With respect to every infirmity, except that of Cowardice, we must take
him as at the period in which he is represented to us. If we see him
dissipated, fat,—it is enough;—we have nothing to do with his youth, when
he might perhaps have been modest, chaste, “_and not an Eagle’s talon in
the waist_.” But _Constitutional __ Courage_ extends to a man’s whole
life, makes a part of his nature, and is not to be taken up or deserted
like a mere Moral quality. It is true, there is a Courage founded upon
_principle_, or rather a principle independent of Courage, which will
sometimes operate in spite of nature; a principle which prefers death to
shame, but which always refers itself, in conformity to its own nature, to
the prevailing modes of honour, and the fashions of the age.—But Natural
courage is another thing: It is independent of opinion; It adapts itself
to occasions, preserves itself under every shape, and can avail itself of
flight as well as of action.—In the last war, some Indians of America
perceiving a line of Highlanders to keep their station under every
disadvantage, and under a fire which they could not effectually return,
were so miserably mistaken in our points of honour as to conjecture, from
observation on the habit and stability of those troops, that they were
indeed the women of England, who wanted courage to run away.—That Courage
which is founded in nature and constitution, _Falstaff_, as I presume to
say, possessed;—but I am ready to allow that the principle already
mentioned, so far as it refers to reputation only, began with every other
Moral quality to lose its hold on him in his old age; that is, at the time
of life in which he is represented to us; a period, as it should seem,
approaching to _seventy_.—The truth is that he had drollery enough to
support himself in credit without the point of honour, and had address
enough to make even the preservation of his life a point of drollery. The
reader knows I allude, tho’ something prematurely, to his fictitious death
in the battle of Shrewsbury. This incident is generally construed to the
disadvantage of _Falstaff_: It is a transaction which bears the external
marks of Cowardice: It is also aggravated to the spectators by the idle
tricks of the Player, who practises on this occasion all the attitudes and
wild apprehensions of fear; more ambitious, as it should seem, of
representing a _Caliban_ than a _Falstaff_; or indeed rather a poor
unwieldy miserable Tortoise than either.—The painful Comedian lies spread
out on his belly, and not only covers himself all over with his robe as
with a shell, but forms a kind of round Tortoise-back by I know not what
stuffing or contrivance; in addition to which, he alternately lifts up,
and depresses, and dodges his head, and looks to the one side and to the
other, so much with the piteous aspect of that animal, that one would not
be sorry to see the ambitious imitator calipashed in his robe, and served
up for the entertainment of the gallery.—There is no hint for this mummery
in the Play: Whatever there may be of dishonour in _Falstaff_’s conduct,
he neither does or says any thing on this occasion which indicates terror
or disorder of mind: On the contrary, this very act is a proof of his
having all his wits about him, and is a stratagem, such as it is, not
improper for a buffoon, whose fate would be singularly hard, if he should
not be allowed to avail himself of his Character when it might serve him
in most stead. We must remember, in extenuation, that the executive, the
destroying hand of _Douglas_ was over him: “_It was time to counterfeit,
or that hot termagant Scot had paid him scot and lot too._” He had but one
choice; he was obliged to pass thro’ the ceremony of dying either in jest
or in earnest; and we shall not be surprized at the event, when we
remember his propensities to the former.—Life (and especially the life of
_Falstaff_) might be a jest; but he could see no joke whatever in dying:
To be chopfallen was, with him, to lose both life and character together:
He saw the point of honour, as well as every thing else, in ridiculous
lights, and began to renounce its tyranny.
But I am too much in advance, and must retreat for more advantage. I
should not forget how much opinion is against me, and that I am to make my
way by the mere force and weight of evidence; without which I must not
hope to possess myself of the reader: No address, no insinuation will
avail. To this evidence, then, I now resort. The Courage of _Falstaff_ is
my Theme: And no passage will I spare from which any thing can be inferred
as relative to this point. It would be as vain as injudicious to attempt
concealment: How could I escape detection? The Play is in every one’s
memory, and a single passage remembered in detection would tell, in the
mind of the partial observer, for fifty times its real weight. Indeed this
argument would be void of all excuse if it declined any difficulty; if it
did not meet, if it did not challenge opposition. Every passage then shall
be produced from which, in my opinion, any inference, favourable or
unfavourable, has or can be drawn;—but not methodically, not formally, as
texts for comment, but as chance or convenience shall lead the way; but in
what shape soever, they shall be always distinguishingly marked for
notice. And so with that attention to truth and candour which ought to
accompany even our lightest amusements I proceed to offer such proof as
the case will admit, that _Courage_ is a part of _Falstaff_’s _Character_,
that it belonged to his constitution, and was manifest in the conduct and
practice of his whole life.
Let us then examine, as a source of very authentic information, what
Impressions _Sir John Falstaff_ had made on the characters of the Drama;
and in what estimation he is supposed to stand with mankind in general as
to the point of Personal Courage. But the quotations we make for this or
other purposes, must, it is confessed, be lightly touched, and no
particular passage strongly relied on, either in his favour or against
him. Every thing which he himself says, or is said of him, is so
phantastically discoloured by humour, or folly, or jest, that we must for
the most part look to the spirit rather than the letter of what is
uttered, and rely at last only on a combination of the whole.
We will begin then, if the reader pleases, by inquiring what Impression
the very Vulgar had taken of _Falstaff_. If it is not that of Cowardice,
be it what else it may, that of a man of violence, or _a Ruffian in
years_, as _Harry_ calls him, or any thing else, it answers my purpose;
how insignificant soever the characters or incidents to be first produced
may otherwise appear;—for these Impressions must have been taken either
from personal knowledge and observation; or, what will do better for my
purpose, from common fame. Altho’ I must admit some part of this evidence
will appear so weak and trifling that it certainly ought not to be
produced but in proof Impression only.
The _Hostess Quickly_ employs two officers to arrest _Falstaff_: On the
mention of his name, one of them immediately observes, “_that it may
chance to cost some of them their lives, for that he will stab._”—“_Alas a
day,_” says the hostess, “_take heed of him, he cares not what mischief he
doth; if his weapon be out, he will foin like any devil; He will spare
neither man, woman, or child._” Accordingly, we find that when they lay
hold on him he resists to the utmost of his power, and calls upon
_Bardolph_, whose arms are at liberty, to draw. “_Away, varlets, draw
Bardolph, cut me off the villain’s head, throw the quean in the kennel._”
The officers cry, _a rescue, a rescue!_ But the Chief Justice comes in and
the scuffle ceases. In another scene, his wench _Doll Tearsheet_ asks him
“_when he will leave fighting ... and patch up his old body for heaven._”
This is occasioned by his drawing his rapier, on great provocation, and
driving _Pistol_, who is drawn likewise, down stairs, and hurting him in
the shoulder. To drive _Pistol_ was no great feat; nor do I mention it as
such; but upon this occasion it was necessary. “_A Rascal bragging
slave,_” says he, “_the rogue fled from me like quicksilver_”: Expressions
which, as they remember the cowardice of _Pistol_, seem to prove that
_Falstaff_ did not value himself on the adventure. Even something may be
drawn from _Davy, Shallow_’s serving man, who calls _Falstaff_, in
ignorant admiration, the _man of war_. I must observe here, and I beg the
reader will notice it, that there is not a single expression dropt by
these people, or either of _Falstaff_’s followers, from which may be
inferred the least suspicion of Cowardice in his character; and this is I
think such an _implied negation_ as deserves considerable weight.
But to go a little higher, if, indeed, to consider _Shallow_’s opinion be
to go _higher_: It is from him, however, that we get the earliest account
of _Falstaff_. He _remembers him a Page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of
Norfolk_: “_He broke,_” says he, “_Schoggan’s head at the Court-Gate when
he was but a crack thus high._” _Shallow_, throughout, considers him as a
great Leader and Soldier, and relates this fact as an early indication
only of his future Prowess. _Shallow_, it is true, is a very ridiculous
character; but he picked up these Impressions somewhere; and he picked up
none of a contrary tendency.—I want at present only to prove that
_Falstaff_ stood well in the report of common fame as to this point; and
he was now near seventy years of age, and had passed in a Military line
thro’ the active part of his life. At this period common fame may be well
considered as the _seal_ of his character; a seal which ought not perhaps
to be broke open on the evidence of any future transaction.
