“_Baccare_, You are marvellous forward,” quoth Gremio to Petruchio in the
_Taming of the Shrew_.
“But not so _forward_,” says Mr. Theobald, “as our Editors are _indolent_.
This is a stupid corruption of the press, that none of them have dived
into. We must read _Baccalare_, as Mr. Warburton acutely observed to me,
by which the Italians mean, Thou ignorant, presumptuous Man.”—“Properly
indeed,” adds Mr. Heath, “a _graduated_ Scholar, but ironically and
sarcastically a _pretender_ to Scholarship.”
This is admitted by the Editors and Criticks of every Denomination. Yet
the word is neither wrong, nor Italian: it was an old proverbial one, used
frequently by John Heywood; who hath made, what he pleases to call,
_Epigrams_ upon it.
Take two of them, such as they are,
_Backare_, quoth Mortimer to his Sow:
Went that Sow _backe_ at that biddyng trowe you?
_Backare_, quoth Mortimer to his sow: se
Mortimers sow speakth as good _latin_ as he.
Howel takes this from Heywood, in his _Old Sawes and Adages_: and Philpot
introduces it into the Proverbs collected by Camden.
We have but few observations concerning Shakespeare’s knowledge of the
Spanish tongue. Dr. Grey indeed is willing to suppose that the plot of
_Romeo and Juliet_ may be borrowed from a COMEDY of Lopes de Vega. But the
Spaniard, who was certainly acquainted with Bandello, hath not only
changed the Catastrophe, but the names of the Characters. Neither Romeo
nor Juliet, neither Montague nor Capulet, appears in this performance: and
how came they to the knowledge of Shakespeare?—Nothing is more certain
than that he chiefly followed the Translation by Painter from the French
of Boisteau, and hence arise the Deviations from Bandello’s original
Italian. It seems, however, from a passage in Ames’s _Typographical
Antiquities_, that Painter was not the only Translator of this popular
Story: and it is possible, therefore, that Shakespeare might have other
assistance.
In the Induction to the _Taming of the Shrew_, the Tinker attempts to talk
Spanish: and _consequently_ the Author himself was acquainted with it.
_Paucas pallabris_, let the World slide, _Sessa_.
But this is a burlesque on _Hieronymo_; the piece of Bombast that I have
mentioned to you before:
What new device have they devised, trow?
_Pocas pallabras_, &c.——
Mr. Whalley tells us, “the Author of this piece hath the happiness to be
at this time unknown, the remembrance of him having perished with
himself”: Philips and others ascribe it to one William Smith: but I take
this opportunity of informing him that it was written by Thomas Kyd; if he
will accept the authority of his Contemporary, Heywood.
More hath been said concerning Shakespeare’s acquaintance with the French
language. In the Play of _Henry the fifth_, we have a whole Scene in it,
and in other places it occurs familiarly in the Dialogue.
We may observe in general, that the early Editions have not half the
quantity; and every sentence, or rather every word, most ridiculously
blundered. These, for several reasons, could not possibly be published by
the Author; and it is extremely probable that the French ribaldry was at
first inserted by a different hand, as the many additions most certainly
were after he had left the Stage.—Indeed, every friend to his memory will
not easily believe that he was acquainted with the Scene between Catharine
and the old Gentlewoman; or surely he would not have admitted such
obscenity and nonsense.
Mr. Hawkins, in the Appendix to Mr. Johnson’s Edition, hath an ingenious
observation to prove that Shakespeare, supposing the French to be his, had
very little knowledge of the language.
“Est-il impossible d’eschapper la force de ton _Bras_?” says a
Frenchman.—“_Brass_, cur?” replies Pistol.
“Almost any one knows that the French word _Bras_ is pronounced _Brau_;
and what resemblance of sound does this bear to _Brass_?”
