DITTO OF THOMAS CHAUCER’S POETRY AT THE SAME EPOCH.--DEATH OF KING HENRY
THE FOURTH, AND OTHER INDICATIONS OF NATIONAL PROSPERITY.
The 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.”
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. *
[Illustration: 240]
[Illustration: 241]
* In refutation of this proposition, there is but one theory
that can be considered as carrying the slightest weight,
namely, that Thomas Chaucer _did not_ write the poem here
quoted _in extenso_. 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.
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.
* Assuming their authenticity as established--if only for
the sake of argument.
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.
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 _did_ 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.
* 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.
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.
It must have been then--in short, it _was_--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,” _ad libitum_, 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 _à l’improviste_, and with no intention of
staying for a longer time than might serve them to repose and refresh
themselves.
* For arguments on this subject see ante, p. 113.
“By cock and pye, Sir,” Master Shallow had said on our knight’s arrival,
“you shall not away to-night.”
To which Sir John had replied that he must be excused.
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.
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 _meum_ and _teum_, 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--
“to busy giddy minds
With foreign quarrels: that action hence borne out
May waste the memory of the former days;”
(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.
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.
At any rate, I am glad that the spring of 1413 _was_ 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.
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.
* 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.
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.
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.
“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!”
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
“Praise Heaven for the merry year.”
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“Give Master Bardolph some wine, Davy,” said his worship.
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.