But to proceed. _Lord Bardolph_ was a man of the world, and of sense and
observation. He informs _Northumberland_, erroneously indeed, that _Percy_
had beaten the King at Shrewsbury. “_The King,_” according to him, “_was
wounded; the Prince of Wales and the two Blunts slain, certain Nobles_,
whom he names, _had escaped by flight, and the Brawn Sir John Falstaff was
taken prisoner._” But how came _Falstaff_ into this list? Common fame had
put him there. He is singularly obliged to Common fame.—But if he had not
been a Soldier of repute, if he had not been brave as well as fat, if he
had been _mere brawn_, it would have been more germane to the matter if
this lord had put him down among the baggage or the provender. The fact
seems to be that there is a real consequence about Sir _John Falstaff_
which is not brought forward: We see him only in his familiar hours; we
enter the tavern with _Hal_ and _Poins_; we join in the laugh and _take a
pride to gird at him_: But there may be a great deal of truth in what he
himself writes to the Prince, that tho’ he be “_Jack Falstaff with his
Familiars, he is __SIR JOHN__ with the rest of Europe._” It has been
remarked, and very truly I believe, that no man is a hero in the eye of
his valet-de-chambre; and _thus_ it is, we are witnesses only of
_Falstaff_’s weakness and buffoonery; our acquaintance is with _Jack
Falstaff_, _Plump Jack_, and _Sir John Paunch_; but if we would look for
_Sir John Falstaff_, we must put on, as _Bunyan_ would have expressed it,
the spectacles of observation. With respect, for instance, to his Military
command at Shrewsbury, nothing appears on the surface but the Prince’s
familiarly saying, in the tone usually assumed when speaking of
_Falstaff_, “_I will procure this fat rogue a Charge of foot_”; and in
another place, “_I will procure thee Jack a Charge of foot; meet me
to-morrow in the Temple Hall._” Indeed we might venture to infer from
this, that a Prince of so great ability, whose wildness was only external
and assumed, would not have procured, in so nice and critical a
conjuncture, a Charge of foot for a known Coward. But there was more it
seems in the case: We now find from this report, to which _Lord Bardolph_
had given full credit, that the world had its eye upon _Falstaff_ as an
officer of merit, whom it expected to find in the field, and whose fate in
the battle was an object of Public concern: His life was, it seems, very
material indeed; a thread of so much dependence, that _fiction_, weaving
the fates of Princes, did not think it unworthy, how coarse soever, of
being made a part of the tissue.
We shall next produce the evidence of the Chief Justice of England. He
inquires of his attendant, “_if the man who was then passing him was
__FALSTAFF__; he who was in question for the robbery._” The attendant
answers affirmatively, but reminds his lord “_that he had since done good
service at Shrewsbury_”; and the Chief Justice, on this occasion, rating
him for his debaucheries, tells him “_that his day’s service at Shrewsbury
had gilded over his night’s exploit at Gads Hill._” This is surely more
than Common fame: _The Chief Justice_ must have known his whole character
taken together, and must have received the most authentic information, and
in the truest colours, of his behaviour in that action.
But, perhaps, after all, the Military men may be esteemed the best judges
in points of this nature. Let us hear then _Coleville_ of the dale, _a
Soldier, in degree a Knight, a famous rebel, and_ “_whose betters, had
they been ruled by him, would have sold themselves dearer_”: A man who is
of consequence enough to be guarded by _Blunt_ and _led to present
execution_. This man yields himself up even to the very Name and
Reputation of _Falstaff_. “_I think_,” says he, “_you are Sir John
Falstaff, and in that thought yield me._” But this is but one only among
the men of the sword; and they shall be produced then by _dozens_, if that
will satisfy. Upon the return of the King and Prince Henry from Wales, the
Prince seeks out and finds _Falstaff_ debauching in a tavern; where _Peto_
presently brings an account of ill news from the North; and adds, “_that
as he came along he met or overtook a dozen Captains, bare-headed,
sweating, knocking at the taverns, and asking every one for __SIR JOHN
FALSTAFF__._” He is followed by _Bardolph_, who informs _Falstaff_ that
“_He must away to the Court immediately; a dozen Captains stay at door for
him._” Here is Military evidence in abundance, and _Court evidence_ too;
for what are we to infer from _Falstaff_’s being sent for to Court on this
ill news, but that his opinion was to be asked, as a Military man of skill
and experience, concerning the defences necessary to be taken. Nor is
_Shakespeare_ content, here, with leaving us to gather up _Falstaff_’s
_better character_ from inference and deduction: He comments on the fact
by making _Falstaff_ observe that “_Men of merit are sought after: The
undeserver may sleep when the man of action is called on._” I do not wish
to draw _Falstaff_’s character out of his own mouth; but this observation
refers to the fact, and is founded in reason. Nor ought we to reject what
in another place he says to the Chief Justice, as it is in the nature of
an appeal to his knowledge. “_There is not a dangerous action_,” says he,
“_can peep out his head but I am thrust upon it._” The Chief Justice seems
by his answer to admit the fact. “_Well, be honest, be honest, and heaven
bless your expedition._” But the whole passage may deserve transcribing.
Ch. Just. “_Well, the King has served you and Prince Henry. I hear
you are going with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop
and the Earl of Northumberland._”
Fals. “_Yes, I thank your pretty sweet wit for it; but look you
pray, all you that kiss my lady peace at home, that our armies
join not in a hot day; for I take but two shirts out with me, and
I mean not to sweat extraordinarily: If it be a hot day, if I
brandish any thing but a bottle, would I might never spit white
again. There is not a dangerous action can peep out his head but I
am thrust upon it. Well I cannot last for ever.—But it was always
the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing to make
it too common. If you will needs say I am an old man you should
give me rest: I would to God my name were not so terrible to the
enemy as it is. I were better to be eaten to death with a rust
than to be scour’d to nothing with perpetual motion._”
Ch. Just. “_Well be honest, be honest, and heaven bless your
expedition._”
_Falstaff_ indulges himself here in humourous exaggeration;—these passages
are not meant to be taken, nor are we to suppose that they were taken,
literally;—but if there was not a ground of truth, if _Falstaff_ had not
had such a degree of Military reputation as was capable of being thus
humourously amplified and exaggerated, the whole dialogue would have been
highly preposterous and absurd, and the acquiescing answer of the _Lord
Chief Justice_ singularly improper.—But upon the supposition of
_Falstaff_’s being considered, upon the whole, as a good and gallant
Officer, the answer is just, and corresponds with the acknowledgment which
had a little before been made, “_that his days service at Shrewsbury had
gilded over his night’s exploit at Gads Hill.—You may thank the unquiet
time,_” says the Chief Justice, “_for your quiet o’erposting of that
action_”; agreeing with what _Falstaff_ says in another place;—“_Well, God
be thanked for these Rebels, they offend none but the virtuous; I laud
them, I praise them._”—Whether this be said in the true spirit of a
Soldier or not, I do not determine; it is surely not in that of a mere
Coward and Poltroon.
It will be needless to shew, which might be done from a variety of
particulars, that _Falstaff_ was known and had consideration at Court.