Mr. Johnson makes a doubt whether the pronunciation of the French language
may not be changed since Shakespeare’s time; “if not,” says he, “it may be
suspected that some other man wrote the French scenes”: but this does not
appear to be the case, at least in this termination, from the rules of the
Grammarians, or the practice of the Poets. I am certain of the former from
the _French Alphabet_ of De la Mothe, and the _Orthoepia Gallica_ of John
Eliot; and of the latter from the Rhymes of Marot, Ronsard, and Du
Bartas.—Connections of this kind were very common. Shakespeare himself
assisted Ben. Jonson in his _Sejanus_, as it was originally written; and
Fletcher in his _Two noble Kinsmen_.
But what if the French scene were occasionally introduced into every Play
on this Subject? and perhaps there were more than one before our
Poet’s.—In _Pierce __ Penilesse his Supplication to the Diuell_, 4to. 1592
(which, it seems, from the Epistle to the Printer, was not the first
Edition), the Author, Nash, exclaims, “What a glorious thing it is to have
_Henry the fifth_ represented on the Stage leading the French King
prisoner, and forcing both him and the Dolphin to sweare fealty!”—And it
appears from the Jests of the famous Comedian, Tarlton, 4to. 1611, that he
had been particularly celebrated in the Part of the Clown in _Henry the
fifth_; but no such Character exists in the Play of Shakespeare.—_Henry
the sixth_ hath ever been doubted; and a passage in the above-quoted piece
of Nash may give us reason to believe it was previous to our Author. “How
would it have joyed braue Talbot (the terror of the French) to thinke that
after he had lyen two hundred yeare in his Toomb, he should triumph again
on the Stage; and haue his bones new embalmed with the teares of ten
thousand spectators at least (at severall times) who, in the Tragedian
that represents his person, imagine they behold him fresh bleeding.”—I
have no doubt but _Henry the sixth_ had the same Author with _Edward the
third_, which hath been recovered to the world in Mr. Capell’s
_Prolusions_.
It hath been observed that the Giant of Rabelais is sometimes alluded to
by Shakespeare: and in _his_ time no translation was extant.—But the Story
was in every one’s hand.
In a Letter by one Laneham, or Langham, for the name is written
differently, concerning the Entertainment at Killingwoorth Castle, printed
1575, we have a list of the vulgar Romances of the age, “King Arthurz
book, Huon of Burdeaus, Friar Rous, Howleglass, and GARGANTUA.” Meres
mentions him as equally hurtful to young minds with the _Four Sons of
Aymon_, and the _Seven Champions_. And John Taylor hath him likewise in
his catalogue of _Authors_, prefixed to Sir _Gregory Nonsence_.
But to come to a conclusion, I will give you an irrefragable argument that
Shakespeare did _not_ understand _two_ very common words in the French and
Latin languages.
According to the Articles of agreement between the Conqueror Henry and the
King of France, the latter was to stile the former (in the corrected
French of the modern Editions) “Nostre _tres cher_ filz Henry Roy
d’Angleterre; and in Latin, _Præclarissimus_ Filius, &c.” “What,” says Dr.
Warburton, “is _tres cher_ in French _præclarissimus_ in Latin! we should
read _præcarissimus_.”—This appears to be exceedingly true; but how came
the blunder? It is a typographical one in Holingshed, which Shakespeare
copied; but must indisputably have corrected, had he been acquainted with
the languages.—“Our said Father, during his life, shall name, call, and
write us in French in this maner: Nostre _tres chier_ filz, Henry Roy
d’Engleterre—and in Latine in this maner: _Præclarissimus_ filius noster.”
Edit. 1587, p. 574.
To corroborate this instance, let me observe to you, though it be nothing
further to the purpose, that another error of the same kind hath been the
source of a mistake in an historical passage of our Author; which hath
ridiculously troubled the Criticks.
Richard the third harangues his army before the Battle of Bosworth:
Remember whom ye are to cope withal,
A sort of vagabonds, of rascals, runaways—
And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow,
Long kept in _Britaine_ at _our Mother’s_ cost,
A milksop, &c.—
“_Our_ Mother,” Mr. Theobald perceives to be wrong, and Henry was
somewhere secreted on the _Continent_: he reads therefore, and all the
Editors after him,
Long kept in _Bretagne_ at _his_ mother’s cost.
