The 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.
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 _drink water_
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Mr. Poins.--Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been?
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.
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.
The Prince of Wales.--How now, wool-sack! what mutter you?
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!
Prince of Wales.--Why, you abominable round man! what’s the matter?
Sir John Falstaff.--Are you not a coward? answer me to that; and Poins
there?
Mr. Poins.--‘Zounds! ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I’ll stab
thee.
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.
The Prince of Wales.--O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou
drunk’st last.
Sir John Falstaff.--All’s one for that. [He drinks.] A plague of all
cowards, still say I.
The Prince of Wales.--What’s the matter?
Sir John Falstaff.--What’s the matter? there be four of us here have
ta’en a thousand pound this day morning.
The Prince of Wales.--Where is it, Jack? where is it?
Sir John Falstaff.--Where is it? Taken from us it is: a hundred upon
poor four of us.
The Prince of Wales.--What, a hundred, man?
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.
[Illustration; 113]
The Prince of Wales.--Speak, sirs; how was it?