_Shallow_ cultivates him in the idea that _a friend at Court is better
than a penny in purse_: _Westmorland_ speaks to him in the tone of an
equal: Upon _Falstaff_’s telling him that he thought his lordship had been
already at Shrewsbury, _Westmorland_ replies,—“_Faith Sir John, ’tis more
than time that I were there, and you too; the King I can tell you looks
for us all; we must away all to night._”—“_Tut,_” says Falstaff, “_never
fear me, I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream._”—He desires, in
another place, of my lord John of Lancaster, “_that when he goes to Court,
he may stand in his good report._” His intercourse and correspondence with
both these lords seem easy and familiar. “_Go,_” says he to the page,
“_bear this to my Lord of Lancaster, this to the Prince, this to the Earl
of Westmorland, and this_ (for he extended himself on all sides) _to old
Mrs. Ursula_,” whom, it seems, the rogue ought to have married many years
before.—But these intimations are needless: We see him ourselves in the
_Royal Presence_; where, certainly, his buffooneries never brought him;
never was the Prince of a character to commit so high an indecorum, as to
thrust, upon a solemn occasion, a mere Tavern companion into his father’s
Presence, especially in a moment when he himself deserts his looser
character, and takes up that of _a Prince indeed_.—In a very important
scene, where _Worcester_ is expected with proposals from _Percy_, and
wherein he is received, is treated with, and carries back offers of
accommodation from the King, the King’s attendants upon the occasion are
_the Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, the Earl of Westmorland, Sir
Walter Blunt, and Sir John Falstaff_.—What shall be said to this?
_Falstaff_ is not surely introduced here in vicious indulgence to a mob
audience;—he utters but one word, a buffoon one indeed, but aside, and to
the Prince only. Nothing, it should seem, is wanting, if decorum would
here have permitted, but that he should have spoken one sober sentence in
the Presence (which yet we are to suppose him ready and able to do if
occasion should have required; or his wit was given him to little purpose)
and Sir _John Falstaff_ might be allowed to pass for an established
Courtier and counsellor of state. “_If I do grow great,_” says he, “_I’ll
grow less, purge and leave sack, and live as a nobleman should do._”
Nobility did not then appear to him at an unmeasurable distance; it was,
it seems, in his idea, the very next link in the chain.
But to return. I would now demand what could bring _Falstaff_ into the
Royal Presence upon such an occasion, or justify the Prince’s so public
acknowledgment of him, but an established fame and reputation of Military
merit? In short, just the like merit as brought Sir _Walter Blunt_ into
the same circumstances of honour.
But it may be objected that his introduction into this scene is a piece of
indecorum in the author. But upon what ground are we to suppose this? Upon
the ground of his being a notorious Coward? Why, this is the very point in
question, and cannot be granted: Even the direct contrary I have affirmed,
and am endeavouring to support. But if it be supposed upon any other
ground, it does not concern me; I have nothing to do with _Shakespeare_’s
indecorums in general. That there are indecorums in the Play I have no
doubt: The indecent treatment of _Percy_’s dead body is the greatest;—the
familiarity of the significant, rude, and even ill disposed _Poins_ with
the Prince, is another;—but the admission of _Falstaff_ into the Royal
Presence (supposing, which I have a right to suppose, that his Military
character was unimpeached) does not seem to be in any respect among the
number. In camps there is but one virtue and one vice; Military merit
swallows up or covers all. But, after all, what have we to do with
indecorums? Indecorums respect the propriety or impropriety of exhibiting
certain actions;—not their _truth_ or _falshood_ when exhibited.
_Shakespeare_ stands to us in the place of _truth_ and _nature_: If we
desert this principle, we cut the turf from under us; I may then object to
the robbery and other passages as indecorums, and as contrary to the truth
of character. In short we may rend and tear the Play to pieces, and every
man carry off what sentences he likes best.—But why this inveterate malice
against poor _Falstaff_? He has faults enough in conscience without
loading him with the infamy of Cowardice; a charge, which, if true, would,
if I am not greatly mistaken, spoil all our mirth.—But of that hereafter.
It seems to me that, in our hasty judgment of some particular
transactions, we forget the circumstances and condition of his whole life
and character, which yet deserve our very particular attention. The
author, it is true, has thrown the most advantageous of these
circumstances into the _back ground_, as it were, and has brought nothing
_out of the canvass_ but his follies and buffoonery. We discover, however,
that in a very early period of his life he was familiar with _John_ of
_Gaunt_; which could hardly be, unless he had possessed much personal
gallantry and accomplishment, and had derived his birth from a
distinguished at least, if not from a Noble family.
It may seem very extravagant to insist upon _Falstaff_’s birth as a ground
from which, by any inference, Personal courage may be derived, especially
after having acknowledged that he seemed to have deserted those points of
honour which are more peculiarly the accompanyments of rank. But it may be
observed that in the Feudal ages rank and wealth were not only connected
with the point of honour, but with personal strength and natural courage.
It is observable that Courage is a quality which is at least as
transmissible to one’s posterity as features and complexion. In these
periods men acquired and maintained their rank and possessions by personal
prowess and gallantry; and their marriage alliances were made, of course,
in families of the same character: And from hence, and from the exercises
of their youth, we must account for the distinguished force and bravery of
our antient Barons. It is not therefore beside my purpose to inquire what
hints of the origin and birth of _Falstaff_, _Shakespeare_ may have
dropped in different parts of the Play; for tho’ we may be disposed to
allow that _Falstaff_ in his old age might, under particular influences,
desert the point of honour, we cannot give up that unalienable possession
of Courage, which might have been derived to him from a noble or
distinguished stock.
But it may be said that _Falstaff_ was in truth the child of invention
only, and that a reference to the Feudal accidents of birth serves only to
confound fiction with reality: Not altogether so. If the ideas of courage
and _birth_ were strongly associated in the days of _Shakespeare_, then
would the assignment of high birth to _Falstaff_ carry, and be intended to
carry along with it, to the minds of the audience the associated idea of
Courage, if nothing should be specially interposed to dissolve the
connection;—and the question is as concerning this intention, and this
effect.
I shall proceed yet farther to make a few very minute observations of the
same nature: But if _Shakespeare_ meant sometimes rather to _impress_ than
explain, no circumstances calculated to this end, either directly or by
association, are too minute for notice. But however this may be, a more
conciliating reason still remains: The argument itself, like the tales of
our Novelists, is a _vehicle_ only; _theirs_, as they profess, of moral
instruction; and _mine_ of critical amusement. The vindication of
_Falstaff_’s Courage deserves not for its own sake the least sober
discussion; _Falstaff_ is the word only, _Shakespeare_ is the _Theme_: And
if thro’ this channel I can furnish no irrational amusement, the reader
will not, perhaps, every where expect from me the strict severity of
logical investigation.
_Falstaff_, then, it may be observed, was introduced into the world,—(at
least we are told so) by the name of _Oldcastle_.(41) This was assigning
him an origin of nobility; but the family of that name disclaiming any
kindred with his vices, he was thereupon, as it is said, ingrafted into
another stock(42) scarcely less distinguished, tho’ fallen into indelible
disgraces; and by this means he has been made, if the conjectures of
certain critics are well founded, the Dramatic successor, tho’, having
respect to chronology, the natural _proavus_ of another Sir _John_, who
was no less than a Knight of the most noble order of the Garter, but a
name for ever dishonoured by a frequent exposure in that Drum-and-trumpet
Thing called _The first part of Henry_ VI., written doubtless, or rather
exhibited, long before _Shakespeare_ was born,(43) tho’ afterwards
repaired, I think, and furbished up by him with here and there a little
sentiment and diction. This family, if any branch of it remained in
_Shakespeare_’s time, might have been proud of their Dramatic ally, if
indeed they could have any fair pretence to claim as such _him_ whom
_Shakespeare_, perhaps in contempt of Cowardice, wrote _Falstaff_, not
_Fastolfe_, the true Historic name of the Gartered Craven.