But give me leave to transcribe a few more lines from Holingshed, and you
will find at once that Shakespeare had been there before me:—“Ye see
further, how a companie of traitors, theeves, outlaws, and runnagates be
aiders and partakers of his feat and enterprise.—And to begin with the
erle of Richmond, captaine of this rebellion, he is a Welsh
milksop—brought up by _my Moother’s_ meanes and mine, like a captive in a
close cage, in the court of Francis duke of _Britaine_.” p. 756.
Holingshed copies this _verbatim_ from his brother chronicler Hall, Edit.
1548, fol. 54; but his Printer hath given us by accident the word
_Moother_ instead of _Brother_; as it is in the Original, and ought to be
in Shakespeare.
I hope, my good Friend, you have by this time acquitted our great Poet of
all piratical depredations on the Ancients, and are ready to receive my
_Conclusion_.—He remembered perhaps enough of his _school-boy_ learning to
put the _Hig_, _hag_, _hog_, into the mouth of Sir Hugh Evans; and might
pick up in the Writers of the time, or the course of his conversation, a
familiar phrase or two of French or Italian: but his _Studies_ were most
demonstratively confined to _Nature_ and _his own Language_.
In the course of this disquisition, you have often smiled at “all such
reading as was never read”: and possibly I may have indulged it too far:
but it is the reading necessary for a Comment on Shakespeare. Those who
apply solely to the Ancients for this purpose, may with equal wisdom study
the TALMUD for an Exposition of TRISTRAM SHANDY. Nothing but an intimate
acquaintance with the Writers of the time, who are frequently of no other
value, can point out his allusions, and ascertain his Phraseology. The
Reformers of his Text are for ever equally positive, and equally wrong.
The Cant of the Age, a provincial Expression, an obscure Proverb, an
obsolete Custom, a Hint at a Person or a Fact no longer remembered, hath
continually defeated the best of our _Guessers_: You must not suppose me
to speak at random, when I assure you that, from some forgotten book or
other, I can demonstrate this to you in many hundred Places; and I almost
wish that I had not been persuaded into a different Employment.
Tho’ I have as much of the _Natale Solum_ about me as any man whatsoever;
yet, I own, the _Primrose Path_ is still more pleasing than the _Fosse_ or
the _Watling Street_:
Age cannot wither it, nor custom stale
It’s infinite variety.——
And when I am fairly rid of the Dust of topographical Antiquity, which
hath continued much longer about me than I expected, you may very probably
be troubled again with the ever fruitful Subject of SHAKESPEARE and his
COMMENTATORS.
MAURICE MORGANN: AN ESSAY ON THE DRAMATIC CHARACTER OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.
1777.
Preface.
The following sheets were written in consequence of a friendly
conversation, turning by some chance upon the Character of FALSTAFF,
wherein the Writer, maintaining, contrary to the general Opinion, that
this Character was not intended to be shewn as a Coward, he was challenged
to deliver and support that Opinion from the Press, with an engagement,
now he fears forgotten, for it was three years ago, that he should be
answered thro’ the same channel: Thus stimulated, these papers were almost
wholly written in a very short time, but not without those attentions,
whether successful or not, which seemed necessary to carry them beyond the
Press into the hands of the Public. From the influence of the foregoing
circumstances it is, that the Writer has generally assumed rather the
character and tone of an Advocate than of an Inquirer;—though if he had
not first _inquired_ and been _convinced_, he should never have attempted
to have amused either himself or others with the subject.—The impulse of
the occasion, however, being passed, the papers were thrown by, and almost
forgotten: But having been looked into of late by some friends, who,
observing that the Writer had not enlarged so far for the sake of FALSTAFF
alone, but that the Argument was made subservient to Critical amusement,
persuaded him to revise and convey it to the Press. This has been
accordingly done, though he fears something too hastily, as he found it
proper to add, while the papers were in the course of printing, some
considerations on the _Whole_ Character of FALSTAFF; which ought to have
been accompanied by a slight reform of a few preceding passages, which may
seem, in consequence of this addition, to contain too favourable a
representation of his Morals.
