed to the
-Prince of Wales—on the return of that Royal Leader from the
-successful assertion of his claims to the Principality by the destruction
-of the bulk of its inhabitants. The manuscript has not been preserved; but
-the loss is immaterial. It existed as late as the time of Shakspeare, by
-whose care a verbatim copy of it has been transmitted to us. It is worded
-as follows:—
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sir John Falstaff, Knight, to the son of the King nearest his father,
-greeting.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I will imitate the honorable Romans in brevity. I commend me to thee; I
-commend thee, and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins, for he
-misuses thy favours so much, that he swears thou art to marry his sister
-Nell. Repent at idle times as thou may’st, and so farewell!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Thine by yea and no (which is as much as to say as thou noest him); <i>Jack
-Falstaff</i> with my familiars; John with my brothers and sisters; and SIR
-JOHN with all Europe.”
- </p>
-<p>
-This epistle (meant as a mere reminder to the Prince, that his old
-companion is in London and anxious to see him) is conceived and written in
-a spirit of the purest pleasantry. This is evidenced in the mock
-stateliness of the exordium and signature, as well as in the allusion to
-imaginary brothers and sisters (Sir John, as the family annals and this
-history satisfactorily prove, being an only son). The caution against
-Poins is, of course, a joke; but, as will ever happen in the most playful
-badinage of a true satirist, founded on a subtle perception of the truth.
-It is more than probable that Mr. Poins—not having wit to perceive
-the drift of the Prince’s assumed easiness of disposition—may have
-contemplated the advancement of his family by some such device as the
-matrimonial device alluded to. At any rate, one thing is certain, <i>Mr.
-Poins did not relish the joke.</i>
-</p>
-<p>
-However, this trifle serves to display Sir John Falstaff, on the eve of a
-vast military undertaking, light of heart and dauntless of spirit. The
-second letter is of a very different character and satisfactorily
-disproves the shortsighted, shallow theory, that our knight was incapable,
-on fitting occasions, of the loftiest sentiments as well as the most
-serious reflection. This letter exists in manuscript, carefully preserved
-in the collection to which I have so frequently expressed my obligations.
-I have been favoured with a photographic copy—which I hasten to
-transcribe with the idiomatic and orthographic modifications I have
-thought fit to observe in all such cases, for the greater ease of the
-general reader. Here and there a <i>hiatus</i> in the text occurs, due to
-the ravages of time. These I might easily have supplied from imagination;
-but have rigorously abstained from yielding to any such temptation:
-knowing well that the most imperfect ruin is more valuable to the
-antiquarian student than the most elaborate restoration.
-</p>
-<p>
-TO DAME URSULA SWINSTEAD, AT THE TRENCHER, COOK’S HOUSE, BY THAMES STREET.
-*
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* The “Cooks’ Quarter,” or assemblage of public eating-
-houses by the River Thames, existed in flourishing vigour as
-early as the reign of Henry the Second, and is
-affectionately described by Fitzstephen. A good idea of the
-barbarity of the times, and the utter ignorance of the first
-principles of commercial reciprocity, may be gleaned from a
-fact mentioned by that old writer, namely, that “the public
-cooks sold no wine, while the taverners dressed no meat.”
- This unnatural state of things existed for more than three
-centuries, during which time it was impossible to obtain a
-glass of ale with your ham sandwich, or a chop with your
-pint of claret. It was not till the reign of Richard the
-Second that a reform was effected. Then, the great discovery
-was made, that it was possible to supply all the component
-parts of a meal, solid as well as fluid, in one
-establishment. In the simple words of Stowe, “since then the
-cooks have sold wine, and the taverners dressed meat.”
- Surely this triumph over the habits and prejudices of ages
-must have originated in a master mind. Who so likely to feel
-the evil, so powerful to remedy it, as Sir John Falstaff?
-Assuming him to have been the Man of the Hour (that is, the
-dinner hour), in addition to his other claims to
-immortality, the hero of these pages must be ever revered as
-the inventor of the noble Art and custom of Dining in the
-City ‘.—<i>Vide Fitzstephen and Stowe; Annals and Survey.</i>
-</pre>
-<p>
-“Madam,—You doubtless never thought to hear of me again. Myself
-never thought to trouble you more with knowledge of my existence. I speak
-not of paltry money debts. You will do me the kindness (I may not say
-justice) to believe that I have not injured only to affront you.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I am an old man, madam—fifty-three in birthdays, and I may not say
-how much in suffering and wickedness. Nay, I must put wickedness first.
-You, madam,—I am in no mood for flattery,—are not young. You
-were a widow with three prattling children—Robin, Davy, and Maudlin
-(they have ne’er a thought for old Uncle Jack now, I warrant me)—when
-I first knew you eighteen years ago. Would for your sake that time had
-never been! No matter! I would say you have approached that calm, sober
-lifetime—and there is so little left to love or sorrow for in me—that
-you may hear what I have to say without heartrending.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I write, madam, to bid you a last farewell. I am for the wars, from which
-my chance to return alive is one to a thousand; and <i>that one I will
-cast from me</i>. You will think at my age,—having so well proved my
-courage,—I might be let to sleep on my laurels. They will not have
-it so. They will have courage like charity; wherefore a man, to keep his
-good name, shall not give his groat to one or two beggars and rest niggard
-ever after. He must be giving to his death. All’s one for that. Duty to
-honour and my sovereign apart, I must to the wars, having naught left to
-live for save the earning a soldier’s grave.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I will speak the truth as a dying man speaks it, though it be to own
-himself villain. I have wronged you, but you know not how deeply. For
-eighteen years have I paid court to you—ever putting off our
-marriage upon some pretext, or earning your displeasure by some offence—but
-ever renewing the tie by fresh oaths and blandishments. <i>All this time,
-madam, I was a married man.</i> You knew it not—the world knew it
-not—but it was so. Blame me as you will, but pity me. As a
-headstrong youth, I contracted a foolish marriage with one who—well,
-she is no more; let her faults perish with her.
-</p>
-<p>
-“This woman has made me what I am: she has been my blight and ruin. I
-concealed her, like an ugly wound, down on my father’s old estate; and
-like a wound in the flesh did she prey upon my heart and purse; for
-Lollard, witch, worse, as I knew her to be, was she not my wife? Happily,
-we had no children.
-</p>
-<h3>
-* * * *
-</h3>
-<p>
-“Can you wonder then that without hope or aim in life—without a
-being to love me in the world—debarred from forming domestic ties,
-that the very hopelessness of my state should make me regard you with your
-beauty (it is sore faded now; I flatter not, you see), your loving heart
-and your tranquil home, as the fallen spirits must regard paradise? What
-could I do but hover round the celestial gates? And yet bitterly have I
-striven to be more than myself—more than mortal man. And here,
-suspect me not of the vanity of hoping to exculpate myself in your eyes,
-if I tell you things that may make you set down some of my offences to a
-cause less gross than you have done. Many a time, even when I have felt
-raised and purified by your love, have I sought to degrade myself in your
-esteem: that you might cast me from your heart. It has been at such times
-I have brought my riotous comrades to your house—have affronted your
-sober guests—have robbed you of your savings, and shown myself to
-you a sot, a glutton, a swash-buckler, and a cheat. Had you known the
-pangs it caused me! Well, well! I have omitted duties enough in my life,
-to be allowed the solace of remembering this one performed at—oh!
-how great a cost!
-</p>
-<h3>
-* * * *
-</h3>
-<p>
-“This I must say, that when I first wooed you the woman was ailing, and I
-had hopes of her death. It has now come too late; for, even if I should
-escape the rebels’ swords, I cannot hope that you would forgive me so many
-years’ duplicity and frequent ill-treatment, which, after all, I have no
-right to believe you will set down to its real motives. Moreover, compared
-to me, you are still young. To my eyes, you would be ever fair; but that
-is nothing. You are wealthy, and what should I have to offer you but an
-old man’s love, backed only by a noble name and a soldier’s renown?
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<p>
-“Even were it a gift, I would ask it fearlessly for our old friendship’s
-sake. She must have a tomb becoming my rank, and I am penniless. A
-careless soldier, who is no courtier, cannot force kings to gratitude, or
-even to justice. The ring, I warn you, is of no great money value—as
-a jewel it would fetch little—let me say nothing. But to me it is
-priceless as an heirloom (you see it bears the letters of my ancestor,
-Keingelt Falstaff, with the hand grasping a staff), and should death fly
-me, as he will those who willingly pursue him, I would redeem it with—but
-this is idle. Only one thing could make me forego my resolution, which is
-a forgiveness I will not even ask for. I make but one stipulation; that if
-I fall (as I shall do) you will say you received the ring as a gift in
-token of our betrothal. The story of my secret marriage will be then
-publicly known, and it will be no shame for you to own that you once
-thought to be a poor knight’s lady.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have said enough. Farewell! That pardon which I do not beg for alive I
-know will be freely given after my death. I have but one merit to set
-against my faults—I love thee. It is said. Farewell!
-</p>
-<p>
-“John Falstaff.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The boy may be trusted with the money, and will call for it any time in
-the morning not later than eleven of the o’clock, when we start westward.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The story of Sir John’s unfortunate marriage, alluded to in the above, is
-too apocryphal to be entitled to a moment’s discussion. It may, indeed, be
-unhesitatingly set down as a pure fiction, invented from combined motives
-of policy and humanity—the former requiring no explanation; the
-latter originating in a good-natured desire that Mistress Ursula should at
-least have the comfort of believing that she had bestowed her heart’s
-affections and substantial friendship for a period of so many years upon a
-deserving object.
-</p>
-<p>
-It is well known that Sir John Falstaff never married. “A soldier,” as the
-sage Bardolph once observed in answer to an inquiry upon this very
-subject, “is better accommodated than with a wife.” Sir John appears also
-to have considerately felt that a wife might be better accommodated than
-with a soldier; and though, doubtless, in his desire to please the fair
-sex, he frequently gave rise to dreams of happiness in numerous sensitive
-imaginations by ‘promising the honour of his matrimonial alliance, he was
-never so cruel as to dispel such visions by the harsh realities that must
-have ensued upon performance. There is no happiness like that of
-anticipation. Sir John delighted in making people happy—ladies
-especially—and the more at a time the better.
-</p>
-<p>
-It would betray an ignorance of the times to suppose that our knight
-belonged to any of those chivalric orders who were bound to celibacy. Such
-institutions—as far as concerns England at any rate—had been
-long obsolete at his birth. Nevertheless, a lingering trace of their
-spirit may be found in the contemplation of Sir John Falstaff viewed as a
-man of gallantry. The knights of old, instead of seeking to advance
-themselves by matrimonial alliance or to sink their renown in the peaceful
-joys of domesticity, were accustomed to give vent to their superabundant
-affections in Platonic attachments. This would seem to have been the case
-with our hero; who, at the period of his history now under consideration,
-entertained a chaste regard for a gentlewoman of good family, named
-Mistress Dorothea Tearsheet, between whom and Sir John no engagement of
-any kind appears to have existed. I regret that this lady’s reputation
-should have been the subject of much calumny and misunderstanding, chiefly
-owing to some ribald expressions on the part of those ill-regulated young
-men, the Prince of Wales and his friend Poins. It is also brought forward
-in evidence against her, that she committed the impropriety of accepting
-an invitation to supper with Sir John, at the Old Boar’s Head, on the
-night of the day on which the letter just quoted was written, and then and
-there indulged in certain conduct and expressions by no means compatible
-with the bearing of a reproachless damsel. To these charges I can only
-answer: that, in the first place, it has been asserted * that Mistress
-Dorothea was connected with Sir John Falstaff by the ties of relationship—an
-assertion which has never been refuted except by a sneer from the Prince
-of Wales, of whose veracity we know sufficient by this time—and
-there could be surely nothing wrong in a lady partaking of a farewell
-repast with a respected kinsman about to depart on a perilous enterprise,
-and who must have been more than double her age. Besides, it must not be
-forgotten that any suspicion of impropriety on the occasion was more than
-guarded against by the matronly presence of Mrs. Quickly. With regard to
-the freedom of Mistress Tearsheet’s conduct and language, I need merely
-appeal to the manners of the age. The chaste Queen Elizabeth herself, more
-than two centuries later, is known to have taken part in the discussion of
-topics which would not be considered admissible within the circle of a
-modern drawing-room. That the lady was entitled to the highest respect is
-proved by the jealous care taken by Sir John Falstaff that she should be
-treated with ‘such by all comers, manifested in the fact, that when, on
-the night of the supper alluded to, Ancient Pistol, having entered the
-room in a state of intoxication, applied some injurious epithets to the
-lady, Sir John was so far roused from his habitual forbearance—and
-from the comfortable process of digestion—as to administer to the
-tipsy officer one of the soundest drubbings he ever received in the course
-of his well-pummelled existence. Which incident you may read in the Second
-Part of King Henry the Fourth, or view depicted in Mr. Cruikshank’s
-engraving.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Prince Henry.—Sup any women with him?
-
-Page.—None, my lord, but old Mistress Quickly and Mistress
-Doll Tearsheet.
-
-Prince Henry.—What pagan may that be?
-
-Page.—A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kinswoman of my
-master’s. <i>Henry IV. Part H. Act ii. Sc. 2.</i>
-</pre>
-<p>
-Other specimens of the Falstaff correspondence will be introduced, and
-duly commented on, in chronological order.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0016" id="linkimage-0016"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/179s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="179s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/179.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/179m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-IV WARLIKE STRATEGY OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF:
-</h2>
-<p>
-HOW THE KNIGHT ASSISTED THE YORKSHIRE REBELS AGAINST THE KING’S FORCES.—REAPPEARANCE
-OF MASTER ROBERT SHALLOW.
-</p>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>OMPARISONS have already been made between the hero of these pages and
-Julius Cæsar, Henry Percy, the great Earl of Warwick, the First Napoleon,
-and other heroes of ancient, mediæval, and modern history. The resemblance
-to all or any of them would be incomplete could we not prove that on some
-one occasion, at least, our hero suffered a sense of personal wrong or
-interest to withdraw him from a cause whereunto he had sworn allegiance,
-and induce him to throw the vast weight of his valour and influence into
-the opposite scale. This is as common and natural a proceeding with the
-rulers of kingdoms and armies, as it is with vulgar persons to withdraw
-their custom from a shop, when they have been offended or ill-served—in
-favour of another where they expect greater civility or better bargains.
-It is true that the lives of thousands, and the welfare of entire
-communities, may be sacrificed by such conduct on the part of great
-leaders. But these commodities, to such people, are merely what shillings
-and pence are to the retail purchasers—the base counters by which
-the value of their connection is to be estimated.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff, as I have shown, had been slighted by the King,
-outraged by the King’s Chief Justiciary, and trifled with by the King’s
-son, (I have not thought fit to call attention to His Highness’s last
-practical joke attempted on our hero, on the occasion of the supper
-alluded to at the close of the last chapter; in which, by consulting the
-chronicle, it will be seen the Prince came off no better than usual in
-such matches). And in the face of this treatment, it was expected that Sir
-John would, at a moment’s notice and without a word of apology, come
-forward with his original loyalty unshaken to annihilate the King’s
-enemies—now assembled in large numbers in Yorkshire under the
-leadership of the Earl of Northumberland, the Archbishop of York, and
-Thomas Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham and Lord Marshal of England—(son
-and successor to Sir John’s old lord and tutor—many years since
-exiled and cut to pieces by Saracen scimitars, in default of the privilege
-of having his ribs poked, his skull cleft, or his neck severed,
-comfortably, in his native land—the natural destiny and laudable
-ambition of every English nobleman of the period!) Briefly, Sir John
-resolved that he would do nothing of the kind.
-</p>
-<p>
-It might be urged that Sir John—being in the main a good fellow,
-with a sense of justice lying somewhere or other at the bottom of his
-heart, and only a bit of a rogue upon expediency—in coming to such a
-resolution might have been actuated by other motives than such as we have
-suggested; that he might have thought the demands of the rebels were
-rather reasonable than otherwise (which they were), and that it might have
-gone against his conscience to aid and abet an intolerable crowned ruffian
-like Henry the Fourth, an assassin, an usurper, a kidnapper, a widow and
-orphan spoiler; and, to crown all, the man who enjoyed the distinguished
-honour of having introduced the practice of burning religious reformers
-(to which order he himself had once professed to belong) in this country—in
-his designs against better men and truer patriots than himself. To accept
-this theory would be a confession of weakness on Sir John Falstaff’s part,
-classing him among mere contemptible well-meaning persons—wholly
-destructive to those claims to the great souled or heroic CHARACTER which
-it has been my aim to establish for him from the very commencement of
-these pages. So I will follow the invariable custom of gentlemen of my
-calling, and adopt the view that best suits me.
-</p>
-<p>
-It must not be supposed that Sir John FalstafF went, at once, over with
-all his forces to the enemy’s ranks. This would have been difficult,
-because, in the first place (which may forestal all further
-considerations), he had no forces. His general orders from head-quarters
-were that “he was to take up soldiers in the counties as he went.” Upon
-this Sir John built a most effective stratagem.
-</p>
-<p>
-The reader who has not been lately at school (the remark will apply
-equally to the reader who has not yet gone there) is requested to cast his
-eye over a work, not so well-known in this country as it might be,—the
-map of England. Let him there study the relative positions of London and
-Yorkshire. If gifted with an intellect never so little logical, he will
-divine from his observations that the shortest way from the metropolis to
-the great northern county would <i>not</i> lie through Gloucestershire;
-and that the journey performed <i>via</i> that part of England would
-necessitate some considerable loss of time. Yorkshire being the centre of
-warlike operations, and the necessity for giving immediate battle to the
-rebels being imminent, it will be credited that reinforcements arriving <i>via</i>
-Gloucestershire would not be of material service to the Royalist cause—which,
-through having been relied on, their non-appearance, in time, might indeed
-be calculated to injure. Accordingly Sir John Falstaff, to whom a <i>carte
-blanche</i> of counties for his recruiting had been somewhat rashly given,
-decided that he would go round by Gloucestershire.
-</p>
-<p>
-And Sir John did go round by Gloucestershire. That is certain. Also is it
-that he lost considerable time by so doing. This is proved by the fact
-that he did not come up with the King’s troops in Yorkshire till just at
-the close of the battle of Gualtree Forest (in which the rebels had been
-unaccountably routed without his assistance), and that in a
-“travel-tainted” condition. As we can only judge of men’s motives by their
-acts, we have a right to assume (as I have done) that Sir John Falstaff
-delayed his arrival purposely—to give advantage to the enemy, with
-whom he secretly sympathised—by withholding his terrible presence.
-</p>
-<p>
-And yet there may have been another motive. Let us look at all possible
-sides of the question. Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that Sir
-John’s feelings towards the cause of Henry were not those of hostility but
-of mere indifference; and that he felt a not uncharacteristic preference
-for indulging in the gratification of his own pleasure and advantage, to
-swelling the victories of an ungrateful monarch. Let us suppose that he
-bent his northern course a little westward, for the purpose of touching at
-his favourite Coventry. <i>Why</i> his favourite Coventry? Because he once
-marched through that city with a disgraceful retinue? Reader, I am
-surprised at your ignorance. Do you not know that near to the city of
-Coventry stood the manor of Cheylesford, the private residence of Prince
-Hal, appertaining (Heaven knows why) to the Duchy of Cornwall, where the
-Prince and his comrades performed the wildest of their mad pranks; that it
-was “thither,” according to the chronicler Walsingham, “resorted all the
-young nobility as to a king’s court, while that of Henry the Fourth was
-deserted; that it was here the Prince and some of his comrades (of course,
-Falstaff among them) were laid by the heels by John Hornesby, the Mayor of
-Coventry, for raising a riot?” If you do not know all this, reader, let me
-tell you that I do; and it is of no consequence to you when I came by the
-information—whether years before I commenced this elaborate
-historical study, or only the day before yesterday.
-</p>
-<p>
-Who then so likely to be a popular man in Coventry as Sir John Falstaff—the
-master, <i>par excellence</i>, of the Princely Revels? What town in the
-kingdom so likely to be endeared to Sir John’s affections as Coventry?
-Why, the knight’s repugnance to run the gauntlet of the gibes of his
-familiars, admirers, and butts, when at the head of his ragged regiment,
-is at once explained! What a joke for the pages and courtiers hanging
-about the inn-doors! What giggling from the tavern wenches! What grim
-chuckling and rubbing of hands from the long-account-keeping tradesmen!
-Above all, what triumph for the malignant soul of John Hornesby, Mayor of
-Coventry!
-</p>
-<p>
-As I reflect on this view of the case, I find myself imperceptibly framing
-a new theory which tempts me to reject my former one. Yes, I have decided.
-I will assert an Englishman’s privilege of doing what he likes with his
-own, and throw it over altogether.
-</p>
-<p>
-I am disposed, then, to maintain that, on this occasion, Sir John Falstaff
-entered Coventry more scantily, but more creditably attended than on the
-last; and took up his quarters at his favourite inn (the one where his
-bill was the shortest) with no intention of moving until the urgencies of
-war should absolutely compel him. Here he would be surrounded by old
-Cheylesford cronies, hangers-on to the palace—with their hangers-on
-and their hangers-on with the hangers-on of the latter—and so on
-dwindling into indefinite perspective. I can fancy Sir John, the true
-master of the situation—dispensing the last court scandal—retailing
-the last town jests—disposing of the rebellion, the King’s state of
-health, the Queen’s avarice and last rumoured act of sorcery, the Prince’s
-designs; in a word, laying down the law generally.
-</p>
-<p>
-I can conceive him fighting the battle of Shrewsbury over again,—killing
-Percy by the cruellest of deaths, after the most protracted of sanguinary
-encounters,—and inflicting upon the absent Earl of Douglas what that
-gallant warrior, throughout his life, had never been accustomed to receive
-wounds aimed at him from behind his back. The rare honours Sir John found
-awaiting him on his return to London—the feasts prepared for him—and
-the precious gifts of gold, jewels, and costly raiment, showered upon him—all
-these would doubtless be displayed to the minds’ eyes of an admiring
-audience; their original value multiplied an hundredfold by the
-compound-interest afforded by the exhaustless bank of Sir John Falstaff’s
-golden imagination—in the mint attached to which establishment most
-of them had, indeed, been fabricated. Plow he would strike envy to the
-souls of exiles from the court—palace intendants, stewards,
-gentlemen-at-arms, and the like, sent to Coventry, and kept there, by duty
-or difficulties,—men stagnating for lack of news, and fain to follow
-the fashions “afar off like spies,”—how would he overwhelm them with
-glowing accounts of the last Venetian sleeve, the newest Saracenic hood,
-(for our Crusading fathers robbed the Paynims not merely of their heads
-but also of their turbans!) and the last Ferrarese device in armour—many
-costly specimens of which he would carelessly allude to as following him
-at leisure, with the bulk of his baggage, to be worn when the wars should
-be concluded—rough homespun, tough leather, and British iron being
-good enough for blood-stains and battle-smoke! How would he silence
-Detraction—wishing to know whereby Sir John Falstaff, after all his
-brilliant achievements, had escaped court preferment—by frowns and
-sighs, and mysterious innuendoes! Who knows but that the name of Queen
-Joanna of Brittany—a comely dame, scarce past her middle age, still
-capable of inspiring the tender passion—may have been covertly
-mentioned in connection with this delicate subject? Was not the king old,
-ailing, and jealous? Had not Duke Edward of York been already consigned, a
-hopeless captive, to the dungeons of Pevensey, for no greater offence than
-the inditing a not very brilliant copy of verses to her Breton and
-Britannic Majesty? Had not the bilious monarch, moreover, shown his
-mistrust of all persons favoured by his attractive (but supposed
-demon-leagued) consort—by the wholesale exile of “all French
-persons, Bretons, Lombards, Italians and Navarrese, whatsoever” * attached
-to the Queen’s establishment, with the exception of a cook, a few
-chambermaids, two knights, and their esquires (doubtless elderly and
-ill-favoured), and a strong body of Breton washerwomen? Is it improbable
-that the presence, about the court, of a personable and renowned warrior
-like Sir John Falstaff,—one who, even to the limits of maturity,
-retained so many of the graces of his youth,—should have been looked
-upon by the suspicious king as perilous to his conjugal felicity? At any
-rate, is it improbable that Sir John Falstaff should have thought so—or,
-whether he thought so or not, that he should have striven to impress his
-Coventry audience with a conviction that such was the case? Sir John may
-or may not have submitted such probabilities as these to the consideration
-of his hearers. Be this as it may, there is one topic he could not
-possibly, being situated as I have imagined him, have failed to enlarge
-upon. Depend upon it, the recent conduct of the Lord Chief Justice would
-be held up to such public scorn and indignation as to render that
-official’s next assize-visit to Warwickshire a somewhat perilous
-excursion!
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Parliamentary Rolls, 5 Henry IV., p. 572.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Let me consider what kind of an adventure would have been likely to happen
-to Sir John Falstaff at such a time. I have one.
-</p>
-<p>
-I can imagine a quiet, cheery-looking old man, in a long, sober-coloured
-gown, of comfortable well-to-do aspect, with a shrewd wrinkled face,
-elbowing his way imperceptibly to a place at the table near Sir John (the
-guests making room for him with some respect), and taking advantage of a
-lull in the conversation to say, with a twinkling eye and a somewhat
-admiring smile,—
-</p>
-<p>
-“We should know each other, Sir John—we have been friends ere now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Aye, aye, sir? ‘Tis possible. There are more men see Paul’s church than
-the Beadle wots of. But you have the best of me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Will you share my tankard while I make myself known. Nay!—‘tis a
-choice Rochelle that mine host broaches only for me on my monthly visits
-to Coventry. You will not match it in the town vintry.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now you speak, sir, I should know your voice. Save you, sir. Nectar, by
-all the Pagans!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is long since we met, Sir John.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Do you tell me that, sir? Twenty years at the least; if not nigher
-thirty. In Brittany, was it not?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not so—not so.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“In Flanders then, or Spain? * I have seen both countries.”
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Observe that I merely imagine Sir John Falstaff to have
-said he had visited Spain. The annals of that country afford
-no trace of his presence at any period of history.
-</pre>
-<p>
-“Nay, sir—no further off than Clements’ Inn. I was reading the law
-when you were page to Sir Thomas Mowbray—father to—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Him whose father’s son I now march against. The chances of war have so
-willed it. By our Lady, I know the trick of your face—well.—Nay,
-if you will an’ it be another of the same.—‘Tis excellent, i’ faith.