In the age of Henry IV. a Family crest and arms were authentic proofs of
gentility; and this proof, among others, _Shakespeare_ has furnished us
with: _Falstaff_ always carried about him, it seems, _a Seal ring of his
Grandfather’s, worth_, as he says, _forty marks_: The Prince indeed
affirms, but not seriously I think, that this ring was _copper_. As to the
existence of the _bonds_, which were I suppose the negotiable securities
or paper-money of the time, and which he pretended to have lost, I have
nothing to say; but the ring, I believe, was really gold; tho’ probably a
little too much alloyed with baser metal. But this is not the point: The
_arms_ were doubtless genuine; they were borne by his Grandfather, and are
proofs of an antient gentility; a gentility doubtless, in former periods,
connected with wealth and possessions, tho’ the gold of the family might
have been transmuting by degrees, and perhaps, in the hands of _Falstaff_,
converted into little better than copper. This observation is made on the
supposition of _Falstaff_’s being considered as the head of the family,
which I think however he ought not to be. It appears rather as if he ought
to be taken in the light of a cadet or younger brother; which the familiar
appellation of _John_, “the only one (as he says) given him by his
brothers and sisters,” seems to indicate. Be this as it may, we find he is
able, in spite of dissipation, to keep up a certain _state_ and _dignity_
of appearance; retaining no less than four, if not five, followers or men
servants in his train. He appears also to have had apartments in town,
and, by his invitations of _Master Gower_ to dinner and to supper, a
regular table: And one may infer farther from the Prince’s question, on
his return from Wales, to _Bardolph_, “_Is your master_ here _in London_,”
that he had likewise a house in the country. Slight proofs it must be
confessed, yet the inferences are so probable, so buoyant, in their own
nature, that they may well rest on them. That he did not lodge at the
Tavern is clear from the circumstances of the arrest. These various
occasions of expence,—servants, taverns, houses, and whores,—necessarily
imply that _Falstaff_ must have had some funds which are not brought
immediately under our notice. That these funds were not however adequate
to his style of living is plain: Perhaps his train may be considered only
as incumbrances, which the pride of family and the habit of former
opulence might have brought upon his present poverty: I do not mean
absolute poverty, but call it so as relative to his expence. To have “_but
seven groats and two-pence in his purse_” and a page to bear it, is truly
ridiculous; and it is for that reason we become so familiar with its
contents, “_He can find_,” he says, “_no remedy for this consumption of
the purse, borrowing does but linger and linger it out; but the disease is
incurable_.” It might well be deemed so in his course of dissipation: But
I shall presently suggest one source at least of his supply much more
constant and honourable than that of borrowing. But the condition of
_Falstaff_ as to opulence or poverty is not very material to my purpose:
It is enough if his birth was distinguished, and his youth noted for
gallantry and accomplishments. To the first I have spoken, and as for the
latter we shall not be at a loss when we remember that “_he was in his
youth a page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk_”; a situation at that
time sought for by young men of the best families and first fortune. The
house of every great noble was at that period a kind of Military school;
and it is probable that _Falstaff_ was singularly adroit at his exercises:
“_He broke Schoggan’s head_,” (some boisterous fencer I suppose) “_when he
was but a crack thus high_.” _Shallow_ remembers him _as notedly skilful
at backsword_; and he was at that period, according to his own humourous
account, “_scarcely an eagle’s talon in the waist, and could have crept
thro’ an alderman’s thumb ring_.” Even at the age at which he is exhibited
to us, we find him _foundering_, as he calls it, _nine score and odd
miles_, with wonderful expedition, to join the army of Prince _John_ of
_Lancaster_; and declaring, after the surrender of _Coleville_, that “_had
he but a belly of any indifferency, he were simply the most active fellow
in Europe_.” Nor ought we here to pass over his Knighthood without notice.
It was, I grant, intended by the author as a dignity which, like his
Courage and his wit, was to be debased; his knighthood by low situations,
his Courage by circumstances and imputations of cowardice, and his wit by
buffoonery. But how are we to suppose this honour was acquired? By that
very Courage, it should seem, which we so obstinately deny him. It was not
certainly given him, like a modern City Knighthood, for his wealth or
gravity: It was in these days a Military honour, and an authentic badge of
Military merit.
But _Falstaff_ was not only a Military Knight, he possess’d an honourable
_pension_ into the bargain; the reward as well as retainer of service, and
which seems (besides the favours perhaps of Mrs. _Ursula_) to be the
principal and only solid support of his present expences. But let us refer
to the passage. “_A pox of this gout, or a gout of this pox; for one or
the other plays the rogue with my great toe: It is no matter if I do halt,
I have the wars for my colour, and my pension shall seem the more
reasonable._” The mention _Falstaff_ here makes of a pension, has I
believe been generally construed to refer rather to _hope_ than
_possession_, yet I know not why: For the possessive MY, _my pension_,
(not _a_ pension) requires a different construction. Is it that we cannot
enjoy a wit till we have stript him of every worldly advantage, and
reduced him below the level of our envy? It may be perhaps for this reason
among others that _Shakespeare_ has so obscured the better parts of
_Falstaff_ and stolen them secretly out of our feelings, instead of
opening them fairly to the notice of our understandings. How carelessly,
and thro’ what bye-paths, as it were, of casual inference, is this fact of
a pension introduced! And how has he associated it with misfortune and
infirmity! Yet I question, however, if, in this one place, the
_Impression_ which was intended be well and effectually made. It must be
left to the reader to determine if, in that mass of things out of which
_Falstaff_ is compounded, he ever considered a pension as any part of the
composition: A pension however he appears to have had, one that halting
could only seem to make more reasonable, not more honourable. The
inference arising from the fact, I shall leave to the reader. It is surely
a circumstance highly advantageous to _Falstaff_ (I speak of the pensions
of former days), whether he be considered in the light of a soldier or a
gentleman.
I cannot foresee the temper of the reader, nor whether he be content to go
along with me in these kind of observations. Some of the incidents which I
have drawn out of the Play may appear too minute, whilst yet they refer to
principles which may seem too general. Many points require explanation;
something should be said of the nature of _Shakespeare_’s Dramatic
characters;(44) by what arts they were formed, and wherein they differ
from those of other writers; something likewise more professedly of
_Shakespeare_ himself, and of the peculiar character of his genius. After
such a review we may not perhaps think any consideration arising out of
the Play, or out of general nature, either as too minute or too extensive.
_Shakespeare_ is, in truth, an author whose mimic creation agrees in
general so perfectly with that of nature, that it is not only wonderful in
the great, but opens another scene of amazement to the discoveries of the
microscope. We have been charged indeed by a Foreign writer with an
overmuch admiring of this _Barbarian_: Whether we have admired with
knowledge, or have blindly followed those feelings of affection which we
could not resist, I cannot tell; but certain it is, that to the labours of
his Editors he has not been overmuch obliged. They are however for the
most part of the first rank in literary fame; but some of them had
possessions of their own in Parnassus, of an extent too great and
important to allow of a very diligent attention to the interests of
others; and among those Critics more professionally so, the ablest and the
best has unfortunately looked more to the praise of ingenious than of just
conjecture. The character of his emendations are not so much that of
_right_ or _wrong_, as that, being in the extreme, they are always
_Warburtonian_. Another has since undertaken the custody of our author,
whom he seems to consider as a sort of wild Proteus or madman, and
accordingly knocks him down with the butt-end of his critical staff, as
often as he exceeds that line of sober discretion, which this learned
Editor appears to have chalked out for him: Yet is this Editor
notwithstanding “a man, take him for all in all,” very highly respectable
for his genius and his learning. What however may be chiefly complained of
in these gentlemen is, that having erected themselves into the condition,
as it were, of guardians and trustees of _Shakespeare_, they have never
undertaken to discharge the disgraceful incumbrances of some wretched
productions which have long hung heavy on his fame. Besides the evidence
of taste, which indeed is not communicable, there are yet other and more
general proofs that these incumbrances were not incurred by _Shakespeare_:
The _Latin_ sentences dispersed thro’ the imputed trash is, I think, of
itself a decisive one. _Love’s Labour lost_ contains a very conclusive one
of another kind; tho’ the very last Editor has, I believe, in his critical
sagacity, suppressed the evidence, and withdrawn the record.