The vindication of FALSTAFF’S Courage is truly no otherwise the object
than some old fantastic Oak, or grotesque Rock, may be the object of a
morning’s ride; yet being proposed as such, may serve to limit the
distance, and shape the course: The real object is Exercise, and the
Delight which a rich, beautiful, picturesque, and perhaps unknown Country,
may excite from every side. Such an Exercise may admit of some little
excursion, keeping however the Road in view; but seems to exclude every
appearance of labour and of toil.—Under the impression of such Feelings,
the Writer has endeavoured to preserve to his Text a certain lightness of
air, and chearfulness of tone; but is sensible, however, that the manner
of discussion does not _every where_, particularly near the commencement,
sufficiently correspond with his design.—If the Book shall be fortunate
enough to obtain another Impression, a separation may be made; and such of
the heavier parts as cannot be wholly dispensed with, sink to their more
proper station,—a Note.
He is fearful likewise that he may have erred in the other extreme; and
that having thought himself intitled, even in argument, to a certain
degree of playful discussion, may have pushed it, in a few places, even to
levity. This error might be yet more easily reformed than the other.—The
Book is perhaps, as it stands, too bulky for the subject; but if the
Reader knew how many pressing considerations, as it grew into size, the
Author resisted, which yet seemed intitled to be heard, he would the more
readily excuse him.
The whole is a mere Experiment, and the Writer considers it as such: It
may have the advantages, but it is likewise attended with all the
difficulties and dangers, of _Novelty_.
On The Dramatic Character Of Sir John Falstaff.
The ideas which I have formed concerning the Courage and Military
Character of the Dramatic Sir _John Falstaff_ are so different from those
which I find generally to prevail in the world, that I shall take the
liberty of stating my sentiments on the subject; in hope that some person,
as unengaged as myself, will either correct and reform my error in this
respect; or, joining himself to my opinion, redeem me from, what I may
call, the reproach of singularity.
I am to avow, then, that I do not clearly discern that Sir _John Falstaff_
deserves to bear the character so generally given him of an absolute
Coward; or, in other words, that I do not conceive _Shakespeare_ ever
meant to make Cowardice an essential part of his constitution.
I know how universally the contrary opinion prevails; and I know what
respect and deference are due to the public voice. But if to the avowal of
this singularity I add all the reasons that have led me to it, and
acknowledge myself to be wholly in the judgment of the public, I shall
hope to avoid the censure of too much forwardness or indecorum.
It must, in the first place, be admitted that the appearances in this case
are singularly strong and striking; and so they had need be, to become the
ground of so general a censure. We see this extraordinary Character,
almost in the first moment of our acquaintance with him, involved in
circumstances of apparent dishonour; and we hear him familiarly called
_Coward_ by his most intimate companions. We see him, on occasion of the
robbery at _Gads-Hill_, in the very act of running away from the Prince
and _Poins_; and we behold him, on another of more honourable obligation,
in open day light, in battle, and acting in his profession as a Soldier,
escaping from _Douglas_ even out of the world as it were; counterfeiting
death, and deserting his very existence; and we find him, on the former
occasion, betrayed into those _lies_ and _braggadocioes_ which are the
usual concomitants of Cowardice in Military men, and pretenders to valour.
These are not only in themselves strong circumstances, but they are
moreover thrust forward, prest upon our notice as the subject of our
mirth, as the great business of the scene: No wonder, therefore, that the
word should go forth that _Falstaff_ exhibited as a character of Cowardice
and dishonour.
What there is to the contrary of this, it is my business to discover.
Much, I think, will presently appear; but it lies so dispersed, is so
latent, and so purposely obscured, that the reader must have some patience
whilst I collect it into one body, and make it the object of a steady and
regular contemplation.
