FRAGMENTS OF HIS CORRESPONDENCE.--EPISODE OF THE FAIR DOROTHEA AND
ANCIENT PISTOL.
Let 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.
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.
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
_Canterbury Pilgrimage_, have never been brought against Sir John
Falstaff, that I am aware of.
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 _Sir John
Falstaff had powerful enemies_. 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.
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 _dilettanti_.
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.
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 _régime_ 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:--
“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,
* * * *
“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
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.
“Your loving dutiful Son,
“John Falstaff”
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.
* 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!
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.
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:--
“Sir John Falstaff, Knight, to the son of the King nearest his father,
greeting.
“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!
“Thine by yea and no (which is as much as to say as thou noest him);
_Jack Falstaff_ with my familiars; John with my brothers and sisters;
and SIR JOHN with all Europe.”
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,
_Mr. Poins did not relish the joke._
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 _hiatus_ 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.
TO DAME URSULA SWINSTEAD, AT THE TRENCHER, COOK’S HOUSE, BY THAMES
STREET. *
* 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 ‘.--_Vide Fitzstephen and Stowe; Annals and Survey._
“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.
“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.
“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 _that one I
will cast from me_. 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.
“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. _All this time,
madam, I was a married man._ 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.
“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.
* * * *
“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!
* * * *
“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?
*****
“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.
“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!
“John Falstaff.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
* 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. _Henry IV. Part H. Act ii. Sc. 2._
Other specimens of the Falstaff correspondence will be introduced, and
duly commented on, in chronological order.
[Illustration: 179]