Yet whatever may be the neglect of some, or the censure of others, there
are those who firmly believe that this wild, this uncultivated Barbarian
has not yet obtained one half of his fame; and who trust that some new
Stagyrite will arise, who instead of pecking at the surface of things will
enter into the inward soul of his compositions, and expel, by the force of
congenial feelings, those foreign impurities which have stained and
disgraced his page. And as to those _spots_ which will still remain, they
may perhaps become invisible to those who shall seek them thro’ the medium
of his beauties, instead of looking for those beauties, as is too
frequently done, thro’ the smoke of some real or imputed obscurity. When
the hand of time shall have brushed off his present Editors and
Commentators, and when the very name of _Voltaire_, and even the memory of
the language in which he has written, shall be no more, the _Apalachian_
mountains, the banks of the _Ohio_, and the plains of _Sciota_ shall
resound with the accents of this Barbarian: In his native tongue he shall
roll the genuine passions of nature; nor shall the griefs of _Lear_ be
alleviated, or the charms and wit of _Rosalind_ be abated by time. There
is indeed nothing perishable about him, except that very learning which he
is said so much to want. He had not, it is true, enough for the demands of
the age in which he lived, but he had perhaps too much for the reach of
his genius, and the interest of his fame. _Milton_ and he will carry the
decayed remnants and fripperies of antient mythology into more distant
ages than they are by their own force intitled to extend; and the
_Metamorphoses_ of _Ovid_, upheld by them, lay in a new claim to unmerited
immortality.
_Shakespeare_ is a name so interesting, that it is excusable to stop a
moment, nay it would be indecent to pass him without the tribute of some
admiration. He differs essentially from all other writers: Him we may
profess rather to feel than to understand; and it is safer to say, on many
occasions, that we are possessed by him, than that we possess him. And no
wonder;—He scatters the seeds of things, the principles of character and
action, with so cunning a hand, yet with so careless an air, and, master
of our feelings, submits himself so little to our judgment, that every
thing seems superior. We discern not his course, we see no connection of
cause and effect, we are rapt in ignorant admiration, and claim no kindred
with his abilities. All the incidents, all the parts, look like chance,
whilst we feel and are sensible that the whole is design. His Characters
not only act and speak in strict conformity to nature, but in strict
relation to us; just so much is shewn as is requisite, just so much is
impressed; he commands every passage to our heads and to our hearts, and
moulds us as he pleases, and that with so much ease, that he never betrays
his own exertions. We see these Characters act from the mingled motives of
passion, reason, interest, habit, and complection, in all their
proportions, when they are supposed to know it not themselves; and we are
made to acknowledge that their actions and sentiments are, from those
motives, the necessary result. He at once blends and distinguishes every
thing;—every thing is complicated, every thing is plain. I restrain the
further expressions of my admiration lest they should not seem applicable
to man; but it is really astonishing that a mere human being, a part of
humanity only, should so perfectly comprehend the whole; and that he
should possess such exquisite art, that whilst every woman and every child
shall feel the whole effect, his learned Editors and Commentators should
yet so very frequently mistake or seem ignorant of the cause. A sceptre or
a straw are in his hands of equal efficacy; he needs no selection; he
converts every thing into excellence; nothing is too great, nothing is too
base. Is a character efficient like _Richard_, it is every thing we can
wish: Is it otherwise, like _Hamlet_, it is productive of equal
admiration: Action produces one mode of excellence, and inaction another:
The Chronicle, the Novel, or the Ballad; the king, or the beggar, the
hero, the madman, the sot, or the fool; it is all one;—nothing is worse,
nothing is better: The same genius pervades and is equally admirable in
all. Or, is a character to be shewn in progressive change, and the events
of years comprized within the hour;—with what a Magic hand does he prepare
and scatter his spells! The Understanding must, in the first place, be
subdued; and lo! how the rooted prejudices of the child spring up to
confound the man! The Weird sisters rise, and order is extinguished. The
laws of nature give way, and leave nothing in our minds but wildness and
horror. No pause is allowed us for reflection: Horrid sentiment, furious
guilt and compunction, air-drawn daggers, murders, ghosts, and
inchantment, shake and _possess us wholly_. In the mean time the _process_
is completed. _Macbeth_ changes under our eye, _the milk of human kindness
is converted to gall; he has supped full of horrors_, and his _May of life
is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf_; whilst we, the fools of
amazement, are insensible to the shifting of place and the lapse of time,
and, till the curtain drops, never once wake to the truth of things, or
recognize the laws of existence.—On such an occasion, a fellow, like
_Rymer_, waking from his trance, shall lift up his Constable’s staff, and
charge this great Magician, this daring _practicer of arts inhibited_, in
the name of _Aristotle_, to surrender; whilst _Aristotle_ himself,
disowning his wretched Officer, would fall prostrate at his feet and
acknowledge his supremacy.—O supreme of Dramatic excellence! (_might he
say_) not to me be imputed the insolence of fools. The bards of _Greece_
were confined within the narrow circle of the Chorus, and hence they found
themselves constrained to practice, for the most part, the precision, and
copy the details of nature. I followed them, and knew not that a larger
circle might be drawn, and the Drama extended to the whole reach of human
genius. Convinced, I see that a more compendious _nature_ may be obtained;
a nature of _effects_ only, to which neither the relations of place, or
continuity of time, are always essential. Nature, condescending to the
faculties and apprehensions of man, has drawn through human life a regular
chain of visible causes and effects: But Poetry delights in surprise,
conceals her steps, seizes at once upon the heart, and obtains the Sublime
of things without betraying the rounds of her ascent: True Poesy is
_magic_, not _nature_; an effect from causes hidden or unknown. To the
Magician I prescribed no laws; his law and his power are one; his power is
his law. Him, who neither imitates, nor is within the reach of imitation,
no precedent can or ought to bind, no limits to contain. If his end is
obtained, who shall question his course? Means, whether apparent or
hidden, are justified in Poesy by success; but then most perfect and most
admirable when most concealed.(45) But whither am I going! This copious
and delightful topic has drawn me far beyond my design; I hasten back to
my subject, and am guarded, for a time at least, against any further
temptation to digress.
I was considering the dignity of _Falstaff_ so far as it might seem
connected with or productive of military merit, and I have assigned him
_reputation_ at least, if not _fame_, noble connection, birth, attendants,
title, and an honourable pension; every one of them presumptive proofs of
Military merit, and motives of action. What deduction is to be made on
these articles, and why they are so much obscured may, perhaps, hereafter
appear.
I have now gone through the examination of all the Persons of the Drama
from whose mouths any thing can be drawn relative to the Courage of
_Falstaff_, excepting the Prince and _Poins_, whose evidence I have begged
leave to _reserve_, and excepting a very severe censure passed on him by
Lord _John_ of _Lancaster_, which I shall presently consider: But I must
first observe that, setting aside the jests of the Prince and _Poins_, and
this censure of _Lancaster_, there is not one expression uttered by any
character in the Drama that can be construed into any impeachment of
_Falstaff_’s Courage;—an observation made before as respecting some of the
Witnesses;—it is now extended to all: And though this silence be a
negative proof only, it cannot, in my opinion, under the circumstances of
the case, and whilst uncontradicted by facts, be too much relied on. If
_Falstaff_ had been intended for the character of a _Miles Gloriosus_, his
behaviour ought and therefore would have been commented upon by others.
_Shakespeare_ seldom trusts to the apprehensions of his audience; his
characters interpret for one another continually, and when we least
suspect such artful and secret management: The conduct of _Shakespeare_ in
this respect is admirable, and I could point out a thousand passages which
might put to shame the advocates of a formal Chorus, and prove that there
is as little of necessity as grace in so mechanic a contrivance.(46) But I
confine my censure of the Chorus to its supposed use of comment and
interpretation only.