But what have we to do, may my readers exclaim, with principles _so
latent_, _so obscured_? In Dramatic composition the _Impression_ is the
_Fact_; and the Writer, who, meaning to impress one thing, has impressed
another, is unworthy of observation.
It is a very unpleasant thing to have, in the first setting out, so many
and so strong prejudices to contend with. All that one can do in such
case, is, to pray the reader to have a little patience in the
commencement; and to reserve his censure, if it must pass, for the
conclusion. Under his gracious allowance, therefore, I presume to declare
it as my opinion, that Cowardice _is not_ the _Impression_ which the
_whole_ character of _Falstaff_ is calculated to make on the minds of an
unprejudiced audience; tho’ there be, I confess, a great deal of something
in the _composition_ likely enough to puzzle, and consequently to mislead
the Understanding.—The reader will perceive that I distinguish between
_mental Impressions_ and the _Understanding_.—I wish to avoid every thing
that looks like subtlety and refinement; but this is a distinction which
we all comprehend.—There are none of us unconscious of certain feelings or
sensations of mind which do not seem to have passed thro’ the
Understanding; the effects, I suppose, of some secret influences from
without, acting upon a certain mental sense, and producing feelings and
passions in just correspondence to the force and variety of those
influences on the one hand, and to the quickness of our sensibility on the
other. Be the cause, however, what it may, the fact is undoubtedly so;
which is all I am concerned in. And it is equally a fact, which every
man’s experience may avouch, that the Understanding and those feelings are
frequently at variance. The latter often arise from the most minute
circumstances, and frequently from such as the Understanding cannot
estimate, or even recognize; whereas the Understanding delights in
abstraction, and in general propositions; which, however true considered
as such, are very seldom, I had like to have said _never_, perfectly
applicable to any particular case. And hence, among other causes, it is,
that we often condemn or applaud characters and actions on the credit of
some logical process, while our hearts revolt, and would fain lead us to a
very different conclusion.
The Understanding seems for the most part to take cognizance of _actions_
only, and from these to infer _motives_ and _character_; but the sense we
have been speaking of proceeds in a contrary course; and determines of
_actions_ from certain _first principles of character_, which seem wholly
out of the reach of the Understanding. We cannot indeed do otherwise than
admit that there must be distinct principles of character in every
distinct individual: The manifest variety even in the minds of infants
will oblige us to this. But what _are_ these first principles of
character? Not the objects, I am persuaded, of the Understanding; and yet
we take as strong Impressions of them as if we could compare and assort
them in a syllogism. We often love or hate at first sight; and indeed, in
general, dislike or approve by some secret reference to these
_principles_; and we judge even of conduct, not from any idea of abstract
good or evil in the nature of actions, but by referring those actions to a
supposed original character in the man himself. I do not mean that we
_talk_ thus; we could not indeed, if we would, explain ourselves in detail
on this head; we can neither account for Impressions and passions, nor
communicate them to others by _words_: Tones and looks will sometimes
convey the _passion_ strangely, but the _Impression_ is incommunicable.
The same causes may produce it indeed at the same time in many, but it is
the separate possession of each, and not in its nature transferable: It is
an imperfect sort of instinct, and proportionably dumb.—We might indeed,
if we chose it, candidly confess to one another that we are greatly swayed
by these feelings, and are by no means so _rational_ in all points as we
could wish; but this would be a betraying of the interests of that high
faculty, the Understanding, which we so value ourselves upon, and which we
more peculiarly call our own. This, we think, must not be; and so we
huddle up the matter, concealing it as much as possible, both from
ourselves and others. In Books indeed, wherein character, motive, and
action, are all alike subjected to the Understanding, it is generally a
very clear case; and we make decisions compounded of them all: And thus we
are willing to approve of _Candide_, tho’ he kills my Lord the Inquisitor,
and runs thro’ the body the Baron of _Thunder-ten-tronckh_, the son of his
patron, and the brother of his beloved _Cunégonde_: But in real life, I
believe, _my Lords the Judges_ would be apt to inform the _Gentlemen of
the Jury_ that my _Lord the Inquisitor_ was _ill killed_; as _Candide_ did
not proceed on the urgency of the moment, but on the speculation only of
future evil. And indeed this clear perception, in Novels and Plays, of the
union of character and action not seen in nature, is the principal defect
of such compositions, and what renders them but ill pictures of human
life, and wretched guides of conduct.