-And you have thriven well in your calling, Master——?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Doit—Thomas Doit, to serve you, Sir John.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The name was at my tongue’s end. Of Oxford, as I think?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Of Stafford, sir.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Stafford, I would have said. A new health to you, Master Doit. Why we are
-boys again. I would I needed a lawyer for your sake. But a trusty knave
-(no offence to the calling, sir) cares well for my estate—and to
-displace an old servant—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Nay, sir. I have enough—enough, sir. The world has dealt kindly by
-me. I have a snug home, with a crust and flagon for a friend. My boys and
-maidens are well cared for. I labour now but for pastime.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Say you so, Master—Joit. We must be better acquainted. And yet that
-can hardly be with old friends like us.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You have grown great since then, Sir John.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“An old man, sir, and still plain Sir John! Those were brave times, Master
-Quoit.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Will you recall them with me, Sir John, over a supper? I have a more
-potent voice in the kitchen here than many of the Prince’s gentlemen.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I would have asked you, Master—ahem?—Thomas. But, be it as
-you will, sir, so that we part not company. We have seen nights together,
-sir!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And days, Sir John! It is a boast of mine that I witnessed your first
-great feat of arms.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Aye, indeed? Which call you that?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Have you forgotten cudgelling Skogan, the rhymer, at the Court Gate?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Skogan! To be sure. Why now I have it all! You were the brave fellow that
-fought the fishmonger on the same day! or a tanner’s man—which was
-it? Talk not of my deeds after that, Master Thomas. I think I see him now
-with his skull cleft. Why John of Gaunt, Gloucester, and the old King
-himself, all lauded your prowess, sir. I rose in court esteem through
-knowing you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-At this, I can conjecture Master Thomas Doit would throw himself back in
-his chair and laugh till the tears streamed down his merry, wrinkled
-cheeks.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ha! ha! ha! Why this is most excellent! See how well you know me, Sir
-John, with all your friendship and remembrance. I thought not to live
-sixty-nine years to be taken for such a gull as lean Bob Shallow!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Shallow!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Having made this exclamation, we may suppose that Sir John Falstaff would
-repair his not very flattering mistake by a plausible apology, or turn it
-off with a timely jest——either being always at his command at
-a moment’s notice. Having pacified the by no means implacable Doit, he
-would muse upon old times—old forms and deeds growing into shape and
-colour through the fog of years on the dead level of an old man’s memory—like
-cows and windmills through the morning mist on a Flemish landscape.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Shallow! to be sure!”—this to himself—sighing and putting his
-hand to his pocket. “He was the man to know! He paid all! He was a very
-oyster that would grow fat on the shell again, with a string of pearls
-round his neck directly you had swallowed him.” Then, aloud, with a deeper
-sigh—“I would he were living now, Master Lawyer!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Why he lives, Sir John.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Say you so?—where?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Hard by, in Gloucestershire, scarce a day’s ride from hence.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“In good health and case, I trust?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“The best. For his bodily health, he is of those men whose backs will
-never break under the weight of their brains. It is long ere the dock
-withers or the ass dies. For his outward case, Heaven, in its mercy to
-helpless creatures, hath sent two kinds of crawling things into the world
-with good houses to cover them—the snails and the fools, Sir John.
-Master Shallow is in the Peace: he hath his father’s broad lands and some
-twenty thousand marks in money.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You rejoice me! Master Shallow alive and prospering! Well! Master David
-Shallow was it not?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Robert.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“True. You called him Bob a while ago. From that you have let fall, it
-would seem he hath not grown in wisdom as in years and possessions?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He! Can you make silk purse out of swine’s ear, Sir John; or wash
-blackamoors white? A greater gull than ever!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bardolph.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Sir John.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Leave tippling, sirrah, and see to the horses. We’ll ride into
-Gloucestershire before daybreak. ‘Tis the county of lusty soldiers—and
-the rebels chafe for their beating. Another health, Master Doit.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I am convinced that it was some such accident as this that induced Sir
-John Falstaff to turn aside, temporarily, from his designs against the
-northern rebels in the King’s interest, and direct his forces to the
-immediate subjugation of Mr. Justice Shallow on his own account. And,
-indeed, in deciding upon this course, he can scarcely be said to have
-exceeded or departed from his duty. For in those times of primitive
-warfare, (especially in the reign of Henry the Fourth, who, in spite of
-his numerous successful robberies, was not always able to pay his
-bootmaker, let alone his generals,) the right of private plunder and
-forage formed in a manner a portion of the soldier’s payment. And it was
-surely excusable that Sir John Falstaff should have been drawn a little
-from the track of the public game he was pursuing by so tempting a cross
-scent as that of his former acquaintance Shallow.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John did not at once march on the Shallow stronghold, on the principle
-of the “hook-nosed fellow of Rome,” as he pleasantly described his
-illustrious prototype of antiquity, merely “to come, to see, and to
-conquer.” No. His first visit was one of mere reconnoitre, rather founded
-on the policy of another great man whom he resembled—William Duke of
-Normandy—who, it will be remembered, having made up his mind to
-conquer England, if he should find it worth his while, paid a friendly
-visit to the monarch of this country, by whom he was most hospitably
-received, in order to form his opinions on the subject; parted on the most
-amicable terms with his entertainer; and promised to look in again the
-nest time he happened to be passing—which he did, taking the liberty
-of bringing a few friends with him. The parallel will be found striking.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Shallows were a very ancient county family, tracing their descent
-almost as far back as the Falstaffs themselves. Common politeness to a
-great name suggests, at this stage of our researches, the propriety of a
-retrospective glance at the origin, achievements, social position, and
-distinguishing traits of a line so illustrious. In order to induce a
-perfect appreciation of the subject, the historian must (for once in a
-way, and contrary to his habit) avail himself of one of the most sacred
-privileges of his order—the right of digression. We of this age and
-country are too apt to ridicule the stringent and, as it seems on the
-surface, unnatural regulation of the Egyptians, Peruvians, and other
-nations of antiquity, and observed by certain Asiatic peoples even to the
-present day, which forbade a man to engage in any other pursuit,
-occupation, or calling, than that of his fathers. This was only
-recognising and enforcing by law the observance of an inherent principle
-in human society which we see voluntarily obeyed in all communities. Thus,
-we all acknowledge the claims of certain families who are obviously sent
-into the world for the purpose of ruling their fellow creatures, and
-living comfortably on the emoluments arising from that lucrative
-occupation. In proof of the definite and exclusive mission of such people,
-it need only be observed, that when, through some exceptional hitch or
-convulsion in the natural course of things, any one of their order happens
-to be thrown out of his legitimate employment, he can by no effort
-reconcile himself to becoming a useful or pacific member of society in a
-humbler sphere. On the contrary he will move heaven and earth to regain
-his forfeited position, which he will feel to be so indisputably his
-right, as to consider no sacrifice of the-lives and treasures of other
-people too great for its recovery; and there will always be found a large
-portion of the population to abet and justify him by cheerfully making for
-him the sacrifices he requires. These he will accept without thanks or
-emotion, just as a spider accepts flies, or a pike titlebats. They are his
-right—that is sufficient. Leave such beings in the quiet possession
-of their birthright, and you may hardly be aware of their existence—so
-little noise or exertion they care to make while all goes on smoothly—and
-you may be apt to underrate their importance to the social machine. But
-once dislodge the most insignificant of them from his proper place, and a
-terrific crash, explosion, loss of life, and utter suspension of progress,
-will convince you that you had much better have left him where he was, and
-had better lose no time in putting him back again. We are told that a
-sacred Brahmin, though permitted, in cases of emergency, to engage in
-warlike or mercantile pursuits * must, on no account, descend to manual
-labour. For the Brahmin so descending, and for the inferior castes
-permitting or necessitating him to do so, it is pronounced by the sacred
-Vedas perdition in this world and the next. Therefore is the rule never
-infringed. The inferior <i>castes</i>, no matter what the scarcity of
-seasons or the extortions of their rulers, are careful for their own sakes
-that the sacred Brahmin shall not be tempted by necessity to the
-commission of the unpardonable crime of work. In civilisations of more
-modern fabric this principle of <i>caste</i> is equally recognised—none
-the less thoroughly that its recognition is the result of spontaneous
-obedience to a great natural law, rather than abject submission to the
-terrorism of a degrading superstition. We Europeans need no sacred Vedas
-to threaten us with torments if, in the event of a Kaiser or King having
-more sons than he can provide with kingdoms or principalities (their
-common necessaries of life), we decline to shed our blood in quarrels, the
-object of which is to supply the deficiency. We meet such claims upon us
-with the same matter of course cheerfulness as that with which the hunter
-scales the perilous cliff, or the fisherman launches his frail boat in
-stormy weather, to provide food for a helpless family. We recognise the
-principle in its widest ramifications—to its remotest edges. In Peru
-(anterior to the intrusion of that highly objectionable Reform Association
-of which Pizarro was the President) every descendant of an Inca, in the
-remotest degree, was as much an Inca as his greatest ancestor; and every
-Inca was entitled to a certain share of command, and gold and silver, of
-which luxuries it need scarcely be hinted their order enjoyed an exclusive
-monopoly of possession. Let not the irreverent simile of the sow with a
-litter of too many pigs to correspond with her number of teats, be
-incautiously hazarded. The increase of Incas caused no difficulty
-whatever. The people knew the favoured class must be provided for, and in
-what manner. All they had to do was to acquire more territory—that
-new vice-realms and governorships might be established—and to find
-out fresh mines of gold and silver. We in Europe do much the same thing.
-When there is a little unwonted increase in the castes of Princeps, Dux,
-Comes, Markgraf, Landgraf, Law-ward, Armiger or Hidalgo, what do we do? Do
-we insist that such valuable materials shall be utilised for base
-purposes? Do we tell Meinherr Herzog, Monsieur le Marquis, or the noble
-Earl, that we have already as many of their progeny as we can provide for
-in the regular way, and that the residue must be absorbed into the
-community as philosophers, artists, writers, traders, handicraftsmen, and
-husbandmen? As readily would we think of cutting up armorial banners and
-brocaded tapestries for door-mats and ploughboys’ inexpressibles, merely
-because we had happened to accumulate a greater stock of those dignifying
-treasures than our ancestral walls would accommodate. In such an
-emergency, all our thoughts and energies would be directed to the one
-mighty object of extending our premises, that we might have a sufficiency
-of rooms for the display of our priceless hangings. Such an enlargement
-might subject us to some inconvenience at the time—necessitating
-much straitening, a little chicanery perhaps, and a trifling matter of
-bankruptcy. But we would not be deterred by such ignoble considerations.
-We would extend our premises—honestly if we could—but we would
-extend them. I suppose it was a rule in ancient Egypt, that since certain
-men came into the world expressly and exclusively to be shoemakers and
-feather-dressers, the community to which they belonged was bound to wear
-out a sufficiency of shoes, and spoil a sufficiency of feathers, to keep
-them in profitable employment. It would have been very unfair otherwise.
-Just so when, by common consent, we declare that a certain branch of the
-community shall do nothing but govern empires, kingdoms, principalities,
-provinces, or departments, we are bound, at whatever cost, to provide them
-with a sufficiency of empires, kingdoms, principalities, &c., to
-govern. It may be expensive; but it is only commonly just. If we have
-decided that our pet spaniel shall eat nothing but nightingales’ tongues,
-why, in justice to the poor dog, we must go out and shoot enough
-nightingales to keep him in condition—even though we neglect our
-business, and live ourselves, while hunting, upon pig-nuts.
-</p>
-<p>
-As there are families born to command, so are there families born to
-serve. I know the representatives of one or two highly respectable lines
-(they are not very fond of me by the way, and never invite me unless some
-better-bred person has disappointed them—which I also generally
-manage to do in my turn, one way or another), who can point to splendid
-galleries of ancestral portraits, each one the counterfeit presentment of
-an individual who has distinguished himself as the faithful and devoted
-servant of some royal or otherwise illustrious, personage. One will have
-been Gold Shaving Pot in Waiting to such a monarch—another Groom of
-the Dirty Clothes Bag to such another—and so forth. All have worn
-livery of some kind or another, with pride to themselves and satisfaction
-to their employers. I honour these men, not as the unthinking do, for the
-reflected glories cast upon them by the great names with which theirs have
-been associated, but for their own merits as honest flunkies, who accepted
-their earthly mission and fulfilled it with diligence and civility; and
-who, having completed their time of servitude in this down-stairs world,
-have gone to better themselves elsewhere, provided with the best of
-characters. There have been great men in these lines—warriors who
-have won difficult battles as the subservient aides-de-camp to incapable
-princes; statesmen who have saved or ruined empires, as part of their
-professional duties* for the immortalization of their honoured employers;
-gifted authors who have lived to see statues erected to their patrons, due
-to the fame of books which they themselves had written ungrudgingly for a
-secretary’s wages or a toady’s perquisites. The offshoots and collaterals
-of these illustrious houses have doubtless included, in their number,
-artists of the highest ability, who have passed their lives cheerfully on
-small salaries, painting backgrounds and draperies, for such of the
-governing castes as may have drifted into the field of fashionable
-portraiture and are naturally fitted for command there as elsewhere; mute
-inglorious Mozarts and Beethovens who have retired contentedly to
-workhouses, when they have completed their life-labour of preparing some
-operatic automaton for opulence and fame; and so on, down through grades
-innumerable, to poor old Figaro, who weeps tears of joy when he hears that
-the wig his skill has prepared has been mistaken for the natural growth of
-the Count Almaviva’s bald and wrinkled pate, and Betty, who is reconciled
-to short commons and irregular wages, when she listens stealthily at the
-halfopened ball-room door to hear Belinda praised and envied for taste
-that was Betty’s own. My Lord Gold Stick in Waiting, the Grand Duke’s
-hereditary Bootjack, Mr. Boswell the biographer, Mr. Wagg the dining-room
-jester, Mr. Wenham the confidential secretary, faithful Caleb Balderston,
-and supercilious John Thomas—they are all of the same race. The
-prosperous may repudiate the unsuccessful members—as Jocelyn
-Fitzmyth of Belgravia ignores John Smith of Deptford, or as Sir Morris
-Leveson the city millionaire cuts the acquaintance of poor Moses Levi of
-Petticoat Lane,—a kind of meanness which, <i>en passant</i>, would
-be effectually prevented by the adoption of the old Egyptian principle—whereby
-the cobbler was bound, as with the stoutest of thongs and waxed-ends, to
-stick to his last. Under that dispensation Fitzmyth would be kept to his
-cabbage garden, and Sir Morris would have to wear a Jewish gaberdine—just
-as Mr. Wagg would be sentenced to perpetual cap and bells, and my Lord
-Goldstiek, Bootjack, Wenham, and all the rest of them, to wear plush and
-powder, whether they liked it or not. But the sumptuary distinction is
-unnecessary. They are all born footmen, let them disguise themselves as
-they will. You have only to ring a bell within their hearing—seeing
-that it be of gold, silver, or baser metal, according to their relative
-grades of servitude—and they will speedily jump up to answer it;
-betraying their natural propensities like the cat in the fairy tale, who
-had been changed into a beautiful princess, when she caught sight of a
-stray mouse on the palace floor. So much for the <i>caste</i> of servants.
-</p>
-<p>
-I have shown early in this work that the Falstaff family were a race of
-courtiers, with a tendency to one or two other callings not necessary here
-to particularise. My hero was—alas! that I should have to say it—the
-last of his line. Did any descendant of Sir John’s happen to be living in
-the present day, no doubt he would be found hanging about the aristocratic
-clubs, in debt to the very waiters, “tabooed” by strait-laced members for
-his frequent scrapes, chronic dissipation, and irreverent jests, never
-respectable and never prosperous, given dreadfully to low life, but always
-sure of some countenance and protection as the boon companion of some
-influential personage, and careful to keep within the pale of good repute,
-so far as to retain his <i>entrée</i> to St. James’s Palace—preserving
-through all difficulties a handsome court suit and stock of court
-behaviour for state occasions. Supposing any descendants of our old
-acquaintance Wat Smith, the Maldyke demagogue, to be living (and the
-prevalence of the family name renders the supposition more than probable),
-they are, doubtless, to be found among the radical iron-workers of the
-Midland Counties, or those turbulent Sheffield knife-grinders, whom
-nothing short of a Royal Duke’s presence can awe into loyalty and respect.
-There are families of actors, who have been histrios from a date earlier
-than Gammer Gurton’s Needle, and who stick to the family calling, whether
-on the stage, in the cabinet, the senate, the mart, or the pulpit. There
-are born farmers, born authors, born warriors, born sailors, born
-jewellers, born publicans, and born hangmen. I have known even hereditary
-grocers and undertakers. But perhaps there is no instance in which we so
-thoroughly recognise the sacredness of <i>caste</i> as in the case of the
-born labourer. The contentment with which people of that class will submit
-to the most incredible hardships rather than make an effort to emancipate
-themselves from their normal sphere, added to the indignant opposition
-with which any rare effort of the kind on their part is invariably met by
-the classes above them, is surely a convincing proof that they were
-brought into the world for the purpose of remaining exactly whore they
-are.
-</p>
-<p>
-We have also born beggars—in various stages of society—who
-pursue their traditional calling—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Some in rags
-And some in bags,
-And some in velvet gowns,”
- </pre>
-<p>
-but who are all beggars alike, and could under no circumstances exist,
-except by the charity of the industrious and productive portions of the
-community. We have also hereditary thieves, who are protected in their
-various guilds and corporations, and enjoy innumerable legal privileges.
-</p>
-<p>
-I have now traced the various defined strata of our social geology almost
-to the lowest formation. My philosophical excavations have occupied some
-time, but not a stroke of the moral pickaxe has been unnecessary. It was
-absolutely indispensable that I should get to the very bottom of the pit.
-I have now all but reached it. Having cut my way through the beggars and
-thieves, there is but one step lower I can take. I will accordingly
-proceed to the consideration of country justices.
-</p>
-<p>
-The family of the Shallows had been in the commission of the peace from
-time immemorial. I have not such authorities at my elbow as can inform me
-under what honorary title the earlier Shallows—at the time when
-Keingelt Felstaf was getting into squabbles with Ceorles and Welshmen, and
-pecuniary difficulties with his Sodalitium—exercised their judicial
-functions. It is of little consequence whether a judicial assembly be
-called a Wittenagemote or a Petty Sessions—so that the spirit of its
-justice be the same. Suffice it that the hereditary vocation of the
-family, in all ages, has been to supply the ranks of that inestimable and
-truly British body—the unpaid magistracy. Of the advantages to the
-community of such a class of public officials it would be idle to speak;
-so obvious is it that a judge whose services are gratuitously rendered,
-and are therefore protected by the common rules of politeness from
-impertinent investigation as to their quality and value, must be enabled
-to administer justice in a far more independent and manly fashion than the
-hireling who is amenable to public criticism, and bound to interpret the
-law according to the opinions of others; whereas, the unfettered volunteer
-need only consult his own conscience and enforce such a construction of
-the statutes as he may determine to be the right one. One great result of
-this system is the preservation, in a state of vital activity, of many
-fine old laws, which the apathy or sycophancy to the public approval of
-less disinterested but more immediately responsible magistrates might
-suffer to fall into disuse. The Shallows, from the remotest period, have
-distinguished themselves as conservators of the law in this respect. In
-the time of the Anglo-Saxons, members of the race had been remarkable for
-their diligence in the conviction of malefactors by the process of red-hot
-ploughshares, the ordeals of hot and cold water, and similar unerring and
-time-honoured tests of criminality. Long after these cherished features in
-the national jurisprudence had been formally abolished, through the
-vexations meddling of effeminate Norman legislators, and nominally
-superseded by moveable Courts of Assize, the Shallows of Gloucestershire
-had the hardihood and patriotism to adhere to their practice in the teeth
-of all Royal Commissions of Inquiry and threats of suspension whatsoever.
-It was one Simon Shallow who, early in the reign of Edward the First, had
-the honour of executing the last assassin ever convicted in an English
-Court of Justice, by the flowing of blood from the body after death on its
-being touched by human fingers. The event was long remembered in the
-county, and its records are still preserved with excusable pride by the
-descendants of the Shallow family. It was, indeed, a masterly expression
-of the great English spirit of resistance. A murder had been committed—at
-least a dead body had been found at the foot of a precipice with the skull
-shattered. The reigning Shallow proceeded to try the case according to the
-immemorial custom of his ancestors. He at once caused all suspicious
-characters in the neighbourhood to be arrested. This he effected by
-ordering his own keepers to seize upon all persons suspected of poaching
-and other practices dangerous to the stability of the community, and by
-soliciting all adjacent landowners in the commission to come to the rescue
-of law and order, by causing to be arrested all similarly disaffected
-persons within their jurisdiction. Master Shallow’s keepers did their
-duty, and the neighbouring justices responded to the appeal. A goodly
-array of prisoners were brought into the presence of the body, which was
-laid on a table, tilted at a proper angle. The county justices assembled
-in strong force, in order to witness the vindication of the majesty of Old
-English law, threatened with undermining by divers royal messages. Two or
-three of the suspected criminals (against whom there was nothing
-particular beyond a pheasant’s nest or so, and who had been considerately
-warned not to lay too violent a hand on the body, lest they should cause a
-movement of the head which might be fatal) had passed triumphantly through
-the ordeal. A hardened malefactor was about to be tried, upon whom the
-gravest suspicion rested. He was the most accomplished deer-stealer in the
-neighbourhood. There was not a justice present through whose preserves the
-cause of law and order had not suffered by his depredations. It was in
-vain that this fellow pleaded with tears in his eyes that he had loved the
-deceased as a brother, and called witnesses to prove that he had parted
-with him amicably at the door of an alehouse; that they had taken
-different directions, and that the prisoner had spoken to divers persons
-at a distance of five miles from the scene of the supposed murder at the
-very moment when, if at all, it must have been committed. He was smartly
-reprimanded, with a counsel to remember what presence he stood in, and
-bidden to “lay on firm, and not touch the clothes * instead of the flesh,
-as their worships wotted well of that device.” The man raised his hand
-fearlessly, and was about to lay it on the body when a breathless
-messenger rushed into the justice hall, announcing that a troop of King’s
-officers were riding fast from Oxford with a view of putting a stop to the
-proceedings, tidings of which had reached that city, where His Majesty
-then held his court; and threatening the terrors of the law to any
-magistrate who should be convicted of participation in the illegal course
-of procedure now in progress. The justices rose in mingled wrath and fear,
-and in so doing managed to shake the table. Simultaneously with their
-movement the hand of the accused fell mechanically upon the body, the head
-of which rolled from its supports, causing an effusion of blood. “Lo, he
-is guilty!” cried the justices, triumphant in the moment of their apparent
-defeat. “Men of England!” said one of them (whose park had suffered
-dreadfully within the past month), “will ye see the laws of your fathers
-trampled on by a set of evil advisers—chiefly Frenchmen—who
-have falsely obtained the ear of His Majesty, whom heaven preserve! Will
-ye have your sons and brothers murdered in cold blood? Ten minutes more
-and the murderer will be rescued from justice by a set of French lawyers,
-who will set him free by quirks and quibbles. Now or never is your time to
-assert your rights. To the nearest oak with him, ere yet the blood is dry,
-according to the custom of your fathers!” The mob murmured approval: a
-superstition a thousand years old was dear to them. The keepers and
-constables clamoured—not one of them but had known the taste of the
-prisoner’s cudgel. The prisoner himself protested, appealed to the King’s
-justice, finally lost his temper and called the justices a pack of
-murderous noodles. The prisoner had his friends; but they were a
-disreputable minority of poachers and sheep-stealers. The bulk of the
-auditory were tenants or retainers of the justices. The approach of
-horsemen galloping at top speed was announced from a neighbouring hill. If
-ever a blow could be struck in defence of the old English laws, now was
-the time. Then, as now, it was a recognised principle that Britons never,
-never would be slaves, and where is the personal freedom in a country
-where you cannot hang a man in your own most approved fashion? Briefly,
-the prisoner was hanged on the nearest oak; and the Royal Commission
-appointed to investigate the matter, arrived just in time to cut him down
-and bury him with his lamented friend. Master Shallow was a timorous but
-by no means an inhuman or an unjust man. He had proposed sparing the
-culprit—whose guilt could scarcely be considered established, seeing
-that the body had been shaken by the rising of the court, and the flow of
-blood might have been accidental—provided he (the culprit) would
-make an ample confession of his crime and express his obligation to the
-magistrates who had tried him, before the King’s Commissioners. But this
-suggestion was overruled by the majority, who declared that there was no
-time for the consideration of trifling personal interests when they had a
-great principle to establish. So the convicted murderer was hanged with
-Master Shallow’s full warrant and approval.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* A common expedient resorted to by the consciously guilty
-in the Trial of Ordeal by Touch; similar to that practised
-by the ignorant of the present day, who think that by
-“kissing the thumb” instead of the book in a court of
-justice they evade the legal and sacred responsibilities of
-an oath.
-</pre>
-<p>
-It turned out—on the evidence of two cowboys, who had witnessed the
-event, but apparently not thought worth alluding to it until questioned—that
-the supposed murdered man, being under the obvious influence of malt
-liquor, had himself staggered over the precipice at the foot of which he
-had found his death. Master Shallow as chief of the sitting justices
-(what, we should call Chairman of Sessions) was tried by the Royal
-Commission, and found guilty of murder for putting a man to death by a
-process long since declared illegal by royal edict. Master Shallow was
-himself sentenced to suffer the extreme penalty of the law, but King
-Edward happening to be in one of his periodical money difficulties, the
-sentence was commuted to a heavy fine—which, to the honour of
-magisterial loyalty and good-fellowship, be it stated, the Gloucestershire
-justices nobly subscribed to meet. Master Shallow retained his judicial
-appointment, with a caution to abstain from the trial of criminals by
-exploded Saxon ordeals for the future, which he carefully observed.
-Nevertheless he earned lasting renown in the county, as the man who at the
-imminent risk of his own life had stood up for the maintenance of a great
-national institution. The Shallows, on the establishment of coat armour by
-Edward the Third, assumed in honour of this event the device of a man
-pendant on an oak branch, salient, in a field of green, proper. But some
-misconception arising in the public mind as to this being meant to
-represent an episode in the personal history of one of the family, the
-design was abandoned, and the traditional “dozen white luces,” (the origin
-of which is enveloped in mystery,) by which the house is still identified
-at the Heralds’ College, adopted in its place. It may not be irrelevant to
-state that the two over-officious cowboys were speedily selected, on the
-press-warrant of Master Shallow, to supply a deficiency in King Edward’s
-army—and perished nobly, fighting their country’s battles, in one of
-that monarch’s numerous expeditions against the disaffected Scots.
-</p>
-<p>
-The Shallows continued to merit renown by their resistance on all possible
-occasions to anything like innovation in the administration of justice.
-Our own Robert Shallow, at an advanced period of life, was only induced by
-serious remonstrances from King Henry the Fifth (for whom he was wont to
-express the strongest regard, having been very intimate with his
-grandfather) to desist from the ancient practice of trying aged women for
-the crime of witchcraft by launching them in deep water upon sieves,—when,
-if they went to the bottom and proved their earthly nature by remaining
-there for five or ten minutes, they were pronounced innocent and permitted
-to come to the surface and return to their homes at their earliest
-convenience: on the other hand, if they did not immediately sink, they
-were considered to be in league with the powers of darkness and taken out
-to be burnt. Throughout subsequent reigns the Shallows were remarkable for
-their indefatigable enforcement of the Game Laws, and of the measures
-enacted for the punishment of “masterless men,” that is, of persons
-wandering in search of employment—an offence which even in the
-present day is treated by their descendants with greater rigour than any
-other.