_Falstaff_ is, indeed, so far from appearing to my eye in the light of a
_Miles Gloriosus_, that, in the best of my taste and judgment, he does not
discover, except in consequence of the robbery, the least _trait_ of such
a character. All his boasting speeches are humour, mere humour, and
carefully spoken to persons who cannot misapprehend them, who cannot be
imposed on: They contain indeed, for the most part, an unreasonable and
imprudent ridicule of himself, the usual subject of his good humoured
merriment; but in the company of ignorant people, such as the Justices, or
his own followers, he is remarkably reserved, and does not hazard any
thing, even in the way of humour, that may be subject to mistake: Indeed
he no where seems to suspect that his character is open to censure on this
side, or that he needs the arts of imposition.—“_Turk Gregory never did
such deeds in arms as I have done this day_” is spoken, whilst he breathes
from action, to the Prince in a tone of jolly humour, and contains nothing
but a light ridicule of his own inactivity: This is as far from real
boasting as his saying before the battle, “_Wou’d it were bed-time,
__HAL__, and all were well_,” is from meanness or depression. This
articulated wish is not the fearful outcry of a _Coward_, but the frank
and honest breathing of a _generous fellow_, who does not expect to be
seriously reproached with the character. Instead, indeed, of deserving the
name of a vain glorious _Coward_, his modesty perhaps on his head, and
whimsical ridicule of himself, have been a principal source of the
imputation.
But to come to the very serious reproach thrown upon him by that _cold
blooded_ boy, as he calls him, _Lancaster_.—_Lancaster_ makes a solemn
treaty of peace with the _Archbishop of York, Mowbray_, &c. upon the faith
of which they disperse their troops; which is no sooner done than
_Lancaster_ arrests the Principals, and pursues the _scattered stray_: A
transaction, by the bye, so singularly perfidious, that I wish
_Shakespeare_, for his own credit, had not suffered it to pass under his
pen without marking it with the blackest strokes of Infamy.—During this
transaction, _Falstaff_ arrives, joins in the pursuit, and takes Sir _John
Coleville_ prisoner. Upon being seen by _Lancaster_ he is thus addressed:—
“Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while?
When every thing is over, then you come:
These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life,
One time or other break some gallows’ back.”
This may appear to many a very formidable passage. It is spoken, as we may
say, in the hearing of the army, and by one intitled as it were by his
station to decide on military conduct; and if no punishment immediately
follows, the forbearance may be imputed to a regard for the Prince of
Wales, whose favour the delinquent was known so unworthily to possess. But
this reasoning will by no means apply to the real circumstances of the
case. The effect of this passage will depend on the credit we shall be
inclined to give to _Lancaster_ for integrity and candour, and still more
upon the facts which are the ground of this censure, and which are fairly
offered by _Shakespeare_ to our notice.
We will examine the evidence arising from both; and to this end we must in
the first place a little unfold the character of this young Commander in
chief;—from a review of which we may more clearly discern the general
impulses and secret motives of his conduct: And this is a proceeding which
I think the peculiar character of _Shakespeare_’s Drama will very well
justify.
We are already well prepared what to think of this young man:—We have just
seen a very pretty manœuvre of his in a matter of the highest moment, and
have therefore the less reason to be surprized if we find him practising a
more petty fraud with suitable skill and address. He appears in truth to
have been what _Falstaff_ calls him, _a cold, reserved, sober-blooded
boy_; a politician, as it should seem, by nature; bred up moreover in the
school of _Bolingbroke_ his father, and tutored to betray: With sufficient
courage and ability perhaps, but with too much of the knave in his
composition, and too little of enthusiasm, ever to be a great and superior
character. That such a youth as this should, even from the propensities of
character alone, take any plausible occasion to injure a frank unguarded
man of wit and pleasure, will not appear unnatural. But he had other
inducements. _Falstaff_ had given very general scandal by his
distinguished wit and noted poverty, insomuch that a little cruelty and
injustice towards him was likely to pass, in the eye of the grave and
prudent part of mankind, as a very creditable piece of fraud, and to be
accounted to _Lancaster_ for virtue and good service. But _Lancaster_ had
motives yet more prevailing; _Falstaff_ was a Favourite, without the power
which belongs to that character; and the tone of the Court was strongly
against him, as the misleader and corrupter of the Prince; who was now at
too great a distance to afford him immediate countenance and protection. A
scratch then, between jest and earnest as it were, something that would
not too much offend the prince, yet would leave behind a disgraceful scar
upon _Falstaff_, was very suitable to the temper and situation of parties
and affairs. With these observations in our thought, let us return to the
passage: It is plainly intended for disgrace, but how artful, how
cautious, how insidious is the manner! It may pass for sheer pleasantry
and humour: _Lancaster_ assumes the familiar phrase and _girding_ tone of
_Harry_; and the gallows, as he words it, appears to be in the most danger
from an encounter with _Falstaff_.—With respect to the matter, ’tis a kind
of _miching malicho_; it means mischief indeed, but there is not precision
enough in it to intitle it to the appellation of a formal charge, or to
give to _Falstaff_ any certain and determined ground of defence. _Tardy
tricks_ may mean not Cowardice but neglect only, though the _manner_ may
seem to carry the imputation to both.—The reply of _Falstaff_ is exactly
suited to the qualities of the speech;—for _Falstaff_ never wants ability,
but conduct only. He answers the general effect of this speech by a
feeling and serious complaint of injustice; he then goes on to apply his
defence to the vindication both of his diligence and courage; but he
deserts by degrees his serious tone, and taking the handle of pleasantry
which _Lancaster_ had held forth to him, he is prudently content, as being
sensible of _Lancaster_’s high rank and station, to let the whole pass off
in buffoonery and humour. But the question is, however, not concerning the
adroitness and management of either party: Our business is, after putting
the credit of _Lancaster_ out of the question, to discover what there may
be of truth and of fact either in the charge of the one, or the defence of
the other. From this only, we shall be able to draw our inferences with
fairness and with candour. The charge against _Falstaff_ is already in the
possession of the reader: The defence follows.—
Fals. “_I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be thus: I never knew yet
but that rebuke and check were the reward of valour. Do you think me a
swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? Have I in my poor and old motion the
expedition of thought? I speeded hither within the very extremest inch of
possibility. I have foundered ninescore and odd posts_ (deserting by
degrees his serious tone, for _one_ of more address and advantage), _and
here, travel-tainted as I am, have I in my pure and immaculate valour
taken Sir John Coleville of the dale, a most furious Knight and valorous
enemy._”
_Falstaff_’s answer then is that he used all possible expedition to join
the army; the not doing of which, with an implication of Cowardice as the
cause, is the utmost extent of the charge against him; and to take off
this implication he refers to the evidence of a fact present and
manifest,—the surrender of _Coleville_; in whose hearing he speaks, and to
whom therefore he is supposed to appeal. Nothing then remains but that we
should inquire if _Falstaff_’s answer was really founded in truth; “_I
speeded hither_” says he, “_within the extremest inch of possibility_”: If
it be so, he is justified: But I am afraid, for we must not conceal any
thing, that _Falstaff_ was really detained too long by his debaucheries in
London; at least, if we take the Chief Justice’s words very strictly.
“Ch. Just. _How now, Sir John? What are you brawling here? Doth this
become your __PLACE__, your __TIME__, your __BUSINESS__? You should have
been well on your way to York._”
Here then seems to be a delay worthy perhaps of rebuke; and if we could
suppose _Lancaster_ to mean nothing more by _tardy tricks_ than idleness
and debauch, I should not possibly think myself much concerned to
vindicate _Falstaff_ from the charge; but the words imply, to my
apprehension, a designed and deliberate avoidance of danger. Yet to the
contrary of this we are furnished with very full and complete evidence.