But if there was _one man_ in the world who could make a more perfect
draught of real nature, and steal such Impressions on his audience,
without their special notice, as should keep their hold in spite of any
error of their Understanding, and should thereupon venture to introduce an
apparent incongruity of character and action, for ends which I shall
presently endeavour to explain; such an imitation would be worth our
nicest curiosity and attention. But in such a case as this, the reader
might expect that he should find us all talking the language of the
Understanding only; that is, censuring the action with very little
conscientious investigation even of _that_; and transferring the censure,
in every odious colour, to the actor himself; how much soever our hearts
and affections might secretly revolt: For as to the _Impression_, we have
already observed that it has no tongue; nor is its operation and influence
likely to be made the subject of conference and communication.
It is not to the _Courage_ only of _Falstaff_ that we think these
observations will apply: No part whatever of his character seems to be
fully settled in our minds; at least there is something strangely
incongruous in our discourse and affections concerning him. We all like
_Old Jack_; yet, by some strange perverse fate, we all abuse him, and deny
him the possession of any one single good or respectable quality. There is
something extraordinary in this: It must be a strange art in _Shakespeare_
which can draw our liking and good will towards so offensive an object. He
has wit, it will be said; chearfulness and humour of the most
characteristic and captivating sort. And is this enough? Is the humour and
gaiety of vice so very captivating? Is the wit, characteristic of baseness
and every ill quality, capable of attaching the heart and winning the
affections? Or does not the apparency of such humour, and the flashes of
such wit, by more strongly disclosing the deformity of character, but the
more effectually excite our hatred and contempt of the man? And yet this
is not our _feeling_ of _Falstaff_’s character. When he has ceased to
amuse us, we find no emotions of disgust; we can scarcely forgive the
ingratitude of the Prince in the new-born virtue of the King, and we curse
the severity of that poetic justice which consigns our old good-natured
companion to the custody of the _warden_, and the dishonours of the
_Fleet_.
I am willing, however, to admit that if a Dramatic writer will but
preserve to any character the qualities of a strong mind, particularly
Courage and ability, that it will be afterwards no very difficult task (as
I may have occasion to explain) to discharge that _disgust_ which arises
from vicious manners; and even to attach us (if such character should
contain any quality productive of chearfulness and laughter) to the cause
and subject of our mirth with some degree of affection.
But the question which I am to consider is of a very different nature: It
is a question of fact, and concerning a quality which forms the basis of
every respectable character; a quality which is the very essence of a
Military man; and which is held up to us, in almost every Comic incident
of the Play, as the subject of our observation. It is strange then that it
should now be a question, whether _Falstaff_ is or is not a man of
Courage; and whether we do in fact contemn him for the want, or respect
him for the possession of that quality: And yet I believe the reader will
find that he has by no means decided this question, even for himself.—If
then it should turn out that this difficulty has arisen out of the Art of
_Shakespeare_, who has contrived to make secret Impressions upon us of
Courage, and to preserve those Impressions in favour of a character which
was to be held up for sport and laughter on account of actions of apparent
Cowardice and dishonour, we shall have less occasion to wonder, as
_Shakespeare_ is a Name which contains All of Dramatic artifice and
genius.
If in this place the reader shall peevishly and prematurely object that
the observations and distinctions I have laboured to establish are wholly
unapplicable; he being himself unconscious of ever having received any
such Impression; what can be done in so nice a case, but to refer him to
the following pages; by the number of which he may judge how very much I
respect his objection, and by the variety of those proofs which I shall
employ to induce him to part with it; and to recognize in its stead
certain feelings, concealed and covered over perhaps, but not erazed, by
time, reasoning, and authority?