-</p>
-<p>
-Representatives of the house of Shallow—with the name variously
-modified—abound in our own time. They are to a man somehow connected
-with the amateur administration of justice. They are to be found in the
-country digging up obsolete enactments for the committal to imprisonment
-and hard labour of agricultural journeymen who may be disposed to treat
-themselves to a day’s holiday. They are the terror of itinerant showmen,
-unemployed mechanics and poachers, by whom they are hated. On the other
-hand they have the enthusiastic support of the genuine criminal
-population, to whose professional exertions they are by no means
-obstructive. They are learned in the rights of rabbits—and know a
-greater variety of legal torture for avenging the unlicensed death of one
-of that favoured species than a French cook could invent receipts for
-disguising its carcase. You will find them trying strange experiments with
-pet convicts in model prisons, and actively throwing impediments in the
-way of government inquiries into the conduct of brutal governors of those
-institutions—too often the hot ploughshares and ordeals by touch of
-modern criminal jurisprudence. Little opportunities of serving a friend
-like this are of course due to the country Shallows as an offset to their
-gratuitous services. As one of the earliest of the family counsellors has
-expressed it, “Heaven save but a knave should have some countenance at his
-friend’s request; an honest man, Sir, is able to speak for himself, when a
-knave cannot.” Their worships are further privileged to carry out this
-principle by limiting, within their jurisdiction, the knavery of keeping
-open houses for the sale of injurious tipples at exorbitant prices, to
-such knaves, only, as they may consider “entitled to some countenance at
-their friends’ request.” In London—where some of the fraternity are
-permitted to exercise their functions within certain limits—their
-most conspicuous public achievements are an annual out-door masquerade of
-obsolete meaning, strongly reminding us of their ancestor Robert’s
-appearance as “Sir Dagonet in Arthur’s Show”—and certain frantic but
-hitherto unsuccessful attempts to put down pitch-and-toss, polkas, and
-suicide—practices which still continue prevalent in the British
-metropolis.
-</p>
-<p>
-Of the personal character of Master Robert Shallow, the worthy
-representative of this race and order in Sir John Falstaff’s time, some
-glimpse has possibly been obtained from an early chapter of this work. Sir
-John at the advanced period of life to which I have now brought him,
-remembered the justice “at Clement’s Inn, like a man made after supper of
-a cheese paring; when he was naked he was, for all the world, like a
-forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife: he
-was so forlorn” (I am quoting Sir John’s own words) “that his dimensions
-to any thick sight were invisible; he was the very genius of famine; he
-came ever in the rearward of the fashion, and sung those tunes to the
-over-scutched huswives that he had heard the carmen whistle, and sware
-they were his fancies or his good-nights. And now is this Vice’s dagger
-become a squire; and talks as familiarly of John of Gaunt as if he had
-been sworn brother to him; and I’ll be sworn he never saw him but once in
-the Tilt-yard; and then he burst his head for crowding amongst the
-marshal’s men. I saw it, and told John of Gaunt he beat his own name; for
-you might have trussed him and all his apparel into an eel skin; the case
-of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a court, and now he hath land
-and beeves!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Considering that, when Sir John Falstaff made these reflections upon the
-past and present of Master Robert Shallow, nearly fifty years had elapsed
-since the events alluded to, it will be admitted that our knight’s
-recollection of the passage in the Tilt-yard (with which my readers are
-familiar) and the substance of the witticism it evoked from him at the
-time, prove his memory to have been at least unimpaired. It is strange
-that Sir John should marvel at Master Shallow’s possession of land and
-beeves. It will be found through all ages that the Shallows have had an
-eye to the main-chance, which it is very rarely indeed you find a fool
-neglecting. A mole may have very small eyes, but he is not quite blind. He
-is dazzled by pure daylight, it is true, and may never see a flower. But
-he is an excellent judge of dirt, which is to him the great necessary of
-life, and he will never lose sight of the importance of keeping a
-sufficient heap of it about him.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-V. VISIT TO JUSTICE SHALLOW’S.
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>Y supposition that Sir John Falstaff was indebted for his knowledge of
-Mr. Shallow’s existence, whereabouts, and prosperous condition, to some
-such accidental renewal of his acquaintance with Mr. Doit, of
-Staffordshire, as I have imagined, is strengthened in probability by the
-certainty that our knight really did meet with the latter-named gentleman,
-and at Coventry, within a few days anterior to the date which my
-historical calculations have decided me in assigning to the battle of
-Gualtree Forest. This is proved by a letter from Mr. Doit, discovered
-among the Falstaff papers on the knight’s decease, apparently one of a
-numerous series, in which the writer somewhat sharply requests payment of
-a certain “obligacion” which he has held for some time in acknowledgment
-of monies advanced by him to Sir John on the occasion of their happy
-“reknitting of their old fellowship” at Coventry, “which honour,” Master
-Doit sarcastically observes, “albeit of great price, is one I had not been
-so prodigal as to purchase with fore-knowledge that it would cost me the
-sum it is like to,” to wit, fifteen pounds eight shillings, the amount of
-the said “obligacion,” which is mentioned as bearing the date of the 7th
-of June, 1410.
-</p>
-<p>
-Be the origin of the event as it may, Sir John’s visit to the domain of
-Justice Shallow is matter of public history. The Falstaff troops marched
-from Coventry to Stratford-on-Avon, between which town and Evesham the
-justiciary seat of the Shallows was situate,—and there halted.
-</p>
-<p>
-It may be thought that an event so suggestive as a visit from Sir John
-Falstaff to Stratford-on-Avon—the future birthplace of his greatest
-historian, but for whose genius it is possible that the name and
-achievements of our knight would have lapsed into an oblivion from which
-not even these affectionate pages (which, of course, would have been
-written under any circumstances) could have rescued them—might be
-made the text for much instructive and entertaining reflection. But <i>cui
-bono?</i> It is to be hoped that the character and objects of this work
-are now sufficiently understood to acquit the writer of any suspicion of a
-tendency to digress from the iron road of facts into the flowery groves of
-fanciful speculation. The fact, that Sir John Falstaff passed through
-Stratford-on-Avon, more than a hundred years before the birth of William
-Shakspeare, can scarcely have had any influence upon the dramatist’s after
-labours in connection with the warrior’s history. It is true, that Sir
-John Falstaff was in the habit of leaving his mark wherever he went; and
-in any town where he may have sojourned, if only for the space of a day or
-two, there would be no likelihood of his being speedily forgotten. But a
-century is a long time. And I am disposed to think that any interest or
-value attached to such Inn Memoriams of Sir John’s progress through
-Stratford as that city might be expected to possess at the date of his
-departure, would cease with the announcement of the knight’s death without
-heirs or estate. On the whole, I have decided to dismiss the question and
-resume my narrative.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was no part of our hero’s plan to take Mr. Shallow by surprise. His
-designs upon that rural potentate were not of a nature to be carried by a
-<i>coup de main</i>. He prepared for his appearance in Gloucestershire by
-sending on an <i>avant courier</i>, with the following dispatch. *
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* The preservation of this important document is probably
-due to the hereditary vanity of the race of Shallows—who
-from the time of John of Gaunt down to the last presentation
-of the Freedom of the City of London to a foreign prince,—
-have never been known to lose an opportunity of claiming
-acquaintance with persons of rank and celebrity. The letter
-was preserved for many years in the family. The original
-Gloucestershire branch becoming extinct, it passed into the
-hands of some collateral descendants (through the Slenders
-and Aguecheeks, both nearly allied by blood and marriage to
-the Shallows), domiciled in the vicinity of Chepstow, in
-whose possession it remained <i>perdu</i> until the early part of
-the present century, when the head of the family having
-providentially taken to drinking, and his goods being sold
-by auction, the treasure was discovered by his county
-neighbour, Mr. Roderick Bolton, F. S. A., and by him
-purchased for incorporation with the Strongate Collection.
-</pre>
-<p>
-“<i>Unto the right worshipful my good friend Master Robert Shallow, be
-this delivered in haste.</i>
-</p>
-<p>
-“Right trusty and well-beloved. Master Shallow, I commend me to you by our
-ancient friendship; and please you to wete that being armed with the
-King’s press for the raising of soldiers in the counties, I shall require
-at your hands the pick of half-a-dozen good and sufficient men. Thus much
-for business. Being sore pressed for time, and our General, the Prince of
-Lancaster, crying out for me, I would fain depute the choosing of the men
-to one of my lieutenants or ancients,—had it not reached me that the
-justice with whom I have to deal is no other than mine old friend Master
-Shallow. Knowing this, I cannot but play traitor to my duty and forfeit a
-day of the King’s service, to ride over in my own person, that I may once
-more say I have taken Master Shallow by the hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I pray you detain me not, and betray me not—that I give up to
-friendship that time which is the King’s. But I have no fear, as we have
-stood by each other ere now. Disturb not your household to make us
-welcome, as we may not unsaddle, and I bring none with me but a simple
-following befitting my rank as the King’s poor officer. The main force of
-my army I leave here, in camp, hard by Stratford, and I must back in haste
-lest the knaves run riot, and embroil me with the townsfolk.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Pick me good men, I pray, for the rebels wax insolent. Have them of the
-better class of yeomen if it may be—men whose lives are worth
-fighting for the care of. Your starveling hinds and villains are rank
-naught for march or battle-field.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Written at Stratford-on-the-Avon, the 8th day of June, in the year of
-Grace 1410.
-</p>
-<p>
-“John Falstaff (Knight).” *
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* The biographer—or, as he perhaps ought to be styled in
-connection with this department of his labours, the editor,
-is again called on to defend the course he has adopted with
-reference to such ancient manuscripts as he has found
-necessary to transfer to his pages. Objections have been
-made—which the periodical form of publication adopted in
-this work affords an opportunity of meeting—to the plan of
-modernising the orthography, and in some cases the
-phraseology, of these compositions, whereby it is asserted
-their interest is materially weakened. There can be no
-defence so adequate to the emergency as the plea of an
-illustrious example. Sir John Fenn, the learned and
-ingenious editor of the <i>Paston letters</i>, vindicates a
-similar line of conduct with regard to his treatment of that
-inestimable collection, in the following language;—
-
-“The thought of transcribing (or rather translating) each
-letter according to the rules of modern orthography and
-punctuation arose from a hint which the editor received from
-an antiquary, respectable for his knowledge and
-publications; whose opinion was, that many would be induced
-to read these letters for the sake of the various matters
-they contain, for their style, and for their curiosity, who
-not having paid attention to ancient modes of writing and
-abbreviations, would be deterred from attempting such a task
-by their uncouth appearance in their original garb.”
-
-The present editor has not, like Sir John Fenn, enjoyed the
-advantage of a special hint from any antiquary, respectable
-for his knowledge and publications or otherwise. But he
-trusts that the learned baronet’s own valuable precedent
-will be sufficient excuse for his conduct under similar
-circumstances. If not, he can only say that if the letters
-relating to the history of Sir John Falstaff, quoted in the
-course of this biography, had not appeared in their present
-form, <i>it would have been a matter of downright
-impossibility for the British public to have read them at
-all.</i>
-</pre>
-<p>
-The receipt of this letter threw Master Shallow into an ecstasy of
-excitement.
-</p>
-<p>
-Here was the renowned courtier, Sir John Falstaff, the “friend of the mad
-prince and Poins,” the conqueror of Shrewsbury, the great wit, traveller,
-and leader of the fashion, writing to him, plain Robert Shallow, Esquire,
-in terms of familiarity, and promising a speedy visit. There was only one
-drawback to the justice’s delight. There was no time to make adequate
-preparations for so important an event, or to ensure such an attendance of
-influential neighbours as Master Shallow would have wished to overwhelm
-with the sight of his distinguished guest. The worthy Justice would have
-liked triumpha arches, rustic festivities, and bands of music. He would
-have gladly kept open house to all the gentry of the county for the
-occasion. Not that he was in the least degree a liberal man, or that he
-cared two pins for Sir John Falstaff personally. He was rather niggardly
-than otherwise; and fifty intervening years had not one whit blunted his
-recollection of one or two sound drubbings and many slights and sarcasms
-inflicted on him in youth by our knight. But, to compare lesser things
-with great, it is not to be supposed that noblemen and gentlemen who
-impoverish their exchequers and turn their country seats topsy-turvy for
-the reception of royal and princely visitors, on their triumphal
-progresses through a land, are actuated by a mere spirit of loyalty. A
-year’s rent-roll of the Carabas estates is not consumed in decorating the
-state chamber that His gracious Majesty or Her Serene Highness may enjoy a
-comfortable night’s rest; but that the satin hangings, the golden
-cornices, the encrusted bed-posts and the jewelled coal-scuttles, may be
-enumerated in the fashionable journals, and engraved in the Illustrated
-News; and remain in their integrity, to prove, to the envy of
-contemporaries and the admiration of posterity, that king or prince once
-honoured Carabas Castle by going to bed in it. The great Baron Reginald de
-Bouf does not marshal his eight hundred retainers in new scarlet surcoats
-with enormous badges displaying the ancestral device of the calf’s head
-richly embroidered in gold on the left arm, merely that King Richard Cour
-de Lion (who happens to be passing Torquilstone Castle on his way to York
-to negotiate a national loan with the great commercial house of Isaacs
-Brothers) shall be flattered by a delicate attention from a faithful
-subject. This consideration may have entered into the baron’s
-calculations; his lordship having daughters growing up whom he would like
-to place in posts of distinction about the person of Queen Berengaria, and
-a son in the church who can hardly aspire to a mitred abbacy without his
-majesty’s countenance. But the real and paramount motive is that Cedric
-the wealthy thane of Rotherwood, the haughty Templar Sir Brian de Bois
-Guilbert, (that conceited eastern traveller who is stopping at the Castle,
-and turns up his nose at all its primitive arrangements), Sir Philip de
-Malvoisin, the very reverend Prior Aymer, and indeed all the baron’s
-acquaintances and neighbours, down to the very woodland ragamuffins of
-Barnsdale and Sherwood, shall be impressed with the fact that the
-Torquilstone estates can muster an array of eight hundred men, and afford
-to clothe them in new scarlet and gold lace. If a man were to propose to
-present me with a piece of plate in consideration of my distinguished
-services to literature, I should accept the plate of course, and
-immediately turn it to some useful purpose. But my gratitude,—which
-I would be careful to express in the most glowing terms at my command,—would
-never blind me to the fact that my friend had been actuated less by a
-sense of my great merits as poet, historian and moral philosopher, than by
-a wish to see his name at the head of a subscription list, and to take the
-chair at a public dinner, ostensibly in my honour. Much as I hate
-digression, I will illustrate my meaning by a personal anecdote. I once
-found myself—Heaven knows how I got there!—in a little
-out-of-the-way Flemish village, which had been thrown into a state of
-commotion by the prospective opening of a partially completed line of
-railway, the first train of which was expected to stop at a little toy
-station in the vicinity. A peer of the realm, one of the directors of the
-company, and representative of a noble line of great antiquity, dating, in
-fact, from the very foundation of the Belgian monarchy, had signified his
-intention of assisting at the inaugural ceremony. The inhabitants of
-Tiddliwinckx resolved to greet him with an appropriate address. This was
-prepared by the Vicaire (with the kind permission of the Curé, who was
-himself, nevertheless, opposed to railways in the abstract as somewhat
-smacking of Protestantism), and carefully studied for delivery by the
-Bourgmestre. The station was tastefully decorated with flags, and the
-inhabitants mustered in large numbers in the stiffest of dark blue blouses
-and the snowiest of caps. The thrilling moment approached. The Bourgmestre
-paper in hand, was all trepidation, where indeed he was not trousers and
-shirt collar. The train signal was awaited with breathless anxiety. It was
-not given. A quarter of an hour—a second—another elapsed, and
-no train made its appearance. At length a pedestrian messenger arrived at
-an easy pace up the line, with the unwelcome tidings that an accident to
-the rails, some six miles distant, had brought the engine to a standstill,
-and the distinguished visitors had been compelled to retrace their way to
-Brussels. The Bourgmestre and his colleagues were in despair. The
-suspension of railway traffic was a matter of utter indifference to them:
-but they had missed the pleasure of talking to a count, and an eloquent
-address had been composed, and the difficulties of its orthography
-mastered, for nothing. The friends of the heartbroken Bourgmestre
-attempted to lead him away from the scene of his disappointment. But he
-refused to be moved or comforted. He had come there to read the address,
-and read it to somebody he would. I think rather than have gone home
-without delivering it he would have read it to the gend’arme on duty, or
-to the one Flemish railway porter who did not understand a word of the
-French language, in which the oration was supposed to be written. In a
-fortunate moment his eye fell upon me. A ray of hope illumined the
-previously sad bourgmestral countenance. After a brief conference with his
-colleagues, he approached me politely and inquired if “Monsieur was
-connected with the Railway Interest?” I replied that I had not that
-advantage. He expressed his regret that I should have been implicated in
-the common disappointment, and suggested, as some compensation, that I
-would perhaps like to hear the address which it had been his intention to
-deliver, had not unforeseen circumstances prevented. I declared that
-nothing would give me greater pleasure. The address was accordingly <i>read
-to me.</i> I replied in a neat speech, setting forth the advantages of
-railway communication, and the high position which, through its means, the
-enlightened community of Tiddliwinckx was destined to occupy in the
-civilised world; concluding by a compliment to the magistrate on his
-eloquence, and expressing my high sense of the honour he had done me in
-selecting me for its recipient. The bourgmestre was perfectly satisfied,
-and invited me to dinner.
-</p>
-<p>
-To return to Master Shallow. Immediately on the receipt of Sir John
-Falstaff’s letter, he sent messengers to his most influential neighbours,
-praying them on various pretexts to visit him in the morning. But he was
-singularly unfortunate. Justice Aguecheek (related to the Shallows through
-the Slender family) was gone to London on law business. Justice Greedye
-was invited to a great dinner on the following day, and was preparing for
-the event in the hands of his apothecary. Justice Trulliber was gone to
-attend the hog market at Taunton, and would be three days absent. Masters
-Woodcock and Westerne were on ill terms with each other, and with Master
-Shallow, on some business of litigation. It would be useless to invite
-either, especially the latter, who would be certain to receive any civil
-message with foul language and possible ill treatment of the bearer. It
-seemed likely that Sir John Falstaff’s visit would be wasted, like a rare
-dish prepared for an honoured guest who does not arrive, and which the
-family are fain to consume in dudgeon. Utter disappointment was prevented
-by the arrival of one Justice Silence—Master Shallow’s own cousin by
-marriage, who made his appearance punctually, at the hour appointed on the
-eventful morning. Master Silence was a dull man, and not given to converse
-or tale-bearing. But he would serve as a witness to his kinsman’s
-familiarity with the coming man. And while he would be able to confirm the
-heads of any narrative Master Shallow might choose to frame on the
-subject, his natural taciturnity would prevent him from contradicting any
-superadded details which his imaginative relation might choose to furnish
-for its embellishment.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff arrived attended by that “simple following” he had
-spoken of; which, it is needless to say, consisted of his entire army—properly
-bribed and instructed to declare that they were backed by countless
-legions in camp at Stratford. Master Shallow received our knight with the
-joy with which an ambitious spider of small dimensions may be supposed to
-regard the approach to his web of a gigantic blue-bottle. Master Shallow—simple
-man—imagined that he was going to turn Sir John Falstaff to his
-advantage. “Friend at court” was the justice’s maxim, “is better than
-penny in purse.” Sir John’s own feelings, on entering the cosy,
-well-stocked domain of the ancient race of Shallow, may be compared to
-those of a majestic fox entering an unprotected poultry yard.
-</p>
-<p>
-As I have stated that this preliminary visit of the Falstaff forces to the
-stronghold of Shallow was only one of reconnoitre, to enable the general
-to plan his great assault for a future occasion, and as circumstances
-rendered it necessarily of short duration, I will pass over it briefly.
-Sir John’s treatment of his host was affable, but dignified. He suffered
-Master Shallow to refer to their past intimacy, and lie to his heart’s
-content on the score of his youthful achievements.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John selected such men as he considered desirable for the King’s
-service from the levies provided for him; accepted a brief repast, and
-departed, having promised Master Shallow to renew their acquaintance on
-the termination of the wars, in a second visit to that gentleman’s
-hospitable mansion, extracting in return a half-promise from its owner to
-accompany him to court. It is strange that Justice Shallow, gifted, as we
-have seen him, with a remarkably retentive memory, should have forgotten
-how costly a luxury he had found the honour of Sir John Falstaff’s
-patronage in early youth. But it is the constant failing of very foolish
-old gentlemen to imagine they have grown wiser with age.
-</p>
-<p>
-In the present day, when so much of the public attention is directed to
-the question of raising recruits for the British army, a glance at the way
-in which such matters were regulated in the fifteenth century may not
-prove uninstructive. It will be seen that the modes of actual levying
-differed materially from those at present in vogue. But it may silence
-cavillers to learn that our ancestors—whose wisdom may not be
-disputed—were fully in accord with the opinion of modern rulers as
-to the class of men to whom the fighting of their country’s battles might
-be with the greatest propriety entrusted.
-</p>
-<p>
-I will show you how Sir John Falstaff, with the assistance of Justice
-Shallow, recruited the diminished armies of King Henry the Fourth.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John on his arrival at the justice’s mansion, having exchanged a few
-hasty civilities and remarks on the weather with his host and the scarcely
-audible, visible, or tangible Master Silence, proceeded to business.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Gentlemen,” he inquired, “have you provided me here half a dozen of
-sufficient men?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow replied in the affirmative, and requested his guest to be
-seated.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John took a chair, and begged that the recruits might be brought
-before him.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0017" id="linkimage-0017"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/210s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="210s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/210.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/210m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-Five miserable-looking individuals were marshalled into the courtyard,
-officered by the valiant Bardolph. Whether Master Shallow’s arithmetic had
-been at fault, and he had calculated erroneously as to the addition of two
-and three; whether there was a scarcity of men in the neighbourhood; or
-whether one of the original number had deserted, is doubtful. However, it
-is certain that of the half-dozen recruits asserted to be in readiness
-only five made their appearance.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow proceeded to call over the muster roll—not appearing
-to notice the deficiency.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ralph Mouldy—let me see. Where is Ralph Mouldy?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Here, if it please you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Mr. Mouldy’s voice and expression of countenance declared plainly that it
-didn’t please <i>him</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mouldy was in all probability a dangerous poacher, so anxious was the
-worthy magistrate to recommend him for military service.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What think you, Sir John? A good limbed fellow; young, strong, and of <i>good
-friends</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The last recommendation decided Sir John at once. Mouldy would do.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Is thy name Mouldy?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yea, if it please you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“‘Tis the more time thou wert used.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow was in ecstacies. The practical joke of sending a man to
-the wars against his will had already tickled the excellent justice’s
-sense of humour. But to make a verbal jest on his calamity to his very
-face, and on his own name, was irresistible.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ha! ha! ha! most excellent i’ faith! Things that are mouldy lack use.
-Very singular, good. Well said, Sir John. Very well said.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Prick him,” said Sir John.
-</p>
-<p>
-And down went a mark against Mouldy’s name, making him as much the King’s
-property as though he had been honestly bought by a sergeant’s shilling.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mouldy grumbled like a malcontent as he was. He thought that he might have
-been let alone.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My old dame will be undone now for one to do her husbandry and her
-drudgery. You need not to have pricked me: there are other men fitter to
-go than I.”
- </p>
-<p>
-As if that were a reason for your not going! For shame, Mouldy!
-</p>
-<p>
-Simon Shadow was the next called.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Aye, marry, let me have him to sit under,” said Sir John, “he’s like to
-be a cold soldier.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Shadow was approved and pricked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Thomas Wart!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Where’s he?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Here, sir!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Is thy name Wart.” (Sir John Falstaff was the questioner.)
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes, Sir?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Thou art a very ragged Wart.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Shall I prick him down, Sir John?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his back, and the
-whole frame stands upon pins. Prick him no more.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Renewed ecstacies of Mr. Justice Shallow. His worship had always
-considered a ragged man a most laughable object. But the matter had never
-been represented to him in such a truly ridiculous light as by his
-facetious guest.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ha! ha! ha! You can do it, Sir, you can do it. I commend you well.
-Francis Feeble.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Here, Sir.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What trade art thou, Feeble?” Sir John asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A woman’s tailor, Sir.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Shall I prick him. Sir?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You may; but if he had been a man’s tailor, he would have pricked you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Feeble was approved and pricked. He was the only one who appeared to
-submit to the operation without wincing. Feeble proved the most valiant
-ninth part of a recruit on record. He appeared delighted with his
-prospects. The only drawback to his military ardour and satisfaction was a
-regret that Wart could not be permitted to accompany him. This makes it
-difficult to decide whether Wart was his bosom friend or his mortal enemy.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I would Wart might have gone, Sir,” quoth Feeble.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I would thou wert a man’s tailor,” replied the Captain, “that thou
-might’st mend him and make him fit to go. I cannot put him to a private
-soldier that is the leader of so many thousands. Let that suffice, most
-forcible Feeble.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Feeble was satisfied. So, no doubt, was Wart.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Peter Bullcalf of the Green,” was the next called.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Trust me, a likely fellow,” said the Knight: “prick me Bullcalf till he
-roar again.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh good my lord Captain——” Bullcalf roared without waiting
-for the operation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh! Sir, I am a diseased man.” Bullcalf bellowed, proving that his lungs
-were at all events not yet affected.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What disease hast thou?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A villainous cold, Sir—a cough, Sir—which I caught with
-ringing in the King’s affairs on his coronation day, Sir.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown; we will have away thy cold;
-and I will take such order that thy friends shall ring for thee.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was fortunate that with this sally Sir John Falstaff desisted for the
-present, or he would in all probability have been the death of Master
-Robert Shallow. That gentleman repeated the words, “And I will take such
-order that thy friends shall ring for thee,” to himself, many times over,
-that he might be able to retail the jest to his admiring friends. He
-circulated it at first as one of the many brilliant things Sir John
-Falstaff had said on the occasion of his first visit to Shallow Hall. But
-in the course of time the worthy magistrate appropriated it to his own
-service, and never missed an opportunity of bringing it forward (with the
-point carefully omitted) as an original witticism from the inexhaustible
-<i>repertoire</i> of himself, Master Robert Shallow.
-</p>
-<p>
-Bullcalf was pricked. The justices and their military friend withdrew to
-luncheon.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good Master Corporate Bardolph,” said Bullcalf when the troops were left
-alone with that warlike personage, “stand my friend, and here is four
-Harry ten shillings in French crowns for you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Bullcalf urged his plea by further arguments. They were unnecessary. The
-first was more than sufficient.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Go to: stand aside,” said Bardolph, pocketing the money.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mouldy quitted the ranks and motioned his superior to grant him also a
-private conference.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And good Master Corporal Captain, for my old dame’s sake, stand my
-friend: she has nobody to do anything about her, when I am gone: and she
-is old and cannot help herself. You shall have forty, Sir.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Chink! Chink!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Go to: stand aside.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Sir, a word with you,” said Bardolph when his Captain reappeared with the
-two justices. “I have <i>three</i> pound to free Mouldy and Bullcalf.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It should be observed that four ten shilling pieces added to forty
-shillings at that period, as now, made a total of <i>four</i> pounds
-sterling. Bardolph’s education had been neglected—and let us hope
-that his miscalculation was merely the result of a total ignorance of the
-rules of compound addition.