_Falstaff_, the moment he quits London, discovers the utmost eagerness and
impatience to join the army; he gives up his gluttony, his mirth, and his
ease. We see him take up in his passage some recruits at _Shallow_’s
house; and tho’ he has pecuniary views upon _Shallow_, no inducement stops
him; he takes no refreshment, he cannot _tarry dinner_, he hurries off;
“_I will not_,” says he to the Justices, “_use many words with you. Fare
ye well, Gentlemen both; I thank ye, I must a dozen miles to night._”—He
misuses, it is true, at this time the _King’s Press damnably_; but that
does not concern me, at least not for the present; it belongs to other
parts of his character.—It appears then manifestly that _Shakespeare_
meant to shew _Falstaff_ as really using the utmost speed in his power; he
arrives almost literally _within the extremest inch of possibility_; and
if _Lancaster_ had not accelerated the event by a stroke of perfidy much
more subject to the imputation of Cowardice than the _Debauch_ of
_Falstaff_, he would have been time enough to have shared in the danger of
a fair and honest decision. But great men have, it seems, a privilege;
“_that in the __GENERAL’S__ but a choleric word, which in the __SOLDIER
WERE__ flat blasphemy._” Yet after all, _Falstaff_ did really come time
enough, as it appears, to join in the villainous triumphs of the day, to
take prisoner _Coleville of the dale, a most furious Knight and valorous
enemy_.—Let us look to the fact. If this incident should be found to
contain any striking proof of _Falstaff_’s Courage and Military fame, his
defence against _Lancaster_ will be stronger than the reader has even a
right to demand. _Falstaff_ encounters _Coleville_ in the field, and,
having demanded his name, is ready to assail him; but _Coleville_ asks him
if he is not Sir _John Falstaff_; thereby implying a purpose of surrender.
_Falstaff_ will not so much as furnish him with a pretence, and answers
only, that _he is as good a man_. “_Do you yield Sir, or shall I sweat for
you?_” “_I think_,” says Coleville, “_you are Sir John Falstaff, and in
that thought yield me._” This fact, and the incidents with which it is
accompanied, speak loudly; it seems to have been contrived by the author
on purpose to take off a rebuke so authoritatively made by _Lancaster_.
The fact is set before our eyes to confute the censure: _Lancaster_
himself seems to give up his charge, tho’ not his ill will; for upon
_Falstaff_’s asking leave to pass through Glostershire, and artfully
desiring that, upon _Lancaster_’s return to Court, _he might stand well in
his report, Lancaster_ seems in his answer to mingle malice and acquittal.
“_Fare ye well, Falstaff, I in my condition shall better speak of you than
you deserve._” “_I would_,” says _Falstaff_, who is left behind in the
scene, “_You had but the wit; ’twere better than your Dukedom._” He
continues on the stage some time chewing the cud of dishonour, which, with
all his facility, he cannot well swallow. “_Good faith_” says he,
accounting to himself as well as he could for the injurious conduct of
_Lancaster_, “_this sober-blooded boy does not love me._” This he might
well believe. “_A man_,” says he, “_cannot make him laugh; there’s none of
these demure boys come to any proof; but that’s no marvel, they drink no
sack._”—_Falstaff_ then it seems knew no drinker of sack who was a Coward;
at least the instance was not home and familiar to him.—“_They all_,” says
he, “_fall into a kind of Male green sickness, and are generally fools and
Cowards._” Anger has a privilege, and I think _Falstaff_ has a right to
turn the tables upon _Lancaster_ if he can; but _Lancaster_ was certainly
no fool, and I think upon the whole no Coward; yet the Male green sickness
which _Falstaff_ talks of seems to have infected his manners and aspect,
and taken from him all external indication of gallantry and courage. He
behaves in the battle of Shrewsbury beyond the promise of his complexion
and deportment: “_By heaven thou hast deceived me Lancaster_,” says Harry,
“_I did not think thee Lord of such a spirit!_” Nor was his father less
surprized “_at his holding Lord Percy at the point with lustier
maintenance than he did look for from such an unripe warrior._” But how
well and unexpectedly soever he might have behaved upon that occasion, he
does not seem to have been of a temper to trust fortune too much or too
often with his safety; therefore it is that, in order to keep the event in
his own hands, he loads the Die, in the present case, with villainy and
deceit: The event however he piously ascribes, like a wise and prudent
youth as he is, without paying that worship to himself which he so justly
merits, to the special favour and interposition of Heaven.
“Strike up your drums, pursue the scattered stray.
Heaven, and not we, have safely fought to-day.”
But the profane _Falstaff_, on the contrary, less informed and less
studious of supernatural things, imputes the whole of this conduct to thin
potations, and the not drinking largely of good and excellent _sherris_;
and so little doubt does he seem to entertain of the Cowardice and ill
disposition of this youth, that he stands devising causes, and casting
about for an hypothesis on which the whole may be physically explained and
accounted for;—but I shall leave him and Doctor _Cadogan_ to settle that
point as they may.
The only serious charge against _Falstaff_’s Courage, we have now at large
examined; it came from great authority, from the Commander in chief, and
was meant as chastisement and rebuke; but it appears to have been founded
in ill-will, in the particular character of _Lancaster_, and in the
wantonness and insolence of power; and the author has placed near, and
under our notice, full and ample proofs of its injustice.—And thus the
deeper we look unto _Falstaff_’s character, the stronger is our conviction
that he was not intended to be shewn as a Constitutional coward: Censure
cannot lay sufficient hold on him,—and even malice turns away, and more
than half pronounces his acquittal.
But as yet we have dealt principally in parole and circumstantial
evidence, and have referred to _Fact_ only incidentally. But _Facts_ have
a much more operative influence: They may be produced, not as arguments
only, but Records; not to dispute alone, but to decide.—It is time then to
behold _Falstaff_ in actual service as a soldier, in danger, and in
battle. We have already displayed one fact in his defence against the
censure of _Lancaster_; a fact extremely unequivocal and decisive. But the
reader knows I have others, and doubtless goes before me to the action at
_Shrewsbury_. In the midst and in the heat of battle we see him come
forwards;—what are his words? “_I have led my Rag-o-muffians where they
are peppered; there’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive._” But
to _whom_ does he say this? To himself only; he speaks _in soliloquy_.
There is no questioning the fact, _he had_ led _them_; _they were
peppered_; _there were not __THREE__ left alive._ He was in luck, being in
bulk equal to any two of them, to escape unhurt. Let the author answer for
that, I have nothing to do with it: He was the Poetic maker of the whole
_Corps_, and he might dispose of them as he pleased. Well might the Chief
justice, as we now find, acknowledge _Falstaff_’s services in this day’s
battle; an acknowledgment which amply confirms the fact. A Modern officer,
who had performed a feat of this kind, would expect, not only the praise
of having done his duty, but the appellation of a hero. But poor
_Falstaff_ has too much wit to thrive: In spite of probability, in spite
of inference, in spite of fact, he must be a Coward still. He happens
unfortunately to have more Wit than Courage, and therefore we are
maliciously determined that he shall have no Courage at all. But let us
suppose that his modes of expression, even _in soliloquy_, will admit of
some abatement;—how much shall we abate? Say that he brought off _fifty_
instead of _three_; yet a Modern captain would be apt to look big after an
action with two thirds of his men, as it were, in his belly. Surely
_Shakespeare_ never meant to exhibit this man as a Constitutional coward;
if he did, his means were sadly destructive of his end. We see him, after
he had expended his Rag-o-muffians, with sword and target in the midst of
battle, in perfect possession of himself, and replete with humour and
jocularity. He was, I presume, in some immediate personal danger, in
danger also of a general defeat; too corpulent for flight; and to be led a
prisoner was probably to be led to execution; yet we see him laughing and
easy, offering a bottle of sack to the Prince instead of a pistol,
punning, and telling him, “_there was that which would __SACK__ a
city._”—“_What, is it a time_,” says the Prince “_to jest and dally now?_”
No, a sober character would not jest on such an occasion, but a Coward
could not; he would neither have the inclination, or the power. And what
could support _Falstaff_ in such a situation? Not principle; he is not
suspected of the Point of honour; he seems indeed fairly to renounce it.