In the mean while, it may not perhaps be easy for him to resolve how it
comes about, that, whilst we look upon _Falstaff_ as a character of the
like nature with that of _Parolles_ or of _Bobadil_, we should preserve
for him a great degree of respect and good-will, and yet feel the highest
disdain and contempt of the others, tho’ they are all involved in similar
situations. The reader, I believe, would wonder extremely to find either
_Parolles_ or _Bobadil_ possess himself in danger: What then can be the
cause that we are not at all surprized at the gaiety and ease of
_Falstaff_ under the most trying circumstances; and that we never think of
charging _Shakespeare_ with departing, on this account, from the truth and
coherence of character? Perhaps, after all, the _real_ character of
_Falstaff_ may be different from his _apparent_ one; and possibly this
difference between reality and appearance, whilst it accounts at once for
our liking and our censure, may be the true point of humour in the
character, and the source of all our laughter and delight. We may chance
to find, if we will but examine a little into the nature of those
circumstances which have accidentally involved him, that he was intended
to be drawn as a character of much Natural courage and resolution; and be
obliged thereupon to repeal those decisions which may have been made upon
the credit of some general tho’ unapplicable propositions; the common
source of error in other and higher matters. A little reflection may
perhaps bring us round again to the point of our departure, and unite our
Understandings to our instinct.—Let us then for a moment _suspend_ at
least our decisions, and candidly and coolly inquire if Sir _John
Falstaff_ be, indeed, what he has so often been called by critic and
commentator, male and female,—a _Constitutional Coward_.
It will scarcely be possible to consider the Courage of _Falstaff_ as
wholly detached from his other qualities: But I write not professedly of
any part of his character, but what is included under the term, _Courage_;
however, I may incidentally throw some lights on the whole.—The reader
will not need to be told that this Inquiry will resolve itself of course
into a Critique on the genius, the arts, and the conduct of _Shakespeare_:
For what is _Falstaff_, what _Lear_, what _Hamlet_, or _Othello_, but
different modifications of _Shakespeare_’s thought? It is true that this
Inquiry is narrowed almost to a single point: But general criticism is as
uninstructive as it is easy: _Shakespeare_ deserves to be considered in
detail;—a task hitherto unattempted.
It may be proper, in the first place, to take a short view of all the
parts of _Falstaff_’s Character, and then proceed to discover, if we can,
what _Impressions_, as to Courage or Cowardice, he had made on the persons
of the Drama: After which we will examine, in course, such evidence,
either of _persons_ or _facts_, as are relative to the matter; and account
as we may for those appearances which seem to have led to the opinion of
his Constitutional Cowardice.
The scene of the robbery, and the disgraces attending it, which stand
first in the Play, and introduce us to the knowledge of _Falstaff_, I
shall beg leave (as I think this scene to have been the source of much
unreasonable prejudice) to _reserve_ till we are more fully acquainted
with the whole character of _Falstaff_; and I shall therefore hope that
the reader will not for a time advert to it, or to the jests of the Prince
or of _Poins_ in consequence of that unlucky adventure.
In drawing out the parts of _Falstaff_’s character, with which I shall
begin this Inquiry, I shall take the liberty of putting Constitutional
bravery into his composition; but the reader will be pleased to consider
what I shall say in that respect as spoken hypothetically for the present,
to be retained, or discharged out of it, as he shall finally determine.