-</p>
-<p>
-A word to the wise is sufficient for them. Sir John Falstaff at once
-decided that Mouldy should stay at home until past service, and Bullcalf
-be left to grow till he should be fit for it. Sir John would have none of
-them.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sir John, Sir John,” urged Master Shallow. “Do not yourself wrong: they
-are your likeliest men, and I would have you served with the best.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It is not improbable that Bullcalf was a poacher too.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff was indignant.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how to choose a man? Care I for the
-limb, the thewes, the stature, bulk and big assemblance of a man? Give me
-the spirit, Master Shallow. Here’s Wart. You see what a ragged appearance
-it is. He shall charge you and discharge you with the motion of a
-pewterer’s hammer: come off and on swifter than he that gibbets on the
-brewer’s bucket. And this same half-faced fellow Shadow, give me this man—he
-presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman may with as great aim level at
-the edge of a penknife. And for a retreat—how swiftly will this
-Feeble, the woman’s tailor, run off?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Briefly, Feeble, Wart, and Shadow were enrolled among the king’s soldiers
-serving under Sir John Falstaff. Bullcalf and Mouldy were allowed to go
-about their business.
-</p>
-<p>
-It will be seen from the above that the ancient manner of choosing
-soldiers differed not materially from the modern one. The better class of
-men were rejected, and the ranks supplied from the dregs of the
-population. Any charge of venality against Sir John Falstaff and his
-lieutenant for suffering Mouldy and Bullcalf to buy off their services, I
-hope I can meet, by calling attention to the fact that there are even now
-certain favoured persons—whole regiments in fact—ostensibly in
-her Majesty’s service, who are invariably privileged to stop at home in
-times of danger. Or I can dispose of the matter more simply by stating
-that Sir John Falstaff merely gave permission to the two warriors elect,
-Mouldy and Bullcalf—to return to their homes on urgent private
-affairs.
-</p>
-<p>
-It may be objected that Sir John Falstaff observed an unjustifiable tone
-of levity in transacting a business of such gravity as the forcible
-abduction of poor men from their homes—to risk their lives in a
-quarrel, the issue of which could not personally interest them. But Sir
-John’s jests on the names, wardrobes, and personal appearance of his
-recruits, were at all events harmless. I have heard of much more practical
-jokes being passed on the British soldier by the authorities engaging him
-in my time; such as promising him certain sums of money for his services,
-and deducting nearly the whole amount for the expenses of his outfit;
-sending him to fight under a broiling sun, weighted with half a horse load
-of useless accoutrements; supplying him with firelocks that burst in his
-hands; shipping him on board crazy old vessels that go to pieces in still
-water; and a thousand others.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-VI. ON THE MAGNANIMITY OP SIR JOHN FALSTAFF
-</h2>
-<p>
-IN ABSTAINING FROM PARTICIPATION IN A DISGRACEFUL ACTION.—EPISODE OF
-COLEVILE OF THE GRANGE.
-</p>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>N estimating the characters of great men, it is recognised as a principle
-that we should give them almost the same credit for the mischief they
-abstain from doing as for the positive good they effect. Abstention from
-evil, under circumstances of great temptation to its performance, is
-unquestionably a virtue of the highest order. In proof of the high esteem
-habitually awarded by mankind to this rare although negative excellence, I
-will refer merely to the celebrated letting-alone case of the Roman
-Scipio, and the well-known parallel to it afforded by the conduct of Sir
-John Falstaff himself, who (at a later period of his career than the one
-at present under notice), having occasion, for professional reasons, to
-break open a gentleman’s lodge, kill the gentleman’s deer, and maltreat
-the gentleman’s servants, was yet, in the very height and impetuosity of
-action, enabled to put a sufficient curb on his impulses to resist the
-temptation of kissing a keeper’s daughter!
-</p>
-<p>
-The little incident of self-denial just alluded to, though in every way
-deserving of the highest eulogy, has, as it seems to me, been dwelt on by
-the commentators with undue stress, rather implying a suspicion that it
-might have been an exceptional case in the character and conduct of our
-knight, and remarkable only on that account. So far from this being the
-truth, I could establish precedents for the occurrence by a thousand
-proofs of glaring offences which Sir John Falstaff did not commit, while
-otherwise occupied in the way of his business. I will content myself,
-however, with a single example, couched in an incident, which here falls
-naturally into its place, by which it will be seen that the hero of these
-pages could, on occasion, abstain from taking part in even the greatest
-acts of rascality of his time; moreover, when the greatest facilities, and
-even inducements, existed for his participating in such means of glory.
-</p>
-<p>
-The following passage from Hollinshed will facilitate comprehension of the
-incident.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Raufe Nevill, Earl of Westmoreland, that was not far off, together with
-“the Lord John of Lancaster, the King’s son, being informed of this
-“rebellious attempt *, assembled together such powers as they might make,
-“and coming into a plain within the forest of Galtree, caused their standards
-“to be pight down in the like sort as the Archbishop had pight his, over
-“against them, being far stronger of people than the other; for (as some
-“write) there were of the rebels, at the least, eleven thousand men. When the
-“Earl of Westmoreland perceived the force of adversaries, and that they lay
-“still and attempted not to come forward upon him, he subtilely devised how
-“to quail their purpose, and forthwith despatched messengers unto the Arch-
-“bishop to understand the cause, as it were, of that great assemble, and for what
-“cause, contrary to the King’s peace, they came so in armour. The Archbishop
-“answered that he took nothing in hand against the King’s peace; but that
-“whatever he did, tended rather to advance the peace and quiet of the Com-
-“monwealth than otherwise; and when he and his company were in arms, it
-“was for fear of the King, to whom he could have no free access by reason
-“of such a multitude of flatterers as were about him; and therefore he main-
-“tained that his purpose was good and profitable, as well for the King himself
-“as for the realm, if men were willing to understand a truth; and herewith
-“he showed forth a scroll, in which the articles were written whereof before
-“ye have heard. The Messengers returning unto the Earl of Westmoreland,
-“showed him what they had heard and brought from the Archbishop. When
-“he had read the articles, he showed in word and countenance, outwardly, that
-“he liked of the Archbishop’s holy and virtuous intent and purpose; that he
-“and his would prosecute the same in assisting the Archbishop, who,
-“rejoicing at that, gave credit to the Earl, and persuaded the Earl Marshall
-“against his will, as it were, to go with him to a place appointed for them
-“to commune together. Then, when they were met with like number on either
-“part, the articles were read over; and, without any more ado, the Earl of
-“Westmoreland and those that were with him agreed to do their best to see
-“that a reformation might be had according to the same. The Earl of West-
-“moreland using more policy than the rest: ‘Well (said he), then our travail is
-“come to the wished end; and whereas our people have been long in armour,
-“let them depart home to their wonted trades and occupations: in the mean
-“time let us drink together in sign of agreement, that the people on both
-“sides may see it, and know that it is true that we be light at a point.
-
-“They had no sooner shaked hands together, but a knight was sent straight-
-“ways from the Archbishop to bring word to the people that there was a
-“Peace concluded, commanding each man to lay aside arms, and resort home
-“to their homes. The people beholding such tokens of peace as shaking of
-“hands, and drinking together of the Lords in loving manner, brake up their
-“field and returned homewards: but in the mean time, while the people of
-“the Archbishop’s side drew away, the number of the contrary part increased,
-“according to order given by the Earl of Westmoreland. And yet the
-“Archbishop perceived not he was deceived till the Earl of Westmoreland
-“arrested him and the Earl Marshall, with divers other. Their troops being
-“pursued, many were taken, many slain, and many spoiled of that they had
-“about them, and so permitted to go their ways.”
-
-* i.e. That of Northumberland, Hastings, Mowbray and
-Archbishop Scroop—with a view to the suppression of which
-Falstaff and others were now marching into Yorkshire.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Now, I am happy to say, that with all his faults, Sir John Falstaff was
-guiltless of participation in this infamous transaction. From the
-Shak-spearian account of the occurrence (which does not materially differ
-from that of the elder and more prosaic chronicles), it is clear that
-Falstaff and his troops were not among those who treacherously
-“increased,” according to orders from the Earl of Westmoreland, while the
-people of the Archbishop’s side “drew away.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Sir John did not make his appearance on the shameful field till the heat
-of action was past and the disgraceful pursuit abandoned.
-</p>
-<p>
-It is true that the fact is on record, that on our hero’s reaching the
-skirts of Gaultree Forest, he met with a runaway rebel, by name Colevile
-of the Dale, whom he immediately challenged, and who, as quickly
-surrendered himself prisoner, on the mere suspicion that his challenger
-was no other than the redoubted Sir John Falstaff. This circumstance,
-whilst adding another to the thousand existing proofs that our knight was
-a man of acknowledged bravery and martial renown—at the same time,
-seems a little to weaken my theory, that Sir John is entitled to credit
-for having withheld his countenance and assistance from the treacherous
-“subtiltie” of Westmoreland and Lancaster. It looks rather as though he
-had come a little late for the scramble, and was anxious to make up for
-lost time in the pursuit and plunder of stragglers. Colevile, however,
-seems to have fallen in his way most temptingly, and from the alacrity
-with which he gave himself into custody, he would seem to have been an
-individual ambitious for the distinction of being led captive at the
-wheels of Sir John Falstaff’s car of triumph.
-</p>
-<p>
-The following conversation explains the circumstances of the capture *:—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Henry IV. Part II., act iv. scene 2.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff. What is your name, sir? Of what condition are you; and
-of what place, I pray?
-</p>
-<p>
-Colevile. I am a knight, sir, and my name is, Colevile of the Dale.
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff. Well then, Colevile, is your name; a knight, is your degree; and
-your place, the dale. Colevile, shall still be your name; a traitor, your
-degree; and the dungeon, your place—a place deep enough. So shall
-you be still Colevile of the Dale.
-</p>
-<p>
-Colevile. Are you not Sir John Falstaff?
-</p>
-<p>
-Falstaff. As good a man as he, sir, whoe’er I am.
-</p>
-<h3>
-****
-</h3>
-<p>
-Colevile. I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and I yield me.
-</p>
-<p>
-This capture of Colevile (which, considering Colevile’s alacrity to be
-caught, I don’t well see how Sir John could have avoided), is, I am happy
-to say, the only evidence on record, of our knight’s having been in the
-slightest degree mixed up with this most rascally transaction in the most
-rascally age of English history: perpetrated in the name, and by the son
-and officers, of a distinguished rascal, who, by his own vast demerits,
-had raised himself to the exalted position of the King of all the Rascals
-in England. Sir John’s remarkable abnegation of self in this affair,
-almost induces me to reconsider my by no means hastily formed estimate of
-his entire character. I begin to doubt seriously that Sir John Falstaff
-was one bit of a courtier after all. Had he been a person of that
-description, he would certainly have toadied King Henry the Fourth much
-better than he did, by aping (as is the fashion with people of a courtly
-turn) the most salient points of that lugubrious, and especially infamous,
-monarch’s character and conduct. This is a new light on the mystery of our
-knight’s repeated failures in the attempt to rise in court favour. He was
-not half a rogue—that is the long and short of the matter. And King
-Henry the Fourth, of unblessed memory, who had murdered his first cousin,
-who had stolen his first cousin’s wife’s jewels and embroidered
-petticoats,—who was capable of every crime, from pitch and toss with
-loaded farthings to manslaughter with arsenicated preparations,—felt
-for him much of that contempt which a six-bottle squire of the old school
-cannot but feel for a modern milksop, detected in the effeminate act of
-putting water in his tumbler of sherry.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-VII. DOUBTS ON THE GENIUS AND TESTIMONY OF SHAKSPEARE.
-</h2>
-<h3>
-LETTER FROM MASTER RICHARD WHITTINGTON.—AND OTHER MATTERS.
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HETHER or not it is that I have been taking an overdose of that
-familiarity which is said to produce contempt, I will not pretend to say,
-but one thing is very certain—namely, that I by no means feel that
-exalted respect for the late William Shakspeare as an historical
-authority, which on my setting forth on the present biographical
-pilgrimage formed so prominent an ingredient in my wallet of provisions
-for the journey. Candidly, Shakspeare turns out to be, by no means, the
-man I had taken him for. An able dramatist, undoubtedly—endowed with
-considerable power of insight into the secret springs of human emotion,
-with an aptness for a rugged forcible kind of versification, and an
-unquestionable turn for humour—he must, nevertheless, be pronounced
-lamentably deficient in those higher attributes of the historical writer,
-by which it is the laudable ambition of the present scribe (for instance),
-to know himself distinguished—and of which the most scrupulous
-correctness as to dates and localities, is by no means the least
-essential. And, indeed, as I reflect on the subject and turn over a
-variety of precedents in my mind, I am reluctantly brought much nearer
-than I ever expected to come to the by no means uncommon opinion that
-Shakspeare is an overrated personage in literature.
-</p>
-<p>
-I am led to this admission—most distasteful to my feelings and
-predilections—by the irresistible fact that nearly all of his
-commentators and critics, for the most part persons of vast erudition and
-acumen, by whose exalted standard the present humble recruit in the army
-of letters would shrink from offering himself for measurement; who,
-commencing (like their unpretending junior) with the most enthusiastic
-faith in, not to say idolatrous admiration for, the subject of their
-investigations, will seldom be found to have proceeded to any depth in
-their labours ere they agree in making out Shakspeare a most ridiculous,
-not to say contemptible personage. The late Mr. Thomas Campbell, who,
-notwithstanding the unavoidable accident of his birthplace, may be
-considered a tolerably competent and impartial judge of English
-literature, being employed by certain publishers to prepare an edition of
-the works of the Immortal Bard, as he is termed (I am not fond of this
-slavish kind of nomenclature myself, considering that, as a rule, one man
-is nearly as good as another), and plunging into his task with great
-ardour and alacrity, and in the most reverential spirit imaginable,
-nevertheless speedily got sick of the service of adulation—I would
-say “puffery,” were the epithet consistent with the dignity of history—on
-which he had been engaged, and even complained, in a letter to a friend,
-of the kind of stuff he was compelled, by the necessities of his position
-and the terms of his contract, to “write about Old Shakey.” Now from such
-high-flown designations as the Immortal Bard, the Sweet Swan, &c.,—to
-which Mr. Campbell, at the outset of his editorial career, had been
-addicted, like other people,—“Old Shakey” (in the forcible words of
-a modern art-critic) is “not fall”—it is catastrophe and, depend
-upon it, the learned gentleman had found out some weak points in the
-poet’s character to justify the familiarity. I may be answered, I am
-aware, with the stale proverb that no man is a hero in the eyes of his own
-valet, the abstract wisdom of which, as well as its partial application to
-the case in point, I cheerfully admit. An editor or commentator of a great
-man’s writings unquestionably occupies, to the great man, the position of
-a valet or groom of the chambers, having to perform for him the most
-menial offices, such as looking out his new readings for him, polishing
-his sentences, trimming his periods, and throwing away his slipslop. These
-irksome and even degrading duties may excite in the bosom of the
-overworked official a feeling of disgust for his situation, which no
-liberality or punctuality in the matter of wages and perquisites can
-altogether annihilate; and the constant absorption of his attention by
-such ignoble matters of external detail, can scarcely fail to blind him to
-the inner greatnesses of the demi-god whose wig and whiskers, so to speak,
-he is eternally occupied in brushing and oiling. I would, therefore, guard
-against too hastily accepting the opinion of such persons upon the great
-men whom they are employed, as it were, to render presentable to society,
-just as I would hesitate to base my estimate of the soldierly and
-statesmanlike qualities of the first Cæsar on the representations of the
-ingenious artist in laurel who was engaged to conceal the baldness of the
-great Roman by the “gentleman’s real wreath of glory” of the period; or,
-were I a sculptor (which it may be a fortunate thing for the British
-metropolis I am not, seeing that I have influential friends who would
-undoubtedly employ me in adding to the public monuments), as I should
-decline modelling a statue of England’s last, greatest, and most
-symmetrical George upon the one-sided views of the tailor who measured him
-for his last padded and frogged surtout, or of the hosier who was in the
-secret of the royal calves, during the decadence of the first—whatever
-you like to call him—of Europe. Nevertheless, there is no
-withstanding overwhelming masses of evidence, let them emanate from
-sources never so obscure or prejudiced. And when we find that the
-commentators upon Shakspeare, almost without exception, when they have
-taken hold of what are vulgarly considered the finest passages in that
-author’s writings,—when they have carefully held up those passages
-against every possible kind of light, turned them inside out, pulled and
-tugged at them, this way and that, ripped open their seams, scratched off
-their nap or surfaces, and, in fact, submitted them to every conceivable
-test,—when, I say, we find that the commentators, having made these
-searching experiments, almost invariably decide that what to the
-superficial observer has appeared something of exquisite goodness and
-beauty must be accepted as nothing more or less than the rankest nonsense—why,
-then, the dispassionate judge is bound to shake his head in common
-deprecation with the scrutineers, and admit that very possibly the Sweet
-Swan, &c., may be nothing more than “Old Shakey” after all. Nay, some
-of the most laborious and indefatigable of the class alluded to have so
-carefully sifted the matter, and so thoroughly have convinced themselves
-of the utter flimsiness and impalpability of the supposed Mr. Shakspeare’s
-claims to literary distinction, as to have been irresistibly led to the
-conviction that no such person ever could have existed; but that the
-rather ingenious and plausible-looking phantasms in the forms of plays and
-poems, bearing his name, must be considered as mere spontaneous
-exhalations or <i>fungi</i> produced from a kind of intellectual chaos—much
-as primroses, oak-trees, horses, beautiful women, poets, and philosophers
-are held to have sprung into existence, by the tenets of certain kindred
-thinkers on subjects connected with theology.
-</p>
-<p>
-The last is a culminating phase of Shakspearian free-thinking, to which, I
-confess, I have not yet been able to bring myself. I am still young, and
-possibly hampered by nursery traditions on the subject. But I hope it will
-be admitted that I am gradually emancipating myself from the unpopular
-trammels of Shakspearian superstition, when I venture so far as to affirm
-that the Swan of Avon (I must be understood now to make use of the
-designation in an ironical sense) was, in some respects, a———Yes!
-I have lashed myself up to the necessary pitch of defiant resolution—a
-humbug! I fearlessly assert that there is a prevalent looseness in his
-chronology, for which I defy his most slavish admirers to prove that the
-correctness of his grammar is at all of a quality to compensate. Why, he
-actually leads us to infer that within a few weeks, at the outside, of the
-treacherously won field of Gualtree, Sir John Falstaff, being then on his
-second visit to the domain of Mr. Justice Shallow, in Gloucestershire
-(having just returned from the inglorious campaign), did receive, through
-the officious instrumentality of Ancient Pistol, tidings of the death of
-King Henry the Fourth. Now I hope I have, by this time, proved, to the
-satisfaction of the most captious, that the battle of Gualtree must have
-been fought (bought, or stolen, whichever the reader pleases) in the
-summer of 1410. The lamented death of Henry the Fourth—lamentable
-because it did not take place some forty-seven years earlier—occurred
-on Saint Cutlibert’s Day, otherwise the 19th of March, 1413. Assuming
-then, as we are led to, from the representations of the Shakspearian
-chronicle, that Sir John Falstaff, on the disbanding of the Royalist army
-under Prince John of Lancaster and the Earl of Westmoreland, betook
-himself, at once, to the hospitable mansion of Mr. Robert Shallow, and
-there remained until the Sovereign’s demise, this would give to our
-knight’s visit a duration of something like two years and three-quarters.
-Now, though I freely admit that we find nothing in the antecedents of Sir
-John to make it improbable that he should have extended a gratuitous
-residence in comfortable quarters to that, or even a longer period, in the
-event of impunity having been granted to him to do so, it is in the
-wildest degree incredible that even a greater fool than Mr. Robert Shallow—did
-history present us with such a personage—would tamely have submitted
-to the infliction of guests so expensive as our knight and his retainers,
-for even one-twentieth part of that term. No country gentleman’s revenues
-could have stood it. The unaided exertions of the insatiable Bardolph
-alone would have exhausted the family cellar and exchequer in a fortnight.
-</p>
-<p>
-It is therefore undeniable that in this particular instance, if in no
-other, Shakspeare has not only violated historical truth—either
-wilfully or through negligence—but has also shown an imperfect
-appreciation of the probabilities. That Falstaff and his retinue could not
-possibly have lived on the Shallow estate for the space of two years and
-three quarters, is as self-evident as that an able-bodied man could not
-subsist for the same period on a single leg of mutton. The supposition
-that Master Shallow would have continued glad to see them, up to the end
-of a residence so protracted, is too insanely preposterous to be
-entertained for a single moment.
-</p>
-<p>
-Having carefully balanced the matter, I am inclined to decide that the
-second visit of Sir John Falstaff to Master Shallow’s, as described in the
-Shakspearian chronicle—the account of which offers strong internal
-evidence of a basis on authentic information—took place precisely as
-exhibited by the dramatist, who chose, however, for his own convenience of
-composition, and with the reckless indifference to the higher canons of
-criticism by which many really able writers of <i>that</i> period were
-unfortunately characterised, to anticipate the course of events to the
-culpable extent I have alluded to. It could not be otherwise. It has been
-made clear, from documentary evidence recently laid before the reader *,
-that the Falstaff expedition to Yorkshire deviated into Gloucestershire in
-the month of June, 1410. The unqualified statement that Henry Plantagenet,
-surnamed Bolingbroke, and fourth English king of his baptismal
-appellation, breathed his last on the 19th of March (in the old style),
-otherwise the festival day of St. Cuthbert **, in the year 1413, was by no
-means incautiously hazarded. The writer will stake his reputation on its
-accuracy, which, if called into question for a moment, he is prepared to
-corroborate by the undeniable evidence of Hollinshed, Hardyng, Stowe,
-Speed, White Kennet, Mangnall, Pinnock, and other writers of antiquity.
-You see there is no getting over facts. They are things of such matchless
-stubbornness that none but a donkey would venture to cope with them in the
-exhibition of that valuable attribute.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Vide Epistle from Sir John Falstaff, Knight, to Master
-Robert Shallow, Cust. Rot., &c., in the Strongate
-Collection; or (for greater convenience of reference) in pp.
-134, 135, of the present biography.
-
-** Vide Romish Calendar.
-</pre>
-<p>
-We must consider, then, that there is a period of two years and probably
-seven or eight months in the life of Sir John Falstaff unaccounted for in
-the Shakspeare Chronicles. In what manner were those years and odd months
-employed by the hero of these pages? For once in a way, the biographer is
-driven to supply an extensive gap in his narrative by mere conjecture. It
-is reasonable to suppose that the time was passed by Sir John in his
-native country, as I find no evidence, in the records of continental
-nations, of the influence of a master spirit of our knight’s calibre on
-the dynastic, social, or religious struggles of the period. It is also to
-be feared that Sir John continued to live in comparative obscurity, and
-certainly in exclusion from court favour. The latter hypothesis is,
-indeed, based on something more than conjecture, and may be considered
-proved by certain important omissions in the chronicles of the time. On
-the 23rd of January, 1411, Sir John Falstaff would have completed his
-fifty-ninth year. A moment’s reflective calculation will convince the most
-inconsiderate that on the same date in the following year our knight would
-have attained the reverend age of threescore. Extend this line of
-inductive reasoning to another twelve months, and a result of sixty-one is
-obtained. Now, it would be reasonable to suppose that had Sir John
-Falstaff, at these times, been in the enjoyment of that royal esteem to
-which his merits and services undoubtedly entitled him, any one of the
-three anniversaries indicated would have been made the occasion of court
-festivities. I defy the most laborious investigation to produce the
-slightest authentic evidence, from the writings of the time, of any such
-recognition of our knight’s importance and public services having been
-made at any of the royal residences. It will be found, it is true, by
-consulting Hollinshed, the Cotton MSS., Stowe and other authorities, that
-London, in the commencement of 1413, was the scene of great military and
-naval pageantry; that numbers of the king’s forces were mustered in the
-metropolis, and that there was such a display of ships and galleys on the
-river Thames as had not been seen since the magnificent days of Edward the
-Third. From the same and contemporary writings, it will be found that
-towards the close of the Christmas holidays—which King Henry the
-Fourth, in consequence of the mortal illness wherewith he was already
-smitten, had kept in strict seclusion with his Queen Joanna, at the Palace
-of Eltham—His Majesty, in spite of grievous bodily suffering, made
-shift to return to London, in order to be present at certain rejoicings
-ordained to be held at his chief palace of Westminster, at a time closely
-coincident with the anniversary of our hero’s birth. I am inclined to
-think, however, that it will prove, on careful investigation, that the
-mustering of troops and display of naval armaments had been commanded,
-not, as would superficially appear, to celebrate the day of Falstaff’s
-nativity by tournaments, sham fights, water quintains, and the like, but
-with the more serious design of carrying out a project, long entertained
-by the king, of proceeding with a powerful army to Palestine, there to
-assist in the attempt to recover the holy sepulchre from the hands of the
-Paynim followers of Mahomet *—a kind of moral Insolvent or
-Bankruptcy Court of the period, to which very great rascals indeed were
-accustomed to apply for protection against the prosecutions of conscience,
-and by which (if enabled to do things on a liberal scale as to expenses in
-other people’s lives and property), they were supposed to whitewash
-themselves of all liabilities in this world and the next. The rejoicings
-at Westminster may be partially explained by the fact that King Henry’s
-birthday happened to fall within a few days of that of Sir John Falstaff.
-And, keeping in view the habitual and ineradicable selfishness of Henry’s
-character, it is more than probable that His Majesty had decreed the
-festivities in question on his own account, and not on that of our more
-meritorious hero. As a proof that, in spite of the numerous embarrassments
-of the royal family, the glaring and systematic manner in which the
-priceless services of Falstaff were ignored by the court could not have
-been attributable to any absolute scarcity of means, it may be mentioned
-that about this time Queen Joanna presented one Thomas Chaucer, an
-individual whose only claims to personal distinction lay in the fact that
-he was, as it were, the halfbrother of English Poetry—being the son
-of its reputed father—with the manors of Wotten and Stantesfield for
-life: the hospitalities of which, there can be no question or doubt, would
-have been dispensed with much greater dignity and liberality by Sir John
-Falstaff. As a further proof that the favours heaped upon this mere Son of
-a Somebody were only conferred with a view to the humiliation and
-discomfiture of Sir John Falstaff, it may be mentioned that Mr. Thomas
-Chaucer—a man of the slenderest physical and mental dimensions—was
-shortly afterwards appointed to fill the Speaker’s Chair of the House of
-Commons—a seat which, had the appointment of the Right Man to the
-Right Place been a recognised principle in those days any more than it is
-at the present time, Sir John Falstaff was, most obviously, the man to
-fill. But, as has been repeatedly urged, our knight had powerful enemies.