“_Honour cannot set a leg or an arm; it has no skill in surgery:—What is
it? a word only; meer air. It is insensible to the dead; and detraction
will not let __ it live with the living._” What then but a strong natural
constitutional Courage, which nothing could extinguish or dismay?—In the
following passages the true character of _Falstaff_ as to Courage and
Principle is finely touched, and the different colours at once nicely
blended and distinguished. “_If Percy be alive, I’ll __PIERCE__ him. If he
do come in my way, __SO__:—If he do not, if I come in __HIS__ willingly,
let him make a Carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir
Walter hath; give me life; which if I can save, __SO__; if not, honour
comes unlook’d for, and there’s an end._” One cannot say which prevails
most here, profligacy or courage; they are both tinged alike by the same
humour, and mingled in one common mass; yet when we consider the superior
force of _Percy_, as we must presently also that of _Douglas_, we shall be
apt, I believe, in our secret heart, to forgive him. These passages are
spoken in soliloquy and in battle: If every soliloquy made under similar
circumstances were as audible as _Falstaff_’s, the imputation might
perhaps be found too general for censure. These are among the passages
that have impressed on the world an idea of Cowardice in _Falstaff_;—yet
why? He is resolute to take his fate: If _Percy_ do come in his way,
_so_;—if not, he will not seek inevitable destruction; he is willing to
save his life, but if that cannot be, why,—“honour comes unlook’d for, and
there’s an end.” This surely is not the language of Cowardice: It contains
neither the Bounce or Whine of the character; he derides, it is true, and
seems to renounce that grinning idol of Military zealots, _Honour_. But
_Falstaff_ has a kind of Military free-thinker, and has accordingly
incurred the obloquy of his condition. He stands upon the ground of
natural Courage only and common sense, and has, it seems, too much wit for
a hero.—But let me be well understood;—I do not justify _Falstaff_ for
renouncing the point of honour; it proceeded doubtless from a general
relaxation of mind, and profligacy of temper. Honour is calculated to aid
and strengthen natural courage, and lift it up to heroism; but natural
courage, which can act as such without honour, is natural courage still;
the very quality I wish to maintain to _Falstaff_. And if, without the aid
of honour, he can act with firmness, his portion is only the more eminent
and distinguished. In such a character, it is to his actions, not his
sentiments, that we are to look for conviction. But it may be still
further urged in behalf of _Falstaff_, that there may be false honour as
well as false religion. It is true; yet even in that case candour obliges
me to confess that the best men are most disposed to conform, and most
likely to become the dupes of their own virtue. But it may however be more
reasonably urged that there are particular tenets both in honour and
religion, which it is the grossness of folly not to question. To seek out,
to court assured destruction, without leaving a single benefit behind, may
be well reckoned in the number: And this is precisely the very folly which
_Falstaff_ seems to abjure;—nor are we, perhaps, intitled to say more, in
the way of censure, than that he had not virtue enough to become the dupe
of honour, nor prudence enough to hold his tongue. I am willing however,
if the reader pleases, to compound this matter, and acknowledge, on my
part, that _Falstaff_ was in all respects the _old soldier_; that he had
put himself under the sober discipline of discretion, and renounced, in a
great degree at least, what he might call the Vanities and Superstitions
of honour; if the reader will, on his part, admit that this might well be,
without his renouncing, at the same time, the natural firmness and
resolution he was born to.
But there is a formidable objection behind. _Falstaff_ counterfeits basely
on being attacked by _Douglas_; he assumes, in a cowardly spirit, the
appearance of death to avoid the reality. But there was no equality of
force; not the least chance for victory, or life. And is it the duty then,
_think we still_, of true Courage, to meet, without benefit to society,
_certain death_? Or is it only the phantasy of honour?—But such a fiction
is highly disgraceful;—true, and a man of nice honour might perhaps have
_grinned_ for it. But we must remember that _Falstaff_ had a double
character; he was a _wit_ as well as a _soldier_; and his Courage, however
eminent, was but the _accessary_; his wit was the _principal_; and the
part, which, if they should come in competition, he had the greatest
interest in maintaining. Vain indeed were the licentiousness of his
principles, if he should seek death like a bigot, yet without the meed of
honour; when he might live by wit, and encrease the reputation of that wit
by living. But why do I labour this point? It has been already
anticipated, and our improved acquaintance with _Falstaff_ will now
require no more than a short narrative of the fact.
Whilst in the battle of _Shrewsbury_ he is exhorting and encouraging the
Prince who is engaged with the _Spirit Percy_—“_Well said Hal, to him
Hal_,”—he is himself attacked by the _Fiend Douglas_. There was no match;
nothing remained but death or stratagem; grinning honour, or laughing
life. But an expedient offers, a mirthful one,—Take your choice
_Falstaff_, a point of honour, or a point of drollery.—It could not be a
question;—_Falstaff_ falls, _Douglas_ is cheated, and the world laughs.
But does he fall like a Coward? No, like a buffoon only; the superior
principle prevails, and _Falstaff_ lives by a stratagem growing out of his
character, to prove himself _no counterfeit_, to jest, to be employed, and
to fight again. That _Falstaff_ valued himself, and expected to be valued
by others, upon this piece of saving wit, is plain. It was a stratagem, it
is true; it argued presence of mind; but it was moreover, what he most
liked, a very laughable joke; and as such he considers it; for he
continues to counterfeit after the danger is over, that he may also
deceive the Prince, and improve the event into more laughter. He might,
for ought that appears, have concealed the transaction; the Prince was too
earnestly engaged for observation; he might have formed a thousand excuses
for his fall; but he lies still and listens to the pronouncing of his
epitaph by the Prince with all the waggish glee and levity of his
character. The circumstance of his wounding _Percy_ in the thigh, and
carrying the dead body on his back like luggage, is _indecent_ but not
cowardly. The declaring, though in jest, that he killed _Percy_, seems to
me _idle_, but it is not meant or calculated for _imposition_; it is
spoken to the _Prince himself_, the man in the world who could not be, or
be supposed to be, imposed on. But we must hear, whether to the purpose or
not, what it is that _Harry_ has to say over the remains of his old
friend.
_P. Hen._ What, old acquaintance! could not all this flesh
Keep in a little life? Poor _Jack_, farewell!
I could have better spared a better man.
Oh! I shou’d have a heavy miss of thee,
If I were much in love with vanity.
Death hath not struck so fat a _deer_ to-day,
Tho’ many a _dearer_ in this bloody fray;
Imbowelled will I see thee by and by;
Till then, in blood by noble _Percy_ lye.
This is wonderfully proper for the occasion; it is affectionate, it is
pathetic, yet it remembers his vanities, and, with a faint gleam of
recollected mirth, even his plumpness and corpulency; but it is a
pleasantry softned and rendered even vapid by tenderness, and it goes off
in the sickly effort of a miserable pun.(47)—But to our immediate
purpose,—why is not his Cowardice remembered too? what, no surprize that
_Falstaff_ should lye by the side of the noble _Percy_ in the bed of
honour! No reflection that flight, though unfettered by disease, could not
avail; that fear could not find a subterfuge from death? Shall his
corpulency and his vanities be recorded, and his more characteristic
quality of Cowardice, even in the moment that it particularly demanded
notice and reflection, be forgotten? If by sparing a better man be here
meant a _better soldier_, there is no doubt but there were better Soldiers
in the army, more active, more young, more principled, more knowing; but
none, it seems, taken for all in all, more acceptable. The comparative
_better_ used here leaves to _Falstaff_ the praise at least of _good_; and
to be a good soldier, is to be a great way from Coward. But _Falstaff_’s
goodness, in this sort, appears to have been not only enough to redeem him
from disgrace, but to mark him with reputation; if I was to add with
_eminence_ and _distinction_, the funeral honours which are intended his
obsequies, and his being bid, till then, _to lye in blood by the noble
Percy_, would fairly bear me out.