To me then it appears that the leading quality in _Falstaff_’s character,
and that from which all the rest take their colour, is a high degree of
wit and humour, accompanied with great natural vigour and alacrity of
mind. This quality, so accompanied, led him probably very early into life,
and made him highly acceptable to society; so acceptable, as to make it
seem unnecessary for him to acquire any other virtue. Hence, perhaps, his
continued debaucheries and dissipations of every kind.—He seems, by
nature, to have had a mind free of malice or any evil principle; but he
never took the trouble of acquiring any good one. He found himself
esteemed and beloved with all his faults; nay _for_ his faults, which were
all connected with humour, and for the most part grew out of it. As he
had, possibly, no vices but such as he thought might be openly professed,
so he appeared more dissolute thro’ ostentation. To the character of wit
and humour, to which all his other qualities seem to have conformed
themselves, he appears to have added a very necessary support, _that_ of
the profession of a _Soldier_. He had from nature, as I presume to say, a
spirit of boldness and enterprise; which in a Military age, tho’
employment was only occasional, kept him always above contempt, secured
him an honourable reception among the Great, and suited best both his
particular mode of humour and of vice. Thus living continually in society,
nay even in Taverns, and indulging himself, and being indulged by others,
in every debauchery; drinking, whoring, gluttony, and ease; assuming a
liberty of fiction, necessary perhaps to his wit, and often falling into
falsity and lies, he seems to have set, by degrees, all sober reputation
at defiance; and finding eternal resources in his wit, he borrows, shifts,
defrauds, and even robs, without dishonour.—Laughter and approbation
attend his greatest excesses; and being governed visibly by no settled bad
principle or ill design, fun and humour account for and cover all. By
degrees, however, and thro’ indulgence, he acquires bad habits, becomes an
humourist, grows enormously corpulent, and falls into the infirmities of
age; yet never quits, all the time, one single levity or vice of youth, or
loses any of that chearfulness of mind which had enabled him to pass thro’
this course with ease to himself and delight to others; and thus, at last,
mixing youth and age, enterprize and corpulency, wit and folly, poverty
and expence, title and buffoonery, innocence as to purpose, and wickedness
as to practice; neither incurring hatred by bad principle, or contempt by
Cowardice, yet involved in circumstances productive of imputation in both;
a butt and a wit, a humourist and a man of humour, a touchstone and a
laughing stock, a jester and a jest, has Sir _John Falstaff_, taken at
that period of his life in which we see him, become the most perfect Comic
character that perhaps ever was exhibited.
It may not possibly be wholly amiss to remark in this place, that if Sir
_John Falstaff_ had possessed any of that Cardinal quality, Prudence,
alike the guardian of virtue and the protector of vice; that quality, from
the possession or the absence of which, the character and fate of men in
this life take, I think, their colour, and not from real vice or virtue;
if he had considered his wit not as _principal_ but _accessary_ only; as
the instrument of power, and not as power itself; if he had had much
baseness to hide, if he had had less of what may be called mellowness or
good humour, or less of health and spirit; if he had spurred and rode the
world with his wit, instead of suffering the world, boys and all, to ride
him;—he might, without any other essential change, have been the
admiration and not the jest of mankind:—Or if he had lived in our day, and
instead of attaching himself to one Prince, had renounced _all_ friendship
and _all_ attachment, and had let himself out as the ready instrument and
Zany of every successive Minister, he might possibly have acquired the
high honour of marking his shroud or decorating his coffin with the living
rays of an Irish at least, if not a British Coronet: Instead of which,
tho’ enforcing laughter from every disposition, he appears, now, as such a
character which every wise man will pity and avoid, every knave will
censure, and every fool will fear: And accordingly _Shakespeare_, ever
true to nature, has made _Harry_ desert, and _Lancaster_ censure him:—He
dies where he lived, in a Tavern, broken-hearted, without a friend; and
his final exit is given up to the derision of fools. Nor has his
misfortunes ended here; the scandal arising from the misapplication of his
wit and talents seems immortal. He has met with as little justice or mercy
from his final judges the critics, as from his companions of the Drama.
With our cheeks still red with laughter, we ungratefully as unjustly
censure him as a coward by nature, and a rascal upon principle: Tho’, if
this were so, it might be hoped, for our own credit, that we should behold
him rather with disgust and disapprobation than with pleasure and delight.