-I name no names, as a rule, and have an abhorrence of malicious
-insinuations. I will content myself with the statement that the dignity of
-Lord Chief Justice of England, <i>with all its influence for good and evil</i>,
-continued to be represented by a distinguished personage, with whom we are
-already acquainted in that capacity, until some years after the demise of
-Sir John Falstaff.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Vide the writings of Froissart, Gr. P. R. James, and
-others. The Italian poet Torquato Tasso has an able work not
-wholly disconnected with the interesting subject of the
-Crusades as these expeditions were termed.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Sir John lived in London—there can be no doubt of that. Had his name
-been John Dory instead of John Falstaff, the sea could not have been a
-more indispensable element to his existence than was the metropolitan
-atmosphere to him, surnamed and organised as he actually was. Where else
-could there have been found a Boar’s Head, with its accommodating hostess,
-its inexhaustible cellars, and still more (if the adjective can be said to
-admit of a comparative degree) inexhaustible credit? What other English
-city, district, or province, has ever, at any time of the world’s history,
-produced a hero-worshipping class so willing to pay liberal terms for the
-honour of even an ex-great man’s society. Where else in England have there
-ever been known such good dinners, such boon companions, and such
-accommodating tradespeople?
-</p>
-<p>
-Talking of tradespeople (a subject to which I am by no means greatly
-addicted, suggesting, as it does, such painful memories and still more
-disagreeable possibilities) there is a document extant, the faithful
-transcript of an earlier document, no longer in existence, which will
-serve to throw some light on the position of Sir John Falstaff during this
-most obscure, and consequently most interesting, portion of his biography.
-It is a letter from Master Richard Whittington, mercer, some time Lord
-Mayor of London, addressed to Sir John Falstaff, in answer to a
-communication from that great man, which has unfortunately not been
-preserved. The epistle, as will be seen, is not dated; but the
-unmistakable allusion contained in it to King Henry the Fourth’s intended
-expedition to the Holy Land leaves no doubt that it must have been written
-in the winter of 1412-13. The shrewd, sarcastic tone of the letter (the
-orthography whereof in the following transcript has been modified for the
-convenience of the modern reader, in obedience to the rule invariably
-observed throughout this work) will, it is hoped, be found sufficiently
-characteristic of its distinguished writer, to dispense with any necessity
-for the production, as evidence, of the original manuscript, which was
-unfortunately destroyed in the ever-lamentable burning of the famous
-Whittington library, in Arundel Street, Strand, some two or three years
-since.
-</p>
-<p>
-“TO MINE EXCELLENT FRIEND SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, KNIGHT, BE THESE DELIVERED.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Right worshipful Sir John,
-</p>
-<p>
-“Methinks, in future, I shall call you my cat. For as there be those who
-insist that I owe my standing as a good citizen and man of wealth to a
-certain cat which I took with me to Barbarie (where, Heaven be praised! I
-never was), who did there earn for me large sums in money, slaves, and
-jewels, by freeing the king’s chamber of mice and rats; so will you have
-it that I have risen to be alderman and mayor, to buy lands and endow
-churches, alone through having ridden on your crupper from Blackheath to
-the Southwark side of London Bridge, in the year of grace, 1364, when we
-were both lads, little wotting we should live to know each the other as
-old men. Now I call my patron to witness that I had never a cat that did
-aught for me beyond skimming the milk in my kitchen. I took with me to
-Flanders, and thence through France and Germany to the ignorant estates of
-the East, a certain Thrift or Judgment, which the witless have fabled into
-a cat, whereby I was enabled to point out to many foolish peoples the way
-to clear themselves of grievous pests and torments in government and
-common life, which might well be likened to rats and mice, for the which
-good services I was so well rewarded by the thankful rulers of those
-countries as to return to mine own with the means for large and honourable
-trading. But the vulgar will have it that it was not I myself, but the
-cat, effected all this. So would you have it, Sir John, that because I
-came to London a barefoot, ragged, herring-bodied scarecrow, and am now a
-man of substance (not in the flesh, Sir John; there you have still the
-best of me), I owe my advancement to you, who brought me half a dozen
-miles on the way. It was a pleasant ride,—I mind it well,—and
-a timely, for I was heartsore and footsore when you took me up. But I am a
-trader, Sir John, and keep books. And when I look over our account, I
-cannot but think that I have long ago paid for that ride at a rate of
-posting far beyond what my travels to Germany and the Asiatic countries
-(which the blockheads will have Barbarie) cost me altogether. Let us cast
-the sum. There was two shillings (out of the first four of my earning),
-soon after our coming to London, to replace your torn doublet, which you
-declared you dared not write to your lady mother about. * There was five
-marks on your coming of age, when you had bidden certain young noblemen of
-the court to meet you at the tavern, which I was fain to lend you, as you
-had lost the money set aside for their entertainment, the night before, at
-play. You wept so bitterly, and so feared me with threatening
-self-destruction, that I must needs do this though it forced me to put off
-my first slender venture with the Flemings. Then, when they knighted you,
-there was forty other marks, that you might present yourself becomingly at
-court. Ten marks on my being made mayor, that it might not be said I
-forgot an old friend who had helped me to my rise in life. Since then, at
-divers times, in silks, velvets, and moneys lent, eight hundred and
-forty-three pounds nine and elevenpence. Now, all this I have been told,
-time after time, I have owed you for bringing me to London, and putting me
-in the way of fortune. It hath been a dear ride to me, Sir John.
-Blackheath to London is, let us say, six-miles. A hundred and forty-one
-pounds eight shillings seven pence and a fraction is costly posting for
-times like these, Sir John. Methinks it is time I should hold myself quit
-of your debt, or that if any be still due you should forgive me the
-remainder. A truce to jesting, old friend Jack. I will lend thee no more
-money, and that is the plain truth of the matter. It is of no more use to
-thee than pearls to a pig. Thou art no more going to the Holy Land with
-King Henry than I am going thither behind thee on thy crupper (which
-Heaven forefend, considering the costliness of that mode of travel). Come
-thou hither to dine, sup, and sleep as often as may list thee, and thou
-art welcome to the best my roof can afford. But I am a trader, Sir Jack,
-and a keen one,—I give naught for naught. Sell us thy company,
-good-fellowship, merry jests and gentleness, and I will pay thee in kind
-(saving the jests and merry tales, wherein I am the bankrupt and thou the
-niggard miser). Show us thy jolly face and we will reflect it in endless
-bowls of as many wines as thou mayest name, like to a face in a chamber
-lined with tinted mirrors, till thou seest thyself million-fold, and of
-all colours. Mine honest wife and thy little playfellows, whom thou hast
-deserted, have been trained in my school. They join the outer world in
-calling thee foul names, since thou withholdest from them that familiarity
-which is their due. Dame Alice calls thee downright rogue,—that thou
-wilt not pay her the long arrears of society and converse thou owest her,—and
-for which she says she has a mind to pursue thee up and down every law
-court in Christendom. The little Jews have long arrears of caresses
-against thee, and are prone to insist on their bargain to the letter. Pay
-these debts, thou hardened prodigal, and we will see what can be effected
-for the future. As for money, thou shalt none of it, for it only serves to
-keep thee from us, wasting that of thy company which is our lawful right,
-as thine oldest friends, on thankless tavern roysterers who love thee not.
-I am now too old a merchant to repeat that kind of unprofitable venture.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* See ante, p. 108.
-</pre>
-<p>
-“I have again fallen into jesting, mine old friend, which methinks between
-aged men who love each other, on grave matters, should not be. If thou art
-in serious strait I will help thee as heretofore and while I live, and no
-man save ourselves the wiser; but the spirit of a weakly man, born to
-poverty and grown up in the need of turning all around him to his selfish
-advantage, will assert itself within me; and I cannot bear to serve thee
-that I may lose thee. When thou lackest naught (it is the shopman who
-states his debt) thou dost never think of the poor shambling youth of
-Blackheath, whom thou didst lift, not only into horseback, but out of
-despair and heart-sickness by the contagion of thy health, courage, and
-kindliness; and to whom at the turning point of his fortunes (for despair
-was then setting in) thou didst give a ride worth far more than many
-hundreds of pounds a mile. Whereas, ‘when thy purse is empty, thou art
-ever prompt to remember Master Richard Whittington, some time lord mayor
-of London and always a rich merchant and housekeeper. This is the only
-charge thou wilt ever hear me bring against thee; for it is the only thing
-in which thou hast ever wronged me—and I meddle not with other men’s
-debts or claims; but when one justly owes me that which I deem he can pay,
-I will ever urge it, though he were my brother.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Dear, beloved, and, whatever the world may of thee (for I have the
-conceit that I look deeper into men’s natures than the thoughtless
-commonalty), honoured Sir John Falstaff, if money could win thee to be
-near me and mine—who love thee deservedly, and to whom thou hast
-never been aught but what is just and pure—thou shouldst have it
-from my well-stored coffers poured untold into thy pockets. But I have
-ever found it act as a spell that parts us. Remedy this if thou canst.
-Come and dwell with us—with all thine extravagancies and all thy
-retinue if thou wilt. Our cellars may perchance even hold out a year’s
-siege against the redoubtable Master Bardolph. All I stipulate is that
-thou shalt give me thy stalwart Jackanapes, Robin, to save from perdition,
-by placing him in the new school I am building; this for his own sake and
-more for that of two sober little kitchen-maidens of Mistress Alice’s,
-whom I should be loath to grow familiar with the kind of conversation I
-fear he must have picked up ere this in thine erratic progress.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Briefly, Jack, I will not send thee the money thou demandest. Come and
-ask for it, and Dame Alice and I (with the bantlings to hold on by thy
-skirts) will do our best to keep thee from going away till thou gettest
-it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Thy friend,
-</p>
-<p>
-“Richard Whittington.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It is scarcely probable that Sir John Falstaff being in, even for him,
-unusually embarrassed circumstances, could have withstood the temptation
-of indefinite hospitality, at the expense of a wealthy and sympathetic
-friend. It may, therefore, be taken for granted that the winter of 1413-14
-was passed by our knight and his retainers under the genial roof of the
-renowned citizen, mercer, traveller and philanthropist, Master Richard
-Whittington. I use the term “Master,” being inclined to think that the
-distinguished Londoner in question had not yet attained to the dignity of
-knighthood. My memory fails me on the subject, and the question is not one
-of sufficient importance to demand reference to authorities. Certain
-indications in the above letter lead me to believe that it was written by
-a plain undubbed citizen: for though Whittington himself, as a
-cosmopolitan philosopher, may have held all titular distinctions in
-contempt, and considered himself no better man after knighthood than
-before it, yet it would be in the highest degree unreasonable to suppose
-that the wife of his bosom could have participated in his apathy on the
-question. The above letter was, most obviously, written under the
-immediate supervision of the excellent Dame Alice Whittington—obviously
-from the terms of reverential decorum in which that lady is spoken of in
-it. <i>Is</i> it likely, that a city gentlewoman of the period, whose
-husband had successfully aspired to chivalric honours, would allow that
-husband to speak of her in a letter to another knight of real noble birth,
-as mere “Mistress Alice,” or that the writer would have been permitted by
-her to sign his epistle without the affix of “eques”? Certainly not. This,
-however, is irrelevant. The present work purports to be the history of Sir
-John Falstaff. That of Richard Whittington has been already written, and
-published in a neat and commodious form, profusely illustrated, and to be
-had of all booksellers.
-</p>
-<p>
-A.D. 1413. Assuming that Sir John Falstaff actually spent his Christmas
-with the Whittington family, surrounded by the, to him, unwonted luxuries
-of a refined, pure-minded matron (who, if, as I have supposed, she had
-been inclined to look over her husband’s letters and insist on his
-asserting, on his and her behalf, any dignities which his honourable
-exertions might have earned for the pair of them, need be none the worse
-for that); the innocent prattling of an honest man’s young children; and,
-above all, the enduring friendship and protection of the honest man
-himself—an old warrior with the world, who had passed through many
-fires, and who could be lenient to the failures of combatants in more
-trying, if less honourable fields, only thanking his stars that he himself
-was alive, sitting by his fireside, and with all his scars in front!—a
-thoughtful friend who could perceive good, where the world only saw bad;
-who could remember the beauteous promise of spring in the very depths of
-winter!—why should Sir John Falstaff have torn himself away from
-such a peaceful haven—old creaky hulk as he was, with every timber
-starting, and not sea-worthy for a two years’ voyage—to be again
-buffeted about on the turbulent waters of uncertainty and dissipation?
-Alas! alas! Why does the poisoned cup kill? Why does the broken leg limp?
-Why does the bent bough grow downwards, and trail its meagre fruit among
-the worms and mud? Why does the old maimed hound hunt in dreams? Why do
-the ruined gamesters in the German demon stories, gamble away, first their
-doublets, then their vests, then their hose, then their shirts, and
-ultimately, their souls?
-</p>
-<p>
-I can fancy Sir John Falstaff for a few days leading a life of marvellous
-peace, and even happiness, in the orderly household of sage Master
-Whittington, who loved our friend for the strong latent good that was in
-him, and to whom the doubly errant knight’s vices and irregularities were
-mere hateful excrescences, to be abhorred, as we abhor the consumption
-that kills our favourite sister, but which makes us love herself the more
-in our indignation at its rapacious cruelty. I can fancy a few pleasant
-evenings by the big fireside, Sir John telling innumerable pleasant
-stories from the vast resources of his sixty years’ experience, tempering
-them, with that sagacity of his which no excess or reverses could blind,
-to the innocence and capacity of his hearers. Dame Alice embroidering, or
-sitting sedately with her hands crossed upon her straight-cut mediæval
-skirt, as we see the ladies in the old illuminations; Master Richard, in
-an arm-chair like a young cathedral, playing with a big gold chain, of
-bulk and substance to suggest the idea of a watch-guard with which a
-fine-grown Titan, particularly anxious to be up to the time of day, might
-have carried Big Ben in his waistcoat pocket; and the little people,
-crawling lovingly over the knight’s round knees, and looking up into his
-bloated, purple, damaged, handsome face, with a by no means misplaced
-confidence in, and admiration for, their amusing instructor. For—come!—where
-do you find a single instance on record of Sir John Falstaff having by
-word or deed—expressed, performed, or omitted—contributed to
-the corruption of a single innocent creature? You may tell me of little
-Robin the page, whom Sir John dragged mercilessly after him through the
-various moral sloughs and slums he himself was destined to wade through.
-To this I can only answer, that Robin was corrupt as St. Giles’s when Sir
-John found him; and that I do not pretend to set up my poor scapegrace old
-knight as a social reformer. He was merely a reprehensible, cynical, <i>laisser
-aller</i> philosopher. He took things as he found them, and could no more
-mend them than he could mend himself. He could no more have made a good
-boy of Robin than he could have forced Bardolph to sign the temperance
-pledge, or than he could have spared sufficient money from his own daily
-expenses to found a Magdalen hospital for the especial reformation of
-Mistress Dorothea Tearsheet—assuming the prevalent aspersions on
-that lady’s reputation to have been based on anything but the most
-malicious calumny.
-</p>
-<p>
-But those pleasant evenings in the Whittington household could not have
-lasted. The first flush of pleasure derived from comfortable quarters,
-abundant and luxurious provisions, and the security from legal
-interference being over, the very respectability of the thing would become
-irksome. Let Whittington try never so hard to place his guest on a footing
-of equality with himself, the unconscious patronage of the man who had
-fought and won, over the man who had merely skirmished and lost, would, in
-the long run, become intolerable. And then there is the great force of
-habit. There is undoubted fascination in “the desolate freedom of the wild
-ass.” Unlimited sand, with an occasional root of cactus or prickly pear,
-would, I presume, be far more acceptable to a quadruped of that species
-than a daily branmash, turnips, and warm straw bedding, where there would
-be harness and padlocks withal. I can fancy Falstaff beginning to find the
-early hours and decorous regulations of the Whittington establishment
-considerably too much for him. Respectable members of the Mercers’ Company
-would doubtless look in, and gaze upon him as a curious monster. He would
-yearn for the naughtinesses of the Boar’s Head, with its limed sack,
-sanded floor, and obsequious retainers. And then there would be the
-ever-present and dreadful consciousness of Master Whittington himself, to
-whom no weak point in the character of Sir John Falstaff was a mystery;
-who would help Sir John liberally to sack, knowing it was not good for
-him; who would lend Sir John money, knowing he would bestow it in bad
-uses; who would let Sir John talk himself breathless, and smilingly count
-all Sir John’s lies on his fingers! Depend upon it, there is nothing so
-intolerable to a sensible man who has made a fool of himself through life
-as the silent criticism of another sensible man, who is aware of the fact,
-and who himself has done nothing of the kind.
-</p>
-<p>
-Therefore I am inclined to think that Sir John Falstaff and his old friend
-Richard Whittington must have come to a one-sided quarrel within a month,
-at the utmost, of Sir John’s more than probable residence in the
-Whitting-ionian household. It may have been a question of stopping out
-late, or of introducing an unbecoming companion (let us say Ancient
-Pistol, whom Sir John, in a moment of vinous aberration, may have been so
-inconsiderate as to present to Dame Alice Whittington as a model member of
-mass-going society). At any rate, it is very certain that, in the month of
-March, 1413, Sir John Falstaff was no longer, if he had recently been, a
-guest of Master Richard Whittington, or even a resident in the British
-metropolis.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff, on the 21st of March, 1413, was again the honoured
-visitor of Master Robert Shallow, in the Commission of the Peace for the
-county of Gloucester.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-VIII. MILDNESS OF THE SPRING SEASON IN 1413
-</h2>
-<p>
-DITTO OF THOMAS CHAUCER’S POETRY AT THE SAME EPOCH.—DEATH OF KING
-HENRY THE FOURTH, AND OTHER INDICATIONS OF NATIONAL PROSPERITY.
-</p>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE spring of 1413 was one of extraordinary mildness. It is a matter of
-deep regret (to us) that there were no newspapers at that period;
-otherwise we should undoubtedly have had handed down to us many valuable
-records of enormous primroses, wonderful thorn-blossoms, and belled
-cowslips, which might not impossibly have equalled in interest to
-statistics of parallel phenomena in the present day. It is true that
-parliament was sitting at the time, and the reporters (had such an
-objectionable class then existed) might have evaded the important duty of
-chronicling these matters, on the pitiful and unusual plea that they had
-something better to write about. They do so now-a-days; and often give us
-nine columns of a parliamentary speech, the valuable substance of which we
-had all much rather see condensed in a short paragraph surmounted by the
-heading of “Enormous Cabbage.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Thomas Chaucer, the son of the immortal Geoffry, already alluded to in
-these pages, has feebly attempted to immortalise the phenomena of this
-remarkable season in verses which, it will be admitted, at all events,
-prove his inferiority to his father as a poet. *
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0018" id="linkimage-0018"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/240.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="240 " /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0019" id="linkimage-0019"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/245.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="245 " /><br />
-</div>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* In refutation of this proposition, there is but one theory
-that can be considered as carrying the slightest weight,
-namely, that Thomas Chaucer <i>did not</i> write the poem here
-quoted <i>in extenso</i>. There is doubtless much that might be
-said on both sides of the question, which had therefore
-better be left open.
-
-** English poetry would seem to have had an official
-descent—the family name of its reputed father being derived
-from the office of Chauf-cire or Chaff-wax (a dignity still
-in existence, with, it is said, real functions and an
-undeniably real salary attached to it) doubtless held by one
-of his not very remote ancestors. The vanity of restoring
-the name to its original orthography, instead of adhering to
-the form it had assumed in the time of the illustrious
-Geoffry, is another proof of the weakness of Thomas
-Chaucer’s intellect, if the quality of the above verses were
-such as to leave the slightest necessity for anything of the
-kind.
-</pre>
-<p>
-It certainly says little for the justice and intelligence of the age that
-the writer of the above verses * should have been appointed to the
-Speakership of the House of Commons, and other equally honourable and far
-more lucrative dignities, at a time when a man of Sir John Falstaff’s
-merit was going about the kingdom, if not absolutely begging, certainly
-reduced to one, if not both, of the other two proverbial alternatives, in
-order to obtain the means of livelihood. However, suppose we put Thomas
-Chaucer back into that comfortable niche of obscurity from whence he
-should, perhaps, never have been dragged, and confine our attention to the
-main subject in hand—the genial summer spring of 1413, as bearing on
-the adventures of Sir John Falstaff.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Assuming their authenticity as established—if only for
-the sake of argument.
-</pre>
-<p>
-I have said that on the 19th of March, in this year, Sir John Falstaff was
-a second time the honoured guest of Master Robert Shallow at the worthy
-justice’s family seat in Gloucestershire. It hath been urged to me, for
-certain reasons not altogether contemptible, and which will be mentioned
-presently, that such could not have been the case; but that Sir John and
-his retinue could not have arrived at Master Shallow’s until the 20th of
-March, on which day they also took their departure for London. I prefer
-adhering to my original statement, and for three reasons. Firstly, because
-it is scarcely credible that I could have made it without having
-thoroughly satisfied myself that at least the balance of probability was
-in its favour. Secondly, the practice of eating his own words is one of
-the most baneful into which the historical writer can possibly fall—leading
-to habits of pusillanimity and indecision which must ultimately destroy
-the independence of character so indispensable to his pursuits, and leave
-the neatly-arranged flower-beds of his work at the mercy of all such of
-the swinish multitude of critics or objectors as may choose to thrust
-their ringed noses into the matter. Thirdly, the portion of my manuscript
-containing the statement alluded to hath been some weeks in the hands of
-the printers, and (as I am led to believe, from the relentless assiduity
-with which those estimable citizens, but austere and implacable
-task-masters, have, by their emissaries, persecuted me within the last
-fortnight for further supplies of written matter) hath been long ago sent
-to the press, and is now beyond all possibility of correction until such
-time as a second edition of the entire work shall be called for. So that,
-in short, I was right.
-</p>
-<p>
-I am aware that, in order to make good my position, I shall be required to
-prove that Ancient Pistol—a warrior not habitually remarkable for
-his excellence in any manly or athletic pursuits—did, in the course
-of a single day, accomplish a very rapid and daring act of horsemanship,
-calculated to tax the endurance of stronger thews and sinews than the
-worthy Ancient’s; being nothing less than the conveying to Master
-Shallow’s Gloucestershire—residence in the evening, tidings of an
-event that had taken place in London in the morning. But I trust I have
-sufficient powers of special pleading and aptitude for the historical
-business generally, to be enabled to get over far greater obstacles than
-are presented by this emergency. Pistol need not have ridden the whole
-distance himself. He might have been lying in wait for the expected
-tidings, which he was the means of conveying to Sir John Falstaff—let
-us say, somewhere between London and Oxford—whither the news of the
-event in question, namely, the death of the king, who expired on the 20th,
-would assuredly be conveyed post, immediately on its occurrence. A
-well-authenticated episode in the life of Ancient Pistol makes it more
-than probable that London, at about this time, was scarcely a safe
-residence for him. The gallant subaltern was in a temporary difficulty for
-having, with other warlike spirits, “beaten a man,” who would seem to have
-been left at the termination of the encounter in a precarious condition,
-inasmuch as, within a day or two of the occurrences immediately under
-notice, we find he had breathed his last in consequence of injuries he
-received on the occasion. * The provocation was doubtless great; in all
-probability, nothing less than an unpardonable insult to Mrs. Dorothea
-Tearsheet, in the presence of whom and of Mrs. Quickly the punishment
-appears to have been inflicted. When we remember that Pistol himself had
-been known (under the influence of vinous aberration, it is true) to speak
-slightingly of the former lady, and that he was by no means a man of
-strait-laced notions in the matter of respect for the sex generally, the
-outrage upon his patron’s friend and kinswoman * must have been great
-indeed to impel him to so terrible an act of vengeance. But the law is not
-accustomed to take cognizance of such honourably extenuating circumstances
-in cases of murderous assault, and it can scarcely be doubted that Pistol
-was, at this time, “keeping out of the way,”—by no means an
-unaccustomed manouvre to that distinguished professor of military
-stratagem. Whither could he fly for protection except to the sheltering
-wing of Sir John Falstaff? What tidings so likely to be anxiously awaited
-by him as those that would assure him of his patron’s greatness, with
-dispensing power over the laws of England? Depend upon it, Ancient Pistol,
-at the time of King Henry the Fourth’s death, was as far from London, and
-as near to Falstaff, as his circumstances would permit, and keenly on the
-watch. The thing is as clear as day. Or, assuming that it is not, and that
-I must admit that Pistol actually <i>did</i> himself accomplish the
-journey from London to Gloucestershire in a single day. Why not? Of all
-tactics in the art of war, there was none which this veteran soldier had
-so deeply studied, and so frequently practised, as that of successfully
-managing a retreat. There was no possible amount or speed of running away,
-on pressing emergency, of which he could have been reasonably pronounced
-incapable.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Beadle.—Come, I charge you both go with me; for the man
-is dead that you and Pistol beat among you.—Henry IV. Part
-II. Act iv. Scene 5.
-</pre>
-<p>
-I am now enabled to resume my narrative with the most perfect composure;
-and I really wish the captious and fastidious would not compel me to do
-violence to my predilections by such frequent digressions.
-</p>
-<p>
-It must have been then—in short, it <i>was</i>—the evening of
-the nineteenth of this much-talked-of month of March, which Sir John
-Falstaff, with Master Robert Shallow, his entertainer, and Master Silence,
-the latter gentleman’s unobtrusive kinsman, found of such unseasonably
-tempting mildness as to induce them to get up from the supper table,
-whereat Davy, Master Shallow’s factotum, had deftly served them with the
-choicest efforts of William Cook’s genius (“some pigeons,” “a couple of
-short-legged hens,” “a joint of mutton,” and “pretty little tiny
-kickshaws,” <i>ad libitum</i>, are indicated by the chronicler as having,
-in all probability, formed the staple articles of the bill of fare), to
-partake of dessert in the open air, in a snug arbour of the justice’s
-orchard. Sir John, with his retinue, consisting of Bardolph, Robin, and
-possibly some half dozen supernumeraries, had arrived just in time for
-supper—ostensibly <i>à l’improviste</i>, and with no intention of
-staying for a longer time than might serve them to repose and refresh
-themselves.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* For arguments on this subject see ante, p. 113.
-</pre>
-<p>
-“By cock and pye, Sir,” Master Shallow had said on our knight’s arrival,
-“you shall not away to-night.”
- </p>
-<p>
-To which Sir John had replied that he must be excused.
-</p>
-<p>
-But Master Shallow would not excuse him: he should not be excused. There
-was no excuse should serve: Sir John should not be excused. And Master
-Shallow had immediately ordered supper, and bidden Sir John to off with
-his boots.
-</p>
-<p>
-It is needless to say that Sir John had no wish to be excused, but that he
-had come intentionally to stop. He had long had Master Robert Shallow
-“tempering between his finger and thumb,” and had now come to “seal with
-him.” He had, years ago, seen to the bottom of Justice Shallow. He knew
-that ornament to the magistracy to be nothing better than a time-serving
-humbug, and he had come, as I think most justifiably, to take any possible
-advantage of him. It was a breach of hospitality, if you will; but
-remember we are treating of great men and their motives. My only regret is
-that I am compelled to exhibit my hero, towards the end of his career,
-engaged in the pursuit of “such small deer” as a pitiful country justice.
