Now 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
* “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.”
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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 _coup_. Mere single combat with one of his own age would be
inadequate to the emergency. He walked homeward meditating.
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.
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.
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.
“Aha! what’s this?” said the gladiator poet. “One tired of life? A worm
‘neath Ajax’s foot. Writhe hence or be crushed.”
To make the scene brief, a cudgelling match ensued. The waterman was
vanquished, and the poet resumed his swaggering antics with renewed
extravagance.