-When I compare John Falstaff, in his sixty-seventh year, on this
-particular evening, stretching his limbs under Master Shallow’s oak (as
-yet the mahogany tree was an unnaturalised exotic), picking the short legs
-of Master Shallow’s roasted hens, and washing down as much of Master
-Shallow’s garrulous mendacity as limitless draughts of Master Shallow’s
-sack and Bordeaux might enable him—all the while meditating through
-what particular chink in Master Shallow’s vanity he could best get at the
-same gentleman’s purse-strings;—when I compare this with another
-picture presented on the preceding evening, by another great man of
-imperfect notions of <i>meum</i> and <i>teum</i>, frequently mentioned in
-these pages, younger in years, but centuries older in depravity than Sir
-John, and with both feet already in the grave—legs, body, and all
-rapidly sliding in after them—Henry Bolingbroke on his death-bed, in
-short—counselling his young son and successor—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“to busy giddy minds
-With foreign quarrels: that action hence borne out
-May waste the memory of the former days;”
- </pre>
-<p>
-(that is, the days of his early rascality, the fruits of which he would
-have his son preserve by the fomentation of fresh villanies)—when I
-compare the conduct of these two waning celebrities, the one within half a
-dozen hours of death, the other with good two years and a quarter of life
-in him, (alas! no more,) I am more forcibly than ever reminded of my
-reluctantly formed suspicion, that the character of Sir John Falstaff may
-have been really deficient in the heroic element after all, and am made to
-feel that he comes out, by comparison with the more wholesale
-practitioner, in a pitifully moral and respectable light.
-</p>
-<p>
-I am getting so near the end of my poor old knight, (I call him mine,
-though I have but the sorriest stepfather’s claim to him, and doubtless
-deserve to have him removed from my charge for ill-treating him as I have
-done,) and am so closely in sight of the overthrow of his last hopes and
-energies, that I have scarcely the heart any longer to make light of his
-rogueries. I will try and explain how I feel with regard to Sir John
-Falstaff. Consider me a street urchin in a town where a very fat old
-gentleman has been in the habit of misconducting himself, and so
-publishing his irregularities in the public thoroughfares, as to have
-forfeited the respect of well-behaved citizens, and make himself the
-target for all kinds of pleasantry from the lowest and most thoughtless. I
-have had my jeer, and my pebble, and perhaps my rotten egg, at the poor
-old man, with the rest of the gamins, and rare fun we have considered it.
-But a day arrives when I see the old gentleman paler than usual. The red
-of his cheeks has become an unwholesome purple. He no longer walks
-jauntily, but totters. The stick, that he used to shake in merry defiance
-at his tatterdemalion critics, is now necessary to support his steps.
-There is a tear in his eye. He is suffering—failing—and I
-(being, perhaps, a sensitive, well-meaning ragamuffin) beat my breast, and
-am ashamed of my conduct. I feel inclined to go whimpering for pardon to
-him, and ask him to let me serve him in some menial but comforting
-capacity. But the stronger boys are not of my way of thinking. To them he
-is more ridiculous than ever in his weakness and decay. They pelt him the
-more, and laugh at him the louder. He falls. I run to try and help him. I
-look in his face, and wonder that I could ever have seen there anything to
-laugh at. It is to me all sadness and bitter suffering. I forget the
-stories I have heard against him. I am conscious of nothing but an old
-man, fallen in the mud, who cannot raise himself. I would do anything to
-express to him my contrition and sympathy. I feel an absurd inclination to
-offer him my tops and marbles—nay, my very slice of bread and butter
-itself. At least, I would treat him respectfully. But——the
-other boys jeer at me, and I am ashamed of my passing weakness; and, like
-a mean-spirited young sneak as I am, I turn round, and make game of the
-poor old gentleman more mercilessly than ever, with a strong sensation
-that I deserve to be flayed alive for doing so.
-</p>
-<p>
-At any rate, I am glad that the spring of 1413 <i>was</i> a genial one—seeing
-that Sir John had but two more springs of any kind between him and the
-grave; and was doomed to bask in but little more sunshine, either of the
-actual or of the figurative kind. It pleases me to dwell on such little
-pleasures and comforts I may find proof of his having enjoyed from this
-time forth. I am delighted to feel confident that the supper provided for
-him by the anxious care of Master Shallow was good and abundant. I take
-comfort in believing that William Cook had done his spiriting with zeal
-and ability: that the short-legged hens were roasted to a turn; that the
-joint of mutton was a small brown haunch, which had walked, when capable
-of pedestrian exercise, towards Gloucestershire, in a south-easterly
-direction—from the Welsh mountains in fact (a hope, not without
-foundation in presumptive evidence—seeing that Master Shallow had,
-at any rate, one kindly friend from that hospitable district—Hugh
-Evans, byname, a gentleman in holy orders, at this time established in the
-neighbouring county of Berkshire); that the pigeons were plump and tender
-victims, either served up on an altar of the crispest toast, or brought to
-the sacrifice in a sarcophagus of melting crust; and that the “pretty
-little tiny kickshaws” embraced every available delicacy of the early
-season.
-</p>
-<p>
-At all events, it is certain that Sir John had had something he liked, and
-plenty of it. There is no record in his life that displays him in a more
-thorough state of serenity and genial goodfellowship with all mankind than
-the passages in the chronicle of Henry the Fourth *, referring to the
-evening in question. There we find Sir John “unbuttoning himself after
-supper,” lounging “upon benches after noon” in Master Shallow’s orchard,
-inhaling the soft breeze of the premature summer, listening to the carols
-of the birds immortalised (through the medium of these pages) by the poet
-Thomas Chaucer ** and partaking of a “last year’s pippin” of the worthy
-justice’s “own graffing,” with the addition of a “dish of carraways and so
-forth.” The “so forth” is not particularised in the chronicler’s page; but
-from the conduct of Master Shallow himself and of his kinsman, Silence, on
-the festive occasion, it would seem to have been a long time in bottle,
-and furnished forth with no niggard hand.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Part II. Act v. Scene 3.
-
-** Nicholas Chaucer, kinsman of the above, was at about this
-time a distinguished member of the Grocers’ Company, in the
-city of London. Assuming that he combined with his aromatic
-calling the congenial one of butterman, the preservation of
-Thomas Chaucer’s manuscript—doubtless submitted to his
-relative’s approval in the regular way of business—is at
-once accounted for.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Let us follow the scene, as described in the chronicle, for its
-termination sounds the key-note to the great crisis in the history of our
-hero’s declining fortunes.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow had drunk too much sack at supper. He said so, though there
-was not the slightest necessity for the confession. Master Silence had
-similarly committed himself, but to such an extent as to make any
-confession on his part a matter of some difficulty. We hear of men being
-blind drunk, crying drunk, roaring drunk. Master Silence was singing
-drunk. He could only express himself in snatches of old songs, which he
-poured forth with a volubility which nothing could stop.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Do nothing but eat and make good cheer,
-And praise Heaven for the merry year
-When food is cheap and females dear,
-And lusty lads roam here and there.
-So merrily.
-And ever among so merrily!”
- </pre>
-<p>
-I confess to a warm affection for Master Silence. He was a stupid old
-gentleman, and doubtless more tiresome in his taciturnity than even his
-cousin Shallow in his garrulity. But what there was of Master Silence
-seems to have been good. Much as has been said against old proverbs and
-old wine, there yet remains some defence for both. I believe in the truth
-of the proverb which asserts that there is truth in wine. It is a
-dangerous and exhaustive kind of manure, I admit. In agricultural
-phraseology, it “rots the ground” terribly. But, as long as the ground
-lasts, it develops the latent germs within it marvellously. Master Silence
-was little, if any, more inebriated than his kinsman. But the same flask
-(or number of flasks) which had made Justice Shallow only a coarser or an
-infinitely more vulgar sycophant and timeserver than ever, paying court,
-not only to Sir John Falstaff, but even to Bardolph and little Robin the
-scapegrace page, for the sake of the knight’s imaginary court influence,
-merely set Master Silence thinking of the pleasant season, of the bounty
-of Providence, of the claims of kindliness and goodfellowship. Unable to
-speak for himself, he searched in the dark, cobwebby, unhinged cupboards
-of his feeble memory for the most tuneful and thankful expression of his
-feelings, in other men’s words, that would help him to
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Praise Heaven for the merry year.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-I would rather have had his dim chaotic sensations about the fine spring
-weather and the beauty of earthly existence than Master Shallow’s most
-ambitious dreams of “penny in purse,” to be obtained through a “friend at
-court.” I resemble Sir John Falstaff, at all events in this respect, that
-“I do see the bottom of Mr. Justice Shallow,” and there is nothing in the
-bed of the puddle but mud, and stones, and potsherds. But I do not pretend
-to penetrate to the mystery of what Master Silence felt as he sat there,
-intoxicated and reprehensible, in the arbour, breathing in Nature, and
-mumbling old songs,—any more than I would dare to analyse the
-feelings of my fat baby, who now sits opposite to me in his mother’s arms,
-eating a pocket-handkerchief, and staring at the fire.
-</p>
-<p>
-At any rate—as I wish from henceforth to regard none but the best
-phases in my hero’s character—I am glad to know that Sir John
-Falstaff treated Master Silence in his melodious cups with tolerant
-kindness and even encouragement. He would have fleeced Master Shallow, I
-sincerely believe, of every farthing in that dignitary’s exchequer—and
-(as I am upon the candid tack) I confess that my high estimate of his
-character would not have been materially lowered had he effected that
-desirable end. But I do sincerely believe that Sir John Falstaff would not
-have taken advantage of Master Silence’s condition to borrow from him so
-much as a hundred bezants—unless, indeed, provoked to do so by great
-necessity or temptation.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There’s a merry heart!” said Sir John Falstaff, whom we may picture to
-ourselves picking his teeth lazily, with his legs stretched on the arbour
-seat, his head resting on the back of his plump hand, the broad, purple
-disc of his countenance reflecting the rays of the March sun that, like
-himself, had risen gloriously, had shone now and then brilliantly, but was
-now going down early and rapidly, covered with clouds and blotches (having
-made its appearance on earth, you see, in what was, after all, an
-unfavourable season). “Good Master Silence, I’ll give you a health for
-that anon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The sunset was lost on Master Shallow. His appreciation of out-of-door
-beauties was bounded by “Marry, good air!” It gave him an appetite, and he
-was quits with Nature. He was bent on serving the guests whom he intended
-to make serve him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Give Master Bardolph some wine, Davy,” said his worship.
-</p>
-<p>
-In Sir John Falstaff’s own words, “it was a wonderful thing to see the
-semblable coherence of his (Shallow’s) men’s spirits and his.” As Shallow
-was to Falstaff so was Davy to Bardolph and Robin. Davy—who also
-meditated a London season, with introductions to the best society—busied
-himself with attending to the wants of those subaltern officers.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Silence again burst into song, unsolicited—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“‘Tis merry, ‘tis merry, my wife’s as all;
-For women are shrews both short and tall,
-Tis merry in hall when beards wag all
-And welcome merry Shrovetide.
-Be merry, be merry, &c.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-“I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle,” murmured
-Sir John, who, I think, by this time was beginning to get drowsy.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Who, I?” said the meek songster. “I have been merry twice and once ere
-now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The festivities continued, but with a somewhat languishing spirit. Master
-Shallow’s angular chin began to beat double knocks against his bony chest.
-He had the greatest difficulty in keeping one eye—the weather one,
-doubtless—open. Bardolph confined himself to the main business of
-his consistent life—good, steady drinking. Davy officiated as
-Ganymede. Robin was silently contemplative. There were spoons and tankards
-in the orchard, and nobody sober to watch them! Sir John spoke not, except
-to give a word of encouragement to Master Silence, whose vocal exertions
-he rather approved of, as calculated to save him the labour of
-conversation. It is not absolutely recorded, but circumstantial evidence
-makes it probable, that Sir John Falstaff, having drowsily pledged that
-inveterate songster in a bumper, fell instantly fast asleep, and was
-snoring in blissful ignorance of actual circumstances—only to dream
-of coronets that were never to be worn and coffers that were never to be
-filled—when he was roused from his nap by a terrific knocking at the
-outer gate.
-</p>
-<p>
-Everybody was on the alert. Justice Shallow, in the midst of a dreamy
-platitude of welcome, breathed into the confidential recesses of his
-folded arms, started into wide-awakefulness with an echoing knock of chin
-against chest, which must have been highly detrimental to his remaining
-dental economy. Davy flew to the gate. Master Silence considered the
-startling occurrence an excuse for further melody. Bardolph drank. Robin,
-it may be presumed, took some advantage of the confusion; but as the
-Shallow spoons were not counted that evening, it is uncertain to what
-extent.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was cause for disturbance. In those days an Englishman was obliged
-to make his house his castle. The meanest homestead—and Master
-Shallow’s was not one answering to that definition—had to be
-carefully guarded by moat and drawbridge. They kept early hours then. All
-the family were expected to be in-doors by sunset, for it was not safe to
-be out after dark. Any vassal, pig, or other retainer, stopping out after
-the gates were closed, might do so at his own peril. A late visitor—especially
-one making such formidable announcement of his arrival as that which
-disturbed Sir John Falstaff from his comfortable after-supper nap, and
-sent Master Shallow’s little dried walnut of a heart leaping into his
-mouth, like a parched pea from a shovel up the chimney—was not only
-a source of astonishment but of alarm. It might be a robber at the head of
-a forest-band come to levy what we should term an execution on the goods
-and chattels; or a travelling abbot on his way to some ecclesiastical
-conference, having brought the <i>élite</i> of his monks and their
-appetites with them; or a proscribed nobleman and his suite, to harbour
-whom would be certain death in the course of a month, and to behave
-uncivilly to whom would be the same in the course of a minute and a half;
-or it might be the king who had been kicked off the throne, or the other
-king who had kicked him off in pursuit of him. In any case, the chances
-were ninety-nine and nine-tenths to a decimal fraction that the visitor
-would prove one who, at his departure, would leave the proprietor a sadder
-and a poorer man than he had been in the morning. The probability of a
-needy and harmless wight being found sufficiently mad or intoxicated to
-make a disturbance at a rich man’s door (more especially if the rich man
-happened to be in the commission of the peace), just as the family might
-be supposed to be retiring to rest, being of the remotest.
-</p>
-<p>
-The speedy return of Davy to the orchard with the information that the
-demonstrative visitor was merely “one Pistol, come from the Court with
-news” for Sir John Falstaff must have had an immediately soothing and
-reassuring effect upon the assembly.
-</p>
-<p>
-At the word “Court” Sir John Falstaff pricked up his ears instinctively. A
-momentary thrill ran through his system. Had they, at last, “sent for”
- him? Was he really wanted to guide, counsel, or amuse—at any rate,
-to be recognised and rewarded?
-</p>
-<p>
-Pshaw! The very name of the messenger was a proof to the contrary. Pistol
-was, doubtless, in the neighbourhood; had heard of his patron’s
-whereabouts; and tracked him, as usual, in the hope of a flagon, a supper,
-and a piece of silver! Sir John was a philosopher, and was engaged in the
-digestion of his own supper. He would not allow that vital process to be
-prejudiced by the excitement of possibly fallacious hope. He fell back
-upon the garden seat, and ordered Pistol to be admitted.
-</p>
-<p>
-Pistol strode into the orchard, looking daggers around him. Pistol was in
-the habit of looking daggers, as I might be in the habit of looking fifty
-pound notes. The process was by no means a proof that he had one about him
-to make use of when called upon. He said—— But you shall hear
-what he said, and what was said to, and about, him, in the dramatic
-chronicler’s own words, with such unwritten elucidations, or “stage
-directions,” as your humble servant may consider himself justified in
-venturing upon.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sik John Falstaff (indifferently).—How now, Pistol?
-</p>
-<p>
-Pistol (with gesticulations of extravagant homage’).—Sir John, God
-save you, sir.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff (suspiciously, buttoning his pockets).—What wind
-blew you hither Pistol?
-</p>
-<p>
-Pistol.—Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Sweet knight,
-th’art now one of the greatest men in the realm.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Silence (dimly reminded of a forgotten ballad, sings’)<i>“By’r
-lady, I think ho bo, but goodman Puff of Barson</i>.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Pistol (at once discerning that Master Silence is a man who may be safely
-bullied).—Puff? Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base!—Sir
-John, I am thy Pistol, and thy friend, and helter-skelter have I rode to
-thee; and tidings do I bring, and lucky joys, and golden times, and happy
-news of price.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—I pr’ythee now, deliver them like a man of this
-world.
-</p>
-<p>
-Pistol.—A foutra for the world, and worldlings base! I speak of
-Africa, and golden joys.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—O base Assyrian knight! what is thy news? Let
-king Cophetua know the truth thereof.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Silence (sings seraphically).—“And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and
-John.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Pistol.—Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons? And shall good
-news be baffled? Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies’ lap.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow (rising, with magisterial assumption of sobriety).—Honest
-gentleman, I know not your breeding.
-</p>
-<p>
-Pistol.—Why then, lament therefore.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow.—Give me pardon, sir:—if, sir, you come with
-news from the court, I take it, there is but two ways, either to utter
-them, or to conceal them. I am, sir, under the king, in some authority.
-</p>
-<p>
-Pistol (drawing a rusty rapier) Under which king, Bezonian? speak, or die.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow.—Under King Harry.
-</p>
-<p>
-Pistol.—Harry the fourth? or fifth?
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow.—Harry the fourth.
-</p>
-<p>
-Pistol.—A foutra for thine office!—Sir John, thy tender
-lambkin now is king: Harry the fifth’s the man. I speak the truth: when
-Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like the bragging Spaniard.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff (leaping to his feet like a colt).—What! is the
-old king dead?
-</p>
-<p>
-Pistol.—As nail in door: the things I speak are just.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0020" id="linkimage-0020"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/256s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="256s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/256.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/256m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-Sir John “Falstaff (quivering with excitement).—Away, Bardolph!
-saddle my horse.—Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt
-in the land, ‘tis thine.—Pistol, I will double-charge thee with
-dignities.
-</p>
-<p>
-Master Bardolph—O joyful day!—I would not take a knighthood
-for my fortune.
-</p>
-<p>
-(He drinks and exits.)
-</p>
-<p>
-Pistol (smiling sardonically).—What! I do bring good news?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff.—Carry Master Silence to bed.—Master
-Shallow, my Lord Shallow, be what thou wilt, I am fortune’s steward. Get
-on thy boots: we’ll ride all night__O sweet Pistol!—Away, Bardolph.—Come,
-Pistol, utter more to me; and, withal, devise something to do thyself
-good.—Boot, boot, Master Shallow: I know, the young king is sick for
-me. Let us take any man’s horses; the laws of England are at my
-commandment. Happy are they which have been my friends, and woe unto my
-lord chief justice!
-</p>
-<p>
-Pistol:
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also!
-Where is the life that late I led say they;
-Why, here it is! (snaps his fingers.)
-Welcome those pleasant days.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Scene closes. ]
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* It will be observed that Shakspeare almost invariably
-makes Pistol speak in a kind of mongrel blank verse—
-apparently in remote imitation of the masques, pageants, and
-miracle plays then recently introduced into this country
-from Italy—fashionable amusements, whereat the worthy
-ancient (in his capacity of hanger-on of all dirty work to
-the upper classes) doubtless frequently assisted, in a
-supernumerary capacity. Sir John Falstaff answers him
-playfully, from one of the earliest known specimens of this
-kind of composition—See Payne Collier’s History of Dramatic
-Poetry, and other works to be met with in the admirable and
-compendious catalogue of the British Museum, which will
-amply repay perusal.
-</pre>
-<p>
-The time long hoped for had then arrived. There was no more thought of
-drowsiness or dissipation for that night,—no more of debt or
-difficulty for the future. Henry of Monmouth—Sir John’s pet pupil,
-his “tender lambkin”—was king; and surely, if such feelings as
-gratitude and goodfellow-ship existed in the hearts of princes, no man had
-greater right to look forward to emoluments and dignities under the new <i>regime</i>
-than Sir John Falstaff. He himself was incapable of forgetting old friends
-in his prosperity, and he could not suspect such baseness in others. We
-have heard him declare that he would double charge Pistol with dignities,
-that Master Shallow might choose what office he would in the land—it
-should be his! Bardolph, knowing his master’s disposition, would not take
-a knighthood for his fortune. Not one present was omitted from the circle
-of Sir John Falstaff’s comprehensive benevolence. Even to poor Master
-Silence he performed the only kindness which that vocalist was just then
-capable of benefiting by,—he ordered his inebriated worship to be
-carried up to bed!
-</p>
-<p>
-Depend upon it, there was no time lost in booting and saddling for the
-townward journey. Be sure that the command to “take any man’s horses” was
-carried out to the letter, and backed by the legal warrant of Justice
-Shallow—(for were they not on His Majesty’s service? could the
-government of the realm possibly go on without the immediate presence in
-the capital of Sir John Falstaff?)
-</p>
-<p>
-What a terrible distance was that which separated Sir John from London and
-the young king! How he wished for the power to annihilate time and space!
-Alas! he was born in a wrong age for locomotive purposes. Half-a-dozen
-centuries earlier, a knight-errant of his vast merit and renown, wishing
-for a rapid mode of transit, would but have had to summon his guardian
-fairy, and that obliging genius would have ordered her griffins to be
-put-to for his accommodation, with a lift in her enchanted car,
-immediately. In the present day, four hundred and forty years later, the
-thing would be scarcely more difficult. A post-chaise to the Tewkesbury
-station, and a special train thence to London, would settle the matter in
-three or four hours. But the task of conveying Sir John Falstaff, rapidly,
-over the vile roads of the fifteenth century, by mere horse-power, would
-be a difficulty which the mind of a Pickford alone could be qualified to
-grapple with.
-</p>
-<p>
-And yet, incredible as it may seem, Sir John Falstaff actually contrived
-to reach the metropolis on the third day after his departure from Master
-Shallow’s residence. I am not prepared to say that no magic power was
-employed in effecting this apparently miraculous transit. On the contrary,
-the aid of a rather potent magician appears to have been successfully
-invoked for the occasion—one, at whose bidding, the roughest roads
-become level, the stoutest doors fly open, the veriest griffins, tigers,
-crocodiles, and Cerberi of gate-keepers become docile as lambs; an
-enchanter, at whose very aspect, or even name, horses saddle themselves,
-inn-tables spread themselves, corks fly out of self-pouring wine-bottles,
-pigs spit themselves, larks, pheasants, and wild duck stop in their
-mid-air course, and fall, ready-stuffed and roasted, on to eager
-travellers’ plate. Need I say that I allude to the evil, but fascinating
-necromancer, King Money?
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff borrowed a thousand pounds of Master Robert Shallow!
-</p>
-<p>
-I would have it printed in letters of gold, would the arrangements of the
-printing-office admit of such distinction, for I am proud to chronicle so
-meritorious an achievement, the glory of which is doubled by the moral
-certainty that Master Shallow never received a single farthing of the
-money back again. On one account only can I be brought to regret the
-transaction: I am sorry the amount was not two thousand.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-IX. INAUGURATION OF THE NEW RÉGIME.—MALIGNITY OF THE LORD CHIEF
-</h2>
-<h3>
-JUSTICE.
-</h3>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE news of Henry the Fourth’s decease was the occasion of a state of
-public excitement to which we should in vain look for a parallel in any
-dynastic or ministerial crisis of modern times. Rumour, with all her
-hundred tongues gabbling at once, flew hither and thither, announcing that
-the respectabilities were “out,” and the reprobates “in.” For a few brief
-hours Sir John Falstaff really ranked, in the popular estimation, as the
-most influential subject in the realm (and that distinction, however
-briefly enjoyed, is something for a man to look back to with
-satisfaction!) The knight’s “paper,” previously a drug in the
-money-market, was eagerly bought up by the Jews, calling themselves
-Lombards *, of the city. Traders, on the fair pages of whose ledgers the
-name of Sir John Falstaff had long stood as a blot and eyesore, ordered
-expensive dinners, and made rash presents to their wives and daughters.
-Others, who had issued writs for the apprehension of the knight’s person,
-called in those documents with breathless eagerness. Grave burgesses,
-lawyers, and even ecclesiastics, who had the day before commented severely
-on our hero’s irregularities, now boasted of his acquaintance, and quoted
-his witticisms. A spirited hatter in the ward of Chepe displayed, in front
-of his booth, a new falling hood-shape, labelled with the recommendation,
-“as worne by Sir John Falstatfe and ye Courte,” for copies of which he
-received an incredible number of orders. The “Old Boar’s Head” did such a
-morning’s stroke of business as had not been achieved within the memory of
-the oldest tippler. The principal wine-merchants of the Vintry
-obsequiously intimated to Mrs. Quickly that unlimited credit would be
-given to her at their respective establishments, and our worthy hostess’s
-landlord immediately doubled her rent.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Precaution necessitated by the rigour of the existing
-statute law, which excluded the Jewish people from residence
-on English soil. Two unredeemed “obligacions,” in the
-handwriting of Sir John Falstaff, for considerable sums
-advanced,—one by Cosmo di Levi, the other by Ichi di
-Solomoni,—are still in existence, to attest the observance
-of this rule.—<i>Vide Strongate MSS.</i>
-</pre>
-<p>
-The feeling of the Court may be summed up in one word—panic. The
-favourites of the late king thought of nothing less than packing up their
-portmanteaus, and making the best of their way to their several country
-seats. The opinion was universal that Sir John Falstaff would be raised to
-a rank, at all events, equivalent to what we call prime minister; and it
-was of course anticipated that our knight would select his companions in
-office from men of character and habits congenial to his own. It is
-needless to say that none such could be found amongst the lugubrious
-familiars of the late monarch. The princes of the blood themselves—the
-new king’s own brothers—were by no means free from the general
-apprehension. It seems rather odd that they should have believed in the
-possibility of gratitude existing in the bosom of one of their own blood;
-but it is nevertheless certain that they agreed to look on Sir John
-Falstaff in the light of “the coming man,” a prospect they regarded with
-considerable apprehension and alarm. For they were by no means jovial
-princes, these young fellows. “A man,” as Sir John himself had observed of
-one of them, “could not make them laugh.” The individual Prince here
-referred to was John of Lancaster, afterwards Duke of Bedford, whom we
-have already seen distinguish himself by treacherously butchering a band
-of generous foemen, who had trusted themselves unarmed to his honour—an
-achievement which he followed up later in life by a congenial experiment
-on the person of one Joan of Arc, at Rouen, in Normandy. A second was the
-renowned Duke Humphrey, whose social and hospitable qualities have grown
-into a proverb. These two will serve as examples of the entire stock. Such
-men could scarcely have felt much sympathy for, or hoped anything from the
-friendship of, Sir John Falstaff.
-</p>
-<p>
-As for the Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne, he no sooner heard of the old
-king’s death than he proceeded to make what, in modern colloquial
-parlance, is termed “a bolt of it.” He had been hanging anxiously about
-the palace during the morning, and on the confirmation of his worst fears
-took precipitately to his heels. He was detected in that sagacious but
-undignified act by the Earl of Warwick *, who detained him in
-conversation.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Immediately after the death of the king, Warwick stops
-Gascoigne in a “room in the palace,” with the questions,
-“How now my Lord Chief Justice? Whither away?” The
-prevaricating responses of the learned justice betray his
-nervous anxiety to be off.—<i>Vide</i> Henry IV. Part II. Act v.
-Scene 2.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Gascoigne made no concealment of his terrors; and indeed the noble earl
-gave him no encouragement whatever to their mitigation. They agreed—with
-the Princes John, Humphrey, and Thomas, who, accompanied by the Earl of
-Westmoreland and other nobles of the Court, soon after joined their
-conference—that the common prospects of the late king’s favourites
-and admirers were decidedly unfavourable. It was the opinion of the Earl
-of Warwick that many nobles who “<i>should</i> hold their places” (meaning
-himself for one), would have to “strike sail to spirits of vile sort;” as
-a specimen whereof it is presumed he had the impudence to allude to the
-hero of these pages. The Chief Justice confessed himself prepared for the
-worst, admitting that the “condition of the time” could not look “more
-hideously” upon him than his imagination had pictured to him. It was
-admitted, on all hands, that his lordship’s only safe policy would be to
-adopt the unpalatable course of “speaking Sir John Falstaff fair.” This
-salutary piece of advice was first offered by the Duke of Clarence. And I
-am willing to stake my reputation as a historian upon the statement that
-the Lord Chief Justice <i>was perfectly prepared to act upon it</i>, had
-not things taken a wholly unexpected turn. For he was silent on the
-subject; and the case was evidently one of those wherein silence is
-consent.
-</p>
-<p>
-But the new king made his appearance amongst the group (who were waiting
-in an antechamber like criminals to hear their sentence), and speedily
-changed the aspect of things. He threw off the mask at once. He had no.
-intention to alter anything. He had stepped into his father’s shoes, and
-meant to walk in his father’s footsteps. <i>Le roi est mort, vive le roi!</i>
-If they had really been taken in by his having falsely represented himself
-as a jovial good sort of fellow, why, he could only feel flattered by the
-compliment to his powers of personation. In reality, he had succeeded to
-the tyrannical and conquering business of his unlamented father, which he
-intended to carry on with spirit, accepting all the premises, bad-will,
-and fixtures as he found them. The princes and earls were, of course,
-delighted, as feeling assured of a lengthened tenure of Court favour and
-office. But the Lord Chief Justice was still uneasy. He had once committed
-the present King of England to prison, and monarchs are not in the habit
-of forgetting personal affronts.
-</p>
-<p>
-I have before hinted at a possibility that this event was a matter of
-private arrangement between the prince and the judge, for purposes of
-mutual popularity. But to take a liberty with a prince, even at his own
-request, is always a ticklish business. If you exceed the limit of your
-instructions, woe betide you! I do not say that such was the case; but it
-is barely probable that the cell to which the Prince of Wales was confined
-on the occasion in question, may have proved rather more damp, and less
-comfortable, than His Royal Highness had intended. At any rate, it is
-certain that Gascoigne on this, his first meeting with King Henry the
-Fifth (in the royal capacity), was in a state of great trepidation, and
-evidently apprehended nothing less than immediate disgrace and suspension
-from office. Recovering, however, a little courage and composure at the
-new King’s indications of a disposition to carry out his late father’s
-policy—I was about to say principles—he ventured upon a little
-special pleading in defence of his conduct in the matter of the
-world-famous police case, which he judiciously mixed up with a little
-covert flattery—delicately hinting that Henry the Fifth himself
-might some day have a disreputable son, to whose vagaries a severe
-administration of the Common Law might prove a wholesome corrective.
-Acting on the old north-country proverb that “the old woman would never
-have looked in the oven for her daughter if she hadn’t been there
-herself,” His Majesty King Henry the Fifth (a sagacious man at all times)
-saw the wisdom of this suggestion, and at once confirmed Chief Justice
-Gascoigne in the permanent enjoyment of his dignities and emoluments.
-</p>
-<p>
-I grieve to write it—but the deed was done, and it shall be
-chronicled. The first employment made by the Chief Justice of his new
-lease of power was to indulge in a dastardly act of vengeance. With
-indecent haste he rushed from the palace, and issued warrants for the
-apprehension of Mistress Helen Quickly, licensed victualler, and of
-Mistress Dorothea Tearsheet, spinster, on a frivolous and untenable
-charge. For what reason? it will be asked. I can find no better one than
-that the former was the friend, and the latter the beloved kinswoman, of
-Sir John Falstaff. Do you suppose the justice had forgotten the setting
-down he had received at the hands of our hero, the substance of which
-(transferred from the pages of “Shakespeare”), will be found in the second
-chapter of the fourth book of this history? And with the petty
-vindictiveness we have seen him employ on more than one occasion, is it
-probable that he was at all the sort of man to behave in the hour of his
-own triumph with magnanimity towards a fallen foe? We will waive the
-question of Gascoigne being possibly indebted to Mrs. Quickly for early
-board and lodging, as being, if not irrelevant, at any rate superfluous.
-The case is quite black enough against him as it stands.
-</p>
-<p>
-At any rate, it is certain that the two ladies in question were
-ignominiously arrested by the warrant of the Chief Justice *, and to
-complete their disgrace (and Sir John Falstaff’s) transferred from the
-custody of the constables to that of the town beadle.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* If not by his warrant, by whose? What less dignified
-functionary would have presumed to put so large a
-construction on the English laws of the period as that
-manifested by the arrest in question? I would cheerfully
-pause for a reply, were not the printer’s boy in such an
-abominable hurry.
-</pre>
-<p>
-In proof that the arrest had been made under circumstances of extreme
-injustice and barbarity, it need only be urged that each of the fair
-captives was so violently provoked by her aggressors, as entirely to
-forget all her antecedents of good breeding and propriety, and to indulge
-in positively coarse and abusive language.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mistress Tearsheet, for instance, was betrayed into the following
-decidedly unladylike outburst, addressed to a beadle in human form:—
-</p>
-<p>
-“I’ll tell thee what, thou thin man in a censer! I will have you as
-soundly swinged for this, you <i>blue-bottle rogue!</i> you filthy,
-famished correctioner! if you be not swinged, I’ll forswear half kirtles.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I have extracted this passage from the chronicle, not for the vulgar
-purpose of harrowing the reader’s feelings with the spectacle of lovely
-woman goaded by injustice and violence even to the pitch of unbecoming
-self-forgetfulness, but from motives purely archæological. The derisive
-term “bluebottle”—so frequently heard in the present day, applied to
-the guardians of the public peace by ladies and gentlemen in circumstances
-of trial similar to those of Mistress Tearsheet—is thereby proved to
-have had an origin at all events as early as the commencement of the
-fifteenth century,—a valuable antiquarian discovery, for which I
-trust some learned gentleman with capital letters after his name will be
-just enough to give me credit in the pages of some eminent scientific
-journal.
-</p>
-<p>
-Ere the hour of noon had that day sounded Sir John Falstaff’s bills were
-again waste paper. His creditors, who had indulged in costly dinners, and
-given rash presents to their wives and daughters, countermanded their
-suppers, and withdrew their names from numerous charitable subscription
-lists. The writs were re-issued. The hatter in the Ward of Chepe altered
-his placard to “Ye Gascoigne Shape?,” and disposed of his invention more
-rapidly than before. By half-past three in the afternoon the sheriff’s
-officers were in possession of the “Old Boar’s Head” for a pitiful debt to
-a small ale brewer.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-X. CORONATION OF HENRY THE FIFTH.
-</h2>
-<p>
-TRIUMPH OF THE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE GASCOIGNE, AND DISGRACE OF SIR JOHN
-FALSTAFF.
-</p>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE coronation of Henry the Fifth took place immediately on his assumption
-of the royal dignity. Authorities differ as to the exact date of this
-imposing ceremony. Fleming, in his Chronicle, fixes it as late as the 9th
-of April, in which he is supported by Stowe and a host of respectable
-authorities. Rapin comes nearer the probable truth in assigning it to the
-first of the same month—a date which leaves us not without slight
-suspicion of a seasonable pleasantry intended by the lively French
-historian at the expense of his readers. The general balance of
-probabilities, supported by important circumstantial evidence, brought to
-light in the search after materials for this history, points out the 22nd
-of March as the day on which Henry the Fifth practically succeeded to the
-crown of his father’s cousin. In those days a king was considered no king
-until he had worn the crown; and as it was never in the least degree
-clear, even to the most discerning intellect, to whom the crown really
-belonged, the important claim of possession was naturally the first thing
-thought of by the individual enjoying the nearest prospect of its
-appropriation. It is hardly probable that a sagacious prince like Henry of
-Monmouth should have postponed the vital ceremony a single day longer than
-was absolutely necessary. Pressing necessities of state afforded a decent
-excuse for hastening the funeral of Henry the Fourth; and there can be no
-doubt that his successor’s publicly announced alacrity to walk in his
-father’s footsteps induced him to try on the paternal coronation shoes on
-the earliest possible occasion.
-</p>
-<p>
-Should any doubts on this subject exist, they are at once dispelled by
-reference to the facts already in the possession of the reader—which
-it may bo as well to recapitulate. Sir John Falstaff received the tidings
-of the old king’s death on the 19th of March. On the third day after this
-our knight was in London. That the day of Sir John’s arrival in the
-metropolis was so that of Henry’s coronation is a matter of history.
-</p>
-<p>
-The chronicler Fleming, speaking of the auspicious accession of Henry the
-Fifth to the throne of England, informs us that—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Such great hope and good
-“expectation was had of this man’s fortunate successe to follow, that within
-“three daies after his father’s decease diverse noble men and honorable
-“personages did to him homage and sware to him due obedience, which had
-“not beene seene done to any of bis predecessors kings of this realme, till
-“they had beene possessed of the crowne.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-Differing with the learned and voluminous chronicler as to the absence of
-precedent in such matter of homage (the worship of the rising sun, on the
-appearance of his first rays of power, being older in England than
-Stonehenge), I can only say that there was no noble man or honourable
-personage whatever in the realm more eager to do to the new king homage,
-and swear to him due obedience, than Sir John Falstaff, Knight. Only that
-unfortunately Sir John was, as usual, a little too late with his homage.
-All the nice pickings of court favour and promotion had been snapped up
-before his arrival.
-</p>
-<p>
-The coronation day, in the words of the venerable chronicler last quoted,
-was
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“a sore, ruggie and tempestuous day, with wind, snow and sleet, that
-“men greatlie marvelled thereat, making diverse interpretations what the
-“same might signifie.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-To Sir John Falstaff it might have been interpreted to signify the cold
-blasts of adversity, icy ingratitude, flowery visions blown into the air,
-fair prospects nipped in the bud, the tree of Hope torn up by the roots
-and lying prostrate!
-</p>
-<p>
-The day, however, so inauspiciously commenced would seem to have cleared
-up, as upon the conclusion of the coronation ceremony (with the details
-whereof it is not the present writer’s business to encumber his pages) the
-royal party proceeded on foot in solemn procession from the gateway of
-Westminster Abbey to Richard the Second’s great hall, in the neighbouring
-palace. It is true that the royal party might have got wet in so doing—the
-umbrella not having been yet invented, and the cab-stand being an
-institution undreamt of even by the most Utopian imagination. But I am
-inclined to think that if Henry the Fifth’s first public appearance as a
-crowned head had been made under circumstances so unfavourable to dignity
-as a pelting shower, some adverse chronicler would have taken care to
-mention the circumstance. If the newly-placed crown, for instance, had
-been blown off into the mud, or if the gartered leg of majesty had got
-over its ankle in a puddle of the period, depend upon it we should have
-heard of it. There were plenty of literary men present, who would not have
-failed to report such a circumstance. There was John Lydgate, the monk of
-Bury, for one, who had come to town expressly to superintend the rehearsal
-of a coronation anthem (composed, it was whispered, by the king himself),
-to which the worthy ecclesiastic had adapted words. John, as a faithful
-courtier and professional laureate, would infallibly have immortalised any
-such calamity in sympathetic verse. And we should most likely have had the
-subject treated from a facetious point of view, for the coronation guests
-of that day had from North Britain; one James Stuart, in fact, a shrewd
-humorist, an excellent poet, and a man of genius generally, but who having
-made the mistake of coming into the world some five hundred years before
-his time, and wishing to force upon an independent Scottish nobility the
-glaring anachronism of an enlightened government in the fifteenth century,
-was very properly shown the error of his ways, and duly assassinated at
-midnight in his own chamber, according to the custom of that country and
-period. Altogether I prefer adhering to Mr. Cruikshank’s pictorially
-recorded opinion of the weather on the occasion of Henry the Fifth’s first
-emerging a crowned monarch from the portals of Edward the Confessor’s
-venerable minster. The wish is father to the thought, I admit. If only for
-the sake of the fair spectators in the balcony, I must strive to believe
-that the day turned out fine. I cannot bear to think that those dainty
-creatures—many of whose effigies may doubtless be found, at this
-day, in the neighbouring cloisters, lying on their backs, with crossed
-hands and chipped noses (attributed, by the vergers of the abbey, as a
-matter of course, to the iconoclast malice of Oliver Cromwell)—should
-have had their hoods, kirtles, and day’s pleasure spoiled by the “wind,
-snow, and sleete” of a “ruggie and tempestuous day.” Depend upon it that,
-towards ten o’clock in the morning (the hour at which, according to the
-early habits of the period, the coronation ceremony would have come to a
-close), the sky began to clear up.
-</p>
-<p>
-In a literal and physical sense only, be it understood. Metaphorically, as
-far as Sir John Falstaff was concerned, the sun was never destined to
-shine more; for the sun of poor old Jack’s existence was Henry
-Plantagenet, fifth king of England by that name, and the face of that sun
-Jack Falstaff was never to see but once again. And then—oh, Nemesis,
-Parcæ, and all unkind heathen deities whatsoever!—with what clouds
-before it?
-</p>
-<p>
-Clouds of coldness, of displeasure, of—yes, I will say it, and quite
-in earnest—of cruelty. Aye, and a yet more impenetrable obstruction
-to the desired rays than any such clouds—the presence of a powerful
-enemy! On the brief and only occasion of Sir John Falstaff being brought
-face to face with King Henry the Fifth (as a crowned monarch) Chief
-Justice Gascoigne was at His Majesty’s elbow, the most favoured servant of
-the realm. Alas! poor Jack!
-</p>
-<p>
-Let us particularise the scene.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff—with Master Shallow, his friend; Bardolph, his
-henchman, maître d’hotel, valet, and factotum; Pistol, his indefinite
-subaltern; and Robin, his page—reached the gates of Westminster
-Abbey just as the ringing of bells and the harmonious swelling of many
-hundred voices within the sacred edifice, almost drowned by the shouts of
-the populace outside, announced that the ceremony was at an end. Sir John
-had ridden post, his impatience scarcely allowing him to sleep during the
-whole of his three days’ journey. He was untrimmed, draggled, jaded, and
-travel-stained. He was nervous, breathless, excited. I am not prepared to
-assert positively that he was quite sober; and, indeed, it may be slightly
-palliative to the conduct of Henry the Fifth, which I am about to describe
-in terms of the severest reprehension, that—for a newly-crowned
-monarch of doubtful antecedents, anxious to stand well with the more
-respectable portion of the community—to be hailed as a bosom friend,
-in the presence of kings, princes, and ambassadors, by a group composed of
-Messrs. Falstaff, Shallow, Bardolph, and Co., under the influence of a
-three days’ journey, having been for the most part performed in bad
-weather, in the course of which frequent attempts had doubtless been made
-to replace the important necessity of sleep by recourse to refreshment of
-a widely different character,—would naturally be rather a trying
-business. However, let us to the facts.
-</p>
-<p>
-Of course Sir John Falstaff had sufficient influence with the guards and
-retainers to force his way through barriers of every description. He was
-treated with negative respect on all sides; but he certainly did not meet
-with the enthusiastic reception he had anticipated. As he glanced
-anxiously round on the many familiar faces present, he noticed an
-expression of awkwardness and constraint upon each. Many old acquaintances
-averted their heads. Such as were bound to recognise the knight did so in
-terms of studied formality. Sir John began to feel the raw March
-atmosphere absolutely oppressive. He strove to crush his rising
-misgivings.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Stand here, by me, Master Robert Shallow,” he said, lugging that
-magistrate through the last layer of the king’s Cheshire archers that
-stood between them and the royal pathway. “I will make the king do you
-grace. I will leer at him as he comes by, and do but mark the countenance
-that he will give me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Bless thy lungs, good knight!” said the valiant Pistol, who had already
-shown himself publicly in his ancient haunts, and, indeed, turned a pretty
-penny by the acceptance of peace-offerings from myrmidons of the law, his
-former enemies and oppressors.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come here, Pistol; stand behind me,” said Sir John. Alack, how nervous he
-was getting! He twirled and plucked at the ends of his beard till he
-winced with pain. He gnawed his finger nails. He played the old
-gentleman’s tattoo with his mud-stained boot on the steaming rushes
-beneath him. He twisted buttons off his <i>just-au-corps</i>. His breath
-was short, his under lip drooped, and his teeth chattered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, if I had had time to have made new liveries, I would have bestowed
-the thousand pounds I borrowed of you!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Master Shallow winced. He, too, was nervous.
-</p>
-<p>
-“But ‘tis no matter; this poor show doth better; this doth infer the zeal
-I had to see him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It doth so.” Master Shallow breathed his answer thickly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It shows my earnestness in affection.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It doth so.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My devotion.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It doth, it doth, it doth.”
- </p>
-<p>
-(Heavens! how Master Shallow must have twiddled with his chain or chewed
-at the cape of his riding hood as he repeated these words in rapid
-crescendo!)
-</p>
-<p>
-“As it were, to ride day and night, and not to deliberate, not to
-remember, not to have patience to shift me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is most certain.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But to stand stained with travel and sweating with desire to see him;
-thinking of nothing else; putting all affairs else in oblivion, as if
-there were nothing else to be done but to see him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“‘Tis <i>semper idem</i> for <i>absque hoc nihil est</i>” put in Pistol.
-“‘Tis all in every part.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“‘Tis so, indeed.” Master Shallow gasped out these words, which were
-scarcely audible. He was in a high state of trepidation, and it will be
-admitted that he had exactly one thousand reasons for feeling so.
-</p>
-<p>
-The moments seemed hours. Would the king never come? Sir John almost
-dreaded that he should die with his eyes unblessed by the sight of his
-royal pupil and favourite, clad in the attributes of majesty. His gaze was
-riveted on the cathedral door. He was deaf to all sounds in his eager
-listening for one well-known footstep. Pistol vainly attempted to enlist
-his sympathies by a narrative of the wrongs of the Fair Dorothea. Sir John
-mechanically promised to deliver the captive princess from her oppressors,
-but his words scarcely conveyed a meaning.
-</p>
-<p>
-The anthem swelled. The shouts were resumed. Officious retainers bustled
-forth to clear the way. Sir John Falstaff’s heart beat almost audibly. He
-felt sick and giddy as a dazzling vision burst upon his sight—round
-which all other objects on the scene, animate and inanimate, seemed
-whirling like weird shapes in a demon dance about a magic fire. King Henry
-the Fifth, in all the pride and splendour of newly anointed majesty, stood
-before him!
-</p>
-<p>
-I dare be bound Henry of Monmouth never more thoroughly merited Master
-Stowe’s simple panegyric on his personal graces than at that moment. “This
-prince,” says the worthy old Cockney, “exceeded the mean stature of men;
-he was beautiful of visage, his neck long, bodye slender and leane, and
-his bones small; nevertheless he was of marvellous great strength, and
-passing swift in running.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I have no doubt that His Majesty, on reaching the open air, would have
-been but too happy to exercise his skill in the latter accomplishment so
-as to avoid the compromising recognition of Sir John Falstaff and his
-friends, had circumstances permitted; but it was an ordeal not to be
-avoided.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Save thy grace, King Hal! My royal Hal!” Sir John shouted at the top of
-his voice.
-</p>
-<p>
-It is possible that Sir John Falstaff’s muddy boots, drenched doublet,
-three days’ linen and all, might have been tolerated on the score of
-gentle birth and past services. But there was no getting over the bodily
-presence of Bardolph, Pistol, and a dilapidated, draggle-tailed country
-justice from the wilds of Gloucestershire.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal imp of fame!” was the
-salutation of Pistol.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Save thee, my sweet boy!” added Falstaff.
-</p>
-<p>
-Henry the Fifth was certainly a great man. The opportunity for exercising
-his “passing swiftness in running” failing him, he was fain to fall back
-upon his “marvellous great strength” of moral assurance, and appear to
-deny all knowledge of his former associates. He drew himself up to his
-full height, “exceeding the mean stature of men,” and, turning to the
-illustrious dignitary at his side, said coldly—
-</p>
-<p>
-“My Lord Chief Justice, speak to that vain man.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Which of course my Lord Chief Justice was only too eager to do, in his own
-chosen terms.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Have you your wits? know you what ‘tis you speak?” his lordship inquired,
-in his most withering, commit-you-three-months-for-contempt-of-court
-tones.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My king! my Jove!” Falstaff had eyes and ears for the monarch alone. “I
-speak to thee, my heart.”
- </p>
-<p>
-It was no easy matter “to cut” Sir John Falstaff. He would make himself
-heard; and nature had provided him with the amplest resources for making
-himself seen. The future conqueror of Agincourt was for a moment
-nonplussed. But, with characteristic promptness, he rapidly decided on the
-part he should play. Taking Sir John’s last greeting as his cue to speak,
-he gave utterance to one of the most remarkable royal speeches on record.
-The only assumed verbatim report of this oration extant is from the pen of
-Shakspeare, by whom it was, doubtless, slightly modified, as to verbal
-construction, in obedience to the rules of versification usually observed
-by writers of his school and epoch. But there is no reason to believe that
-any undue advantage of the reporter’s prescriptive licence to correct,
-harmonise, and embellish, was taken on the occasion. That the substance of
-the speech was as follows we have the amplest corroborative evidence in
-the pages of various contemporary historians:—
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0021" id="linkimage-0021"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/265s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="265s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/265.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/265m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“I know thee not, old man! Fall to thy prayers.
-How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!
-I have long dreamed of such a kind of man,
-So surfeit swell’d, so old, and so profane;
-But, being awake, I do despise my dream.
-Make less thy body, hence, and more thy grace;
-Leave gormandising; know the grave doth gape
-For thee thrice wider than for other men.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-As one entertaining an excusable professional jealousy on behalf of the
-much-maligned and decidedly unprofitable calling of “fool and jester”—(which
-I was so injudicious as to take up with, very early in life, and have
-already an “ill-becoming” sprinkling of premature “white hairs” amongst my
-black ones, to show as a natural consequence of that error)—I dwell
-with malicious pleasure on the fact that, at this juncture of his homily,
-his no longer jocular majesty, Henry the Fifth, was suddenly “pulled up”
- by a reminder, on the countenance of his senior whom he had presumed to
-lecture, that he, the king, had unconsciously slipped back into his old
-habits, and, while reprimanding levity, had committed himself by making a
-joke upon Falstaff’s bulk, as in the jolly old days of the Boar’s Head
-fraternisation. In the words of an able commentator upon this historical
-passage:—“He saw the rising smile and smothered retort upon
-Falstaff’s lip, and he checks him with—‘Reply not to me with a
-fool-born jest.’”
- </p>
-<p>
-The very thing he was afraid of! He had rashly challenged old Jack with
-the knight’s own weapons, and was fain to plead benefit of royalty to
-sneak out of the combat in which he knew he must be worsted. To impose
-silence on his adversary was his only chance.
-</p>
-<p>
-He continued:—
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Presume not that I am the thing I was:
-For Heaven doth know, so shall the world perceive,
-That I have turn’d away my former self,
-So will I those that kept me company.
-
-When thou dost hear I am as I have been,
-Approach me; and thou shalt be as thou wast,
-The tutor and the feeder of my riots;
-Till then, I banish thee on pain of death,
-As I have done the rest of my misleaders,
-<i>Not to come near our person by ten mile.</i>
-
-For competence of life I will allow you,
-That lack of means enforce you not to evil;
-And as we hear you do reform yourselves,
-We will, according to your strength and qualities,
-Give you advancement.—Be it your charge, my lord,
-To see perform’d the tenor of our word.
-Get on.”
- </pre>
-<p>
-And then King Henry the Fifth, with his crown on, followed by his
-brothers, cousins, nobles, ambassadors, clergy, mace-bearers,
-sword-bearers, pages, retainers, and what not—by no means forgetting
-James the First, poet and King of Scotland (who, I am sure, cast a glance
-of sympathy at the paralysed figure of Sir John Falstaff, kneeling aghast
-and open-mouthed among the damp rushes of the courtyard), and Master John
-Lydgate, the laureate monk of Bury (who also, I am willing to believe, was
-rather distressed at the turn things had unfortunately taken)—took
-the arm of the triumphant Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne, and proceeded to
-dinner in the hall of Richard the Second, as though such a person as John
-Falstaff had never had existence. .
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John, after a moment’s stupefaction, started to his feet. He pressed
-his hand over his burning eyeballs. A convulsive shudder passed through
-his entire system; and one brief sob escaped him. It was over. Sir John
-relieved his oppressed lungs of a long-pent-up breath; wiped his smoking
-forehead, and looked composedly at Justice Shallow. Justice Shallow looked
-at Sir John Falstaff. Not composedly though, by any means.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pounds,” said Sir John Falstaff. It
-was a fact at all events, and, therefore, worthy of mention.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Ay, marry Sir John,” the justice faltered, “which I beseech you to let me
-have home with me.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That can hardly be, Master Shallow,” was the reply. “Do not you grieve at
-this; I shall be sent for in private to him! Look you, he must seem thus
-to the world. Fear not your advancement; I will be the man yet that shall
-make you great.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I cannot well perceive how, unless”—imminent pecuniary danger had
-lent the worthy justice unwonted smartness,—“you should give me your
-doublet and stuff me out with straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let me
-have five hundred of my thousand.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Sir, I will be as good as my word: this that you heard was but a colour.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A colour, I fear, that you will die in, Sir John.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Fear no colours; go with me to dinner. Come, Lieutenant Pistol *; come,
-Bardolph; I shall be sent for to-night.”
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* A spontaneous promotion of the worthy Ancient, as it would
-seem, upon the brevet principle.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff had not to wait until nightfall ere he was sent for.
-Scarcely had he spoken when the Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne, accompanied
-by Prince John of Lancaster (whose grudge against our knight, for the
-Gualtree affair, was, if possible, stronger than that of the justice
-himself), reappeared on the scene with a posse of constables. These men
-had even quitted a royal dinner table for the gratification of private
-vengeance. Could the force of malignity go further?
-</p>
-<p>
-The lord chief justice, not trusting himself to an accusation which might
-have led to discussion, wherein he would inevitably have been discomfited,
-ordered Sir John Falstaff and his companions to be conveyed to the Fleet
-Prison!
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John naturally attempted to protest against a persecution so
-unprecedented.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My lord, my lord,——”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I cannot now speak,” said the chief justice. “I will hear you soon. Take
-them away.”
- </p>
-<p>
-And they <i>were</i> taken away—Bardolph, Pistol, and poor little
-Robin included—aye, and even Master Robert Shallow, of
-Gloucestershire, in the commission of the peace, <i>custos rotulorum</i>,
-whose only offence was one against the laws of ordinary human judgment; to
-wit, that he had lent Sir John Falstaff the sum of one thousand pounds
-under the impression that he would one day get it back again.
-</p>
-<p>
-Now I should be very much obliged to any individual learned in the
-antiquities of English law, who will inform me by what then existing
-statute Sir John Falstaff, with his friend and retainers, were committed
-to the Fleet Prison? If, after all I have been at the pains of writing in
-the course of this publication,—since the acknowledged failure of my
-attempt to make out a case in favour of the Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne—there
-should remain any apologists for the character and conduct of that eminent
-justiciary, I should also feel thankful to them if they can inform me how
-they intend reconciling the behaviour of their <i>protégé</i>, on this
-occasion, with his hitherto established reputation as an upright judge.
-With regard to Prince John of Lancaster, afterwards Duke of Bedford, I
-trouble myself but little. History can have left him no friends. No amount
-of apologetic whitewash would serve to frost over the thick coating of
-smut from the funeral pyre of Joan of Arc, by which his memory must stand
-blackened to all eternity.
-</p>
-<p>
-<i>Apropos des bottes</i>. I am happy to be able to convict Henry the
-Fifth in a glaring falsehood. He did <i>not</i> banish, “on pain of
-death,” the whole of his early associates in debauchery and misdemeanour,
-nor forbid them all “to come near his person by ten mile.” Master Edward
-Poins, a discreet, timeserving young gentleman, continued in the enjoyment
-of court favour, and received the dignity of knighthood on the very day of
-his majesty’s coronation.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-BOOK THE FIFTH. 1413—1415.
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-I. SIR JOHN FALSTAFF IN EXILE.
-</h2>
-<p>
-CONSEQUENT STAGNATION IN THE COURT OF HENRY THE FIFTH.—THE WINDSOR
-CAMPAIGN, ITS MOTIVES AND RESULTS.
-</p>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE accession of Henry the Fifth to the throne of England was not marked
-by such lavish and prolonged rejoicings as the people of that time were
-accustomed to on similar occasions. Things, indeed, seem to have been done
-on rather a niggardly and puritanical scale. For this there were doubtless
-many sufficient reasons. The royal treasury was impoverished. The nation
-had not been engaged in a civil war for several months, and the public
-mind was getting impatient for the recurrence of that indispensable
-necessary of national life—which indeed was kindly furnished them by
-certain patriots who (for lack of better excuse) pretended that King
-Richard the Second was still alive and a claimant to the throne—a
-contingency which the statesmanlike policy of the late King Henry had most
-effectually guarded against. Moreover the newly crowned monarch, having so
-publicly pledged himself to measures of reform, and the adoption of
-business-like habits, was in common consistency bound to show signs of
-moral amendment by setting about the invasion of a foreign country, and
-torturing to death certain dangerous persons who had ventured to differ
-with him in religious opinions. The body of Richard the Second had to be
-exhumed and exhibited for public inspection. The conquest of France had to
-be undertaken. The exacting spirit of the times, moreover, required that a
-reward of 337 L. 10s. should be offered by the crown for the apprehension
-of Sir John Oldcastle *, the supposed leader of a Protestant conspiracy,—a
-circumstance in itself sufficient, (considering that the accused might
-have been caught and the reward claimed,) in the then existing state of
-the exchequer, to indispose the monarch for any exuberance of mirth or
-expenditure. But unquestionably the arch reason why the coronation
-festivities should have gone off flatly and without brilliancy or <i>eclat</i>
-was the absence from court of the man whose gifts and antecedents would
-naturally have pointed him out as the <i>arbiter elegantiarum</i> for the
-occasion. The master of the revels—which did not take place—was
-at the time of their non-occurrence a languishing captive, on an illegal
-warrant, in the Fleet Prison. The idea of any merriment in the court of
-Henry the Fifth without the assistance of Sir John Falstaff is simply
-preposterous. But Henry the Fifth had forsworn merriment and Falstaff
-together, and taken up with invasion and Smithfield bonfires in their
-stead. The only remarkable public boons consequent upon the coronation
-were a wholesale creation of Knights of the Bath—from participation
-in which honour Sir John Falstaff was of course excluded—and a
-general jail delivery, whereof, equally as a matter of course, our knight
-took the most prompt and summary advantage. Sir John and his companions
-were liberated by royal amnesty after a confinement of twenty-four hours.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Oldcastle was good enough to keep out of the way, in
-return for which considerate behaviour he was let off with a
-“grand cursing at St. Paul’s Cross.” He was captured four
-years later, and “roasted to death by a fire kindled under
-him” at Smithfield—the crown being then in better
-circumstances and able to defray the expenses of his
-prosecution.
-</pre>
-<p>
-But of what use was the so-called liberty to Sir John Falstaff? It was,
-after all, but the liberty which you grant to a gudgeon when you unhook
-him from the end of your fishing line and toss him contemptuously into the
-nearest corn-field. Was not Sir John an exile from the court? Had not the
-idol of his misplaced affections, “his king, his Jove,” forbidden him
-admission to the Olympian circle, where nectar and ambrosia were alone to
-be found? Had not Henry the Fifth commanded him
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Not to come near our person by ten mile?”
- </pre>
-<p>
-He had indeed! And that cruel radius was a rigid bar at the end of which
-Sir John was ruthlessly chained ten miles aloof from all that was life,
-and warmth, and breath to him. It was the very mockery of mercy. It was
-like saying to a man, “I will only keep your mouth and nostrils ten inches
-below the surface of the water, but above that altitude you shall never
-rise.” Mighty like drowning after all!
-</p>
-<p>
-The present book, the last and saddest of our history! will be, of
-necessity, a short one. The public career of Sir John Falstaff may be said
-to have terminated with the catastrophe recorded in the last chapter. The
-remaining months of his existence he passed in retirement—would I
-could add in prosperity!—as a private gentleman. There is a
-completeness and consistency in the life of this remarkable man almost
-without parallel in history. He was born in difficulties; he lived
-sixty-three years in embarrassed circumstances; and died in hot water. And
-yet throughout the whole of this trying pilgrimage Sir John was never once
-tempted to depart from his guiding principles. What were Sir John
-Falstaff’s guiding principles? the inconsiderate reader may ask,—yielding
-to the popularly received opinion that the knight never had any, than
-which a greater mistake can scarcely be imagined. Who shall accuse of
-irregularity a man who, for upwards of three-score years, based his every
-act upon the rigid observance of two rules of life? These were, firstly,
-never to let his business interfere with his pleasure; secondly, on no
-occasion to suffer his income to exceed his expenditure; principles which,
-it will be admitted, Sir John adhered to in the teeth of no common or
-unfrequent temptations to their abandonment. It must not be supposed that
-Sir John Falstaff for a moment believed that King Henry the Fifth intended
-to fulfil his promise of allowing his banished associates a sufficiency
-for “competence of life” still less that his majesty, among his other
-“startling effects” of reformation, meditated keeping his word upon so
-delicate a matter. There is reason to believe that a nominal pension of
-three hundred pounds a year was conferred upon our knight, but not the
-slightest to suppose that any measures were ever thought of for paying as
-much as the first quarterly instalment. Henry the Fifth had at least
-profited by Falstaff’s training in this respect, that he managed through
-life to make his liabilities exceed his resources, and contrived to secure
-an immense deal of éclat and enjoyment without troubling himself to pay
-for it. He endowed his beautiful young wife, Katherine of Valois, out of
-the private fortune of his step-mother (whom he had previously
-incarcerated in Pevensey Castle on a charge of witchcraft). The whole of
-the young queen’s household, with numerous pensioners of her family, were
-suffered to help themselves out of the same convenient fund. In the year
-of his marriage Henry drew upon the treasury of the captive dowager for a
-hundred marks, which he graciously presented to the Abbess of Sion. Soon
-afterwards he provided for the maintenance of his dearly beloved cousin <i>Dame
-Jake</i> * (otherwise the Princess Jaqueline of Hainault) by the moderate
-allowance of a hundred pounds a month, also to be paid from the “profits”
- of the dower of Joanna, late Queen of England.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Rymer’s Fodera, vol. x. p. 134.
-</pre>
-<p>
-The historic parallel to these liberal disbursements suggested by Sir John
-Falstaff paying Bardolpli arrears of wages, liquidating tavern scores for
-Ancient Pistol, and bestowing money on new liveries for little Robin (with
-perhaps a gallant souvenir for old Mistress Ursula, and some pretty toys
-for the young Whittingtons) out of the unfortunate Master Shallow’s
-thousand pounds, is most striking. A few years later we find Sir William
-Bardolf, lieutenant-governor of Calais, complaining bitterly in a letter
-to the king, that his garrison had only received 500 L.. in the two last
-years, himself having had to make up the deficiency requisite for their
-maintenance. There is still extant a letter, apparently written by a
-public scrivener of the time, in the name of one Francis, a drawer at the
-“Old Boar’s Head” tavern, addressed to Sir John Falstaff, at the sign of
-“YE NAKED LADYE ON HORSEBACK” at Coventry, praying the knight to transmit
-by carrier the sum of forty-eight marks seven shillings and
-three-farthings, the price of lodging and entertainment afforded to
-Corporal Nym and others of “the worshipful knight his following,” which
-the said drawer asserts he has been compelled by his mistress * to pay out
-of his own earnings. History delights in these startling coincidences!
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* Fits of splenetic economy of this description were by no
-means of unfrequent occurrence with good Mrs. Quickly. For
-the original of the document here alluded to, (the discovery
-of any answer to which has hitherto baffled the researches
-of antiquarians,) <i>vide</i> the Potter MSS. vol. viii. p. 397a.
-</pre>
-<p>
-With such pressing claims upon his purse (or rather upon the purses of
-other people at his disposal), as those above alluded to, it would have
-been unreasonable to suppose that the king would put himself—or even
-any one else—out of the way to meet his pecuniary engagements with a
-disgraced favourite. Sir John Falstaff at once understood that he had
-little to hope from the royal bounty or good faith. With his usual
-philosophy he determined to make the best of his position. Having nothing
-to live on but the king’s promise he determined to live upon that—and
-appears to have succeeded in doing so pretty comfortably. For we find him
-in the autumn of 1414, with a goodly retinue of followers and a stud of
-horses, “sitting at ten pounds a week” at the Garter Inn, Windsor—a
-liberal scale of accommodation for which Sir John’s assumed “expectations”
- were doubtless accepted as permanent security.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0022" id="linkimage-0022"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/273s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="273s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/273.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/273m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-Much idle dissertation has been wasted in Sir John Falstaff’s probable
-motives for making Windsor his residence at this juncture of his career.
-The motives live on the surface. The court was in London. The atmosphere
-of a kingly residence was, as has been shown, indispensable to Sir John
-Falstaff. The neighbourhood of Windsor Castle was the most convenient
-locality of that description—beyond the prescribed limits of his
-banishment from the royal person. Moreover, your true knight errant must
-be ever wandering in search of new fields for adventure. The resources of
-Oxford, Coventry, and other country districts our knight had doubtless
-long since exhausted. Windsor was virgin soil to him. Here he was unknown,
-and—as we have seen—trusted.
-</p>
-<p>
-There was an additional inducement for Sir John to visit Windsor. It must
-not be supposed that he had relinquished all hope of restoration to court
-favour—what deposed favourite ever did? To the end of his days he
-was constantly occupied in diplomatic schemes for the recovery of his
-forfeited position. He left no stone unturned in the fruitless endeavour
-to regain the royal ear. He deluged his courtly acquaintances with
-unavailing letters on the subject. He intrigued with secretaries,
-grooms-in-waiting, pages, lacqueys, and even the lords of the bedchamber
-and equerries. I am afraid he was rapidly becoming a nuisance.
-</p>
-<p>
-It is to be regretted that the preserved fragments of the Falstaff
-correspondence, in connection with this most interesting phase of our
-knight’s fortunes, are confined to two specimens.* These, however,
-consisting of a letter and its answer, it would be difficult to estimate
-at their adequate value. Their transference to these pages will
-sufficiently explain the motive for Sir John’s visit to Windsor last
-alluded to.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0023" id="linkimage-0023"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/287.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="287 " /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-“Ned, and be hanged in thine own garter or drowned in thine own bath,
-according as thou needest most trussing or washing.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They told me in London thou hadst grown great at Windsor, and I hastened
-hither post to witness the marvel with mine own eyes—mistrusting
-other testimony. Lo, I am convinced! I saw thee this morning strutting on
-Wykeham’s Tower—marshalling the workmen with thy wand of office, and
-noted that thou hadst become fat. At length, then, I may greet thee as an
-equal—the more, as it would seem I myself have so dwindled to thy
-former proportions that thou didst not know me; but when I sought to catch
-thine eye, twirledst thy chain and soughtest quarrel with a knave who was
-miscarrying a hod of mortar. Since, then, thou art so puffed up and I so
-crushed and flattened—what should be the difference between us? If
-there be any, I pri’ thee, lessen it. If at length thou hast grown to
-outweigh me, slice thyself down and throw me the parings. I but claim to
-compound a debt. I will cry quits for the wit I have lent thee if thou
-wilt give me the superabundance of favour and dignity which in truth thou
-seemest still somewhat too spindle-shanked of spirit to carry with grace.
-Nay, I will throw thee a good thing into the bargain. Thou lackest
-humility—a commodity whereof more than I know what to do with hath
-been of late forced upon me. Thou shalt have it all.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Indite me to dinner at the Castle by ten o’clock to-morrow. Till then I
-will be tongue-tied. If thou failest to send for me and to prove over many
-a pottle-pot that thou hast still the memory of old times and that thou
-hast but assumed the guise of a strutting feathered jackdaw as formerly
-thou didst that of a very owl of wisdom—on grounds of policy to be
-forgiven—then will I make it known by the town-crier of Windsor what
-an ass thou really art and ever will be. ‘Tis a secret worth hushing and
-known to none better than thine, forgivingly,
-</p>
-<p>
-“John Falstaff.
-</p>
-<p>
-“[In sober earnest, dear Ned, thou mayest serve me near him thou wottest
-of. I pri’ thee forget not old friends and comrades. Thou couldst not know
-me this morning—for reasons I guess at. But see me and it shall
-bring thee to no harm. J. F.]
-</p>
-<p>
-“At the Garter Inn, Friday, 1414. 2. H. V.”
- </p>
-<h3>
-ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING.
-</h3>
-<p>
-To Sir John Falstaff, Knight, be this deliverred.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sir Edward Poins grieves that his many duties as a humble but diligent
-servant of King Henry (whom Heaven preserve!) may not permit him to enjoy
-the pleasure of Sir John Falstaff’s company at Windsor Castle, whereof his
-Most Gracious Majesty hath been pleased to appoint Sir Edward for a time
-custodian. It is not, however, in Sir Edward’s nature to refuse a service
-to any one. If Sir John Falstaff is anxious for himself or friends to
-obtain the privilege of viewing the improvements in progress as well as
-the tapestries and pictures of the palace, Sir Edward will give
-instructions to the wardens and porters of the building to admit Sir John
-and friends to the same (within the hours allotted to the admission of the
-public) with the assurance that Sir John and friends will be treated with
-right due courtesy.
-</p>
-<p>
-“P.S. It is entreated that no largesse or drink money shall be given to
-any of the Castle servitors—the same subjecting such servitors to
-immediate dismissal.”
- </p>
-<p>
-That Sir Edward Poins—always a faithful imitator, to the best of his
-ability, of King Henry the Fifth—should have thus behaved towards
-his early friend and patron will surprise no student of human nature. This
-coolness and ingratitude, however, of a supposed friend had no other
-effect than to induce Sir John Falstaff during his residence in the
-neighbourhood to choose his associates exclusively from the middle classes—the
-lesser landowners, clergy, and even small traders of extra-palatial
-Windsor. In such unassuming society Sir John passed his time for the most
-part agreeably enough, and not altogether unprofitably—though with
-many serious drawbacks to his comfort, dignity, and finances.
-</p>
-<p>
-On the whole, I confess, I feel no temptation whatever to expatiate upon
-this portion of my hero’s rapidly closing career. The Windsor adventures
-of Sir John Falstaff, forming as they do the basis of one of the most
-admirably faithful and picturesque of Shakspeare’s historical studies,
-present, after all, but an exceptional and, in my opinion, most painful
-episode in the knight’s history. They show us the harrowing spectacle of a
-great man in his decline. Many thoughtless commentators have pronounced
-the portrait of Sir John Falstaff, as drawn in the “Merry Wives of
-Windsor,” to be wanting in verisimilitude, and have therefore called its
-authenticity into question. No discerning mind can mistake the likeness.
-It is the same man whom we have so often seen drawn by the same
-master-hand under more favourable circumstances—but how changed, how
-fallen! The features are all unmistakeably there; but the expression,
-bearing, and complexion, how sadly deteriorated! Age, disappointment, and
-suffering have done their work. Sir John can no longer hold his ground
-against the most contemptible adversary. The victor is vanquished—the
-biter bitten. The more than match for the keen-witted Harry Monmouth—the
-conqueror of Gascoigne and the terror of Poins—becomes the easy dupe
-of a couple of practical-joking Berkshire housewives. It is distressing to
-contemplate a man—whom we have seen cross swords with Douglas;
-capture Colevile of the Grange; and who, after all (as hath been
-demonstrated), there is strong reason to believe, was the actual slayer of
-the terrible Henry Percy—sunk so low as to receive without
-resentment a sound cudgelling administered, in a fit of insensate
-jealousy, by a <i>bourgeois</i> inhabitant of Peascod Street, Windsor—who,
-for aught I can discover to the contrary, may have been a retired grocer.
-* It may be urged that Sir John Falstaff, in justice to his knightly
-standing, could not challenge an ignoble curmudgeon like Ford to mortal
-combat; and that he acted becomingly in preferring the more appropriate
-vengeance of keeping that citizen’s money—intrusted to him for an
-avowedly immoral purpose. This was all very well in its way, but did not
-wipe out the original outrage. That shameful business of the buck-basket,
-also, was an indignity to which Sir John in the heyday of his powers could
-never have submitted. “Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at him” with
-a vengeance, at this time, and the meanest are permitted to do so with
-impunity. His very retainers turn against him (always excepting the
-faithful Bardolph, who relieves his master, when under the pressure of
-pecuniary difficulties, of the cost of his maintenance, by turning tapster
-and waiting on the knight at another person’s expense). He is even braved
-by Pistol; and that “drawling, affecting rogue,” Nym, refuses to carry his
-messages. He is cajoled, hoaxed, bamboozled. He suffers himself to be
-“made an ass” in Windsor Park, where he exposes himself in a tom-fool
-disguise, and gets pinched by all the charity boys and girls in the
-parish, believing them to be avenging fairies. He is bound to admit that
-his wit has been “made a Jack a Lent of.” A Cambrian parson, even, dares
-to laugh at him; and he is “not able to answer the Welsh flannel.” It is a
-sad business.
-</p>
-<p>
-I repeat that I have no heart to dwell upon these painful details.
-Shakspeare has not scrupled to particularise them, and the curious are
-referred to his able but pitiless pages. My good friend GEORGE CRUIKSHANK
-also—an amiable man in the social relations of life, but who when
-there is a stern truth to be recorded pictorially, has no more feeling
-than the sun peering through a photographic lens—has added his
-testimony to the principal features of the case. Let <i>my</i> feelings be
-spared—for I sympathise with poor Sir Jack, and, with all his
-faults, love him.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0024" id="linkimage-0024"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/277s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="277s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/277.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/277m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0025" id="linkimage-0025"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/281s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="281s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/281.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/281m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0026" id="linkimage-0026"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/285s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="285s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/285.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/285m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0027" id="linkimage-0027"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/289s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="289s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/289.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/289m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0028" id="linkimage-0028"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/293s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="293s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/293.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/293m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0029" id="linkimage-0029"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/297s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="297s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/297.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/297m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<p>
-There is this excuse to be urged for Sir John Falstaff’s submitting to all
-kinds of temporary inconvenience and degradation at the hands of the
-contemptible citizens of Windsor. His mind was occupied with more exalted
-subjects. He still contemplated the possibility of his restoration to
-Court favour. He was sixty-three, it is true, and prematurely broken in
-constitution. But a courtier and statesman must be very old and shaken
-indeed to renounce his hopes of power and advancement. Sir John watched
-his opportunity, and was willing to abide his time. You will be willing to
-abide your time, reader, at the age of a hundred (Heaven send you may live
-to it!) and never suspect for a moment that your “time” will be out in the
-early part of next autumn.
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* For the events here referred to, see the Merry Wives of
-Windsor.
-</pre>
-<p>
-Sir John’s opportunity (as he imagined) at length arrived. King Henry the
-Fifth prepared for his memorable invasion of France, by demanding, from
-the French king, the hand of the Princess Katherine, and a concession of
-territory sufficiently unreasonable to ensure the refusal desired by the
-English crown. The Dauphin Louis answered the application by his memorable
-present of a cask of tennis balls, which he assured King Henry “were
-fitter playthings for him, according to his former course of life, than
-the provinces demanded.” * The British cabinet was nonplussed, there being
-nobody in office capable of replying to a joke. This was Sir John
-Falstaffs opportunity.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John, who had, of course, his agents posted about the Court, heard of
-the dilemma. He despatched the following private note to His Majesty,
-having securely arranged for its certain delivery into the royal hands:—
-</p>
-<h3>
-A TIMELY WORD TO THE KING FROM ONE PERCHANCE THOUGHT DEAD **
-</h3>
-<p>
-“King Hal: thou hast forgotten me, but not I thee. Thou wilt not relieve
-me from my difficulty. Lo! I relieve thee of thine.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Write back to the French fellow, thus:—
-</p>
-<p>
-“‘These balls shall be struck back with such a <i>racket</i> as shall
-force open Paris gates.’
-</p>
-<p>
-“The thought is thine, for I give it to thee. Pay me for it by remembrance
-that I still live and can bear armour, or not, as thou listest.
-</p>
-<p>
-“John Falstaff.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Note.—Observe well the clench upon <i>racket</i>***, which meaneth
-both hurly-burly noise and tennis bat.
-</p>
-<p>
-“At the Garter, Windsor,
-</p>
-<p>
-“30 March, 1415, 3 H. V.”
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-* <i>Hollinshed. Vide</i> also <i>White Kennet’s History</i>; and an
-inedited MS. in the British Museum, first published in Sir
-H. Nicolas’s <i>History of the Battle of Agincourt.</i>
-
-** In the Potter MSS.
-
-*** Caxton has recorded this pun.
-</pre>
-<p>
-In the course of a few days Sir John learnt that his witticism
-(unacknowledged) had been made use of as a rejoinder to the insolent
-message of the dauphin. He accepted this as a recognition of renewed
-friendly dispositions towards him on the king’s part. He hastily raised
-such funds as his powers of persuasion could induce his Windsor
-acquaintances to supply him with, and struck his tent. In defiance of the
-royal edict he presented himself at the Court of Westminster in the thick
-of the active preparations for the coming French campaign and solicited a
-command.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-II. THE END OF THE LIFE OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.
-</h2>
-<h3>
-“The king has killed his heart, good husband, come home presently.”
- </h3>
-<p>
-The speaker was Mrs. Pistol, late Quickly. Her husband was disputing about
-nothing particular with Corporal Nym. The heart that had been killed by
-the king (dear Mrs. Quickly! she always spoke truly upon vital questions)
-was that of Sir John Falstaff. He had presented himself, clad in all the
-panoply of war, at the palace of Westminster, just as the galleys for the
-French invasion were getting under weigh. The king had refused him an
-audience. The Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne, acting ostensibly under the
-directions of the Dowager Queen Regent Joanna, had threatened him with
-constables. Sir John came home to his old quarters, the Old Boar’s Head in
-Eastcheap—to die!
-</p>
-<p>
-And Sir John Falstaff died on the 5th of August, 1415, at the Old Boar’s
-Head Tavern, Eastcheap. His eyes were closed by poor Dame Quickly, and the
-only mourners round his death bed were the blackguards whom he had fed,
-and who were humanised and softened by his death. Pistol and Nym forgot
-their quarrel about nothing, sheathed their unmeaning swords and glared
-blood-shot condolence one at the other. Bardolph had come up from Windsor,
-resigning his tapstership to attend on the master whom he had loved and
-served consistently—long ere he knew how to speak. Our rubicund
-friend never acquired the art of speech to anything like perfection; but
-when he learnt that Falstaff was dead he somehow managed to give utterance
-to a poem.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Would I were with him, wheresom’er he is, either in heaven, or in hell!”
- </p>
-<p>
-I cannot describe Sir John Falstaff’s death half as well as it has been
-described by Mrs. Quickly. Take her words:—
-</p>
-<p>
-“He’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever man went to Arthur’s bosom. ‘A made a
-finer end, and went away, an it had been any christom child; ‘a parted
-even just between twelve and one, e’en at turning of the tide: for after I
-saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with the flowers, and smile upon
-his fingers’ ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp
-as a pen, and ‘a babbled of green fields. How now, Sir John? quoth I:
-what, man! be of good cheer. So ‘a cried out, God, God, God! three or four
-times: now I, to comfort him, bid him, ‘a should not think of God; I
-hoped, there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet: so
-a bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the bed, and
-felt them, and they were as cold as any stone; then I felt to his knees,
-and so upward, and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.”
- </p>
-<p>
-I will not comment upon this. I bow my head as one at a dear friend’s
-funeral and hold my tongue—loving and thanking those whom I hear
-weeping and sobbing around me.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir John Falstaff was buried in the church of St. Michael Paternoster in
-the Royal, at the expense of Sir Richard Whittington, founder of that
-edifice, and Sir John’s faithful friend throughout his eventful life—more
-than ever towards its close. It is recorded that Sir Richard wept bitterly
-the loss of his ever dear but often estranged friend, and was given to
-chide severely those who spoke slightingly of Sir John Falstaff’s memory—saying
-that none knew Sir John Falstaff but himself; and that the waste of such a
-heart and brain as Sir John’s to humanity was a loss deplorable. All who
-had been kind or faithful to Sir John in his lifetime were well cared for
-by Sir Richard. He subsidised Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. But it was
-destined they should not prosper. They were bound for the French wars.
-They wasted Sir Richard’s bounty before starting. Nym and Bardolph were
-hanged for the pettiest larceny on the field of Agincourt. Heaven knows
-what became of Pistol, and Earth does not care.
-</p>
-<p>
-Sir Richard erected a simple tomb over the remains of Sir John Falstaff in
-the crypt of St. Michael Paternoster. King Henry the Fifth, on his return
-from France, in a remorseful fit, took his fair bride to see his old
-friend’s last resting-place. It is whispered that he left the church with
-reddened eyes. It is certain that he caused to be inlaid, at his own
-expense, on the marble tomb, the following inscription in brass:—
-</p>
-<h3>
-“WE COULD HAVE BETTER SPARED A BETTER MAN.”
- </h3>
-<p>
-This might have been seen up to the year 1666, when the church of St.
-Michael Paternoster was burnt to the ground—and the last material
-traces of Sir John Falstaff’s existence faded from the memory of man, even
-as fades the recollection of having read a foolish book.
-</p>
-<h3>
-FINIS.
-</h3>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0030" id="linkimage-0030"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
-<img src="images/305s.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="305s " /><br />
-</div>
-<h4>
-<a href="images/305.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original Size</i></a> -- <a
-href="images/305m.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Medium-Size</i></a>
-</h4>
-<div style="height: 6em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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