hope that the good natured reader (and I write to no other), not offended
at the levity of this exercise, may join with me in thinking that the
character of _Falstaff_, as to valour, may be fairly and honestly summed
up in the very words which he himself uses to _Harry_; and which seem, as
to this point, to be intended by _Shakespeare_ as a _Compendium_ of his
character. “_What_,” says the Prince, “_a Coward, Sir John Paunch!_”
_Falstaff_ replies, “_Indeed I am not __JOHN OF GAUNT__ your grandfather,
but yet __NO COWARD__, Hal._”
The robbery at _Gads-Hill_ comes now to be considered. But _here_, after
such long argumentation, we may be allowed to breath a little.
I know not what Impression has been made on the reader; a good deal of
evidence has been produced, and much more remains to be offered. But how
many sorts of men are there whom no evidence can persuade! How many, who,
ignorant of _Shakespeare_, or forgetful of the text, may as well read
heathen Greek, or the laws of the land, as this unfortunate Commentary?
How many, who, proud and pedantic, hate all novelty, and damn it without
mercy under one compendious word, Paradox? How many more, who, not
deriving their opinions immediately from the sovereignty of reason, hold
at the will of some superior lord, to whom accident or inclination has
attached them, and who, true to their vassalage, are resolute not to
surrender, without express permission, their base and ill-gotten
possessions. These, however habited, are the mob of mankind, who hoot and
holla, hiss or huzza, just as their various leaders may direct. I
_challenge_ the whole Pannel as not holding by free tenure, and therefore
not competent to the purpose either of condemnation or acquittal. But to
the men of very nice honour what shall be said? I speak not of your men of
good service, but such as Mr. —— “_Souls made of fire_, and _children of
the sun_.” These gentlemen, I am sadly afraid, cannot in honour or
prudence admit of any composition in the very nice article of Courage;
_suspicion_ is _disgrace_, and they cannot stay to parley with dishonour.
The misfortune in cases of this kind is that it is not easy to obtain a
fair and impartial Jury: When we censure others with an eye to our own
applause, we are as seldom sparing of reproach, as inquisitive into
circumstance; and bold is the man who, tenacious of justice, shall venture
to weigh circumstances, or draw lines of distinction between Cowardice and
any apparently similar or neighbour quality: As well may a lady, virgin or
matron, of immaculate honour, presume to pity or palliate the soft failing
of some unguarded friend, and thereby confess, as it were, those
sympathetic feelings which it behoves her to conceal under the most
contemptuous disdain; a disdain, always proportioned, I believe, to a
certain consciousness which we must not explain. I am afraid that poor
_Falstaff_ has suffered not a little, and may yet suffer by this
fastidiousness of temper. But though we may find these classes of men
rather unfavourable to our wishes, the Ladies, one may hope, whose smiles
are most worth our ambition, may be found more propitious; yet they too,
through a generous conformity to the _brave_, are apt to take up the high
tone of honour. Heroism is an idea perfectly conformable to the natural
delicacy and elevation of their minds. Should we be fortunate enough
therefore to redeem _Falstaff_ from the imputations of Cowardice, yet
plain Courage, I am afraid, will not serve the turn: Even their heroes, I
think, must be for the most part in the bloom of youth, or _just where
youth ends, in manhood’s freshest prime_; but to be “_Old, cold, and of
intolerable entrails; to be fat and greasy; as poor as Job, and as
slanderous as Satan_”;—Take him away, he merits not a fair trial; he is
too offensive to be turned, too odious to be touched. I grant, indeed,
that the subject of our lecture is not without his infirmity; “_He cuts
three inches on the ribs, he was short-winded_,” and his breath possibly
not of the sweetest. “_He had the gout_,” or something worse, “_which
played the rogue with his great toe._”—But these considerations are not to
the point; we shall conceal, as much as may be, these offences; our
business is with his _heart_ only, which, as we shall endeavour to
demonstrate, lies in the right place, and is firm and sound,
notwithstanding a few indications to the contrary.—As for you, _Mrs._
MONTAGUE, I am grieved to find that _you_ have been involved in a popular
error; so much you must allow me to say;—for the rest, I bow to your
genius and your virtues: You have given to the world a very elegant
composition; and I am told your manners and your mind are yet more pure,
more elegant than your book. _Falstaff_ was too gross, too infirm, for
your inspection; but if you durst have looked nearer, you would not have
found Cowardice in the number of his infirmities.—We will try if we cannot
redeem him from this universal censure.—Let the venal corporation of
authors duck _to the golden fool_, let them shape their sordid quills to
the mercenary ends of unmerited praise, or of baser detraction;—_old
Jack_, though deserted by princes, though censured by an ungrateful world,
and persecuted from age to age by Critic and Commentator, and though never
rich enough to hire one literary prostitute, shall find a Voluntary
defender; and that too at a time when the whole body of the _Nabobry_
demands and requires defence; whilst their ill-gotten and almost untold
gold feels loose in their unassured grasp, and whilst they are ready to
shake off portions of the enormous heap, that they may the more securely
clasp the remainder.—But not to digress without end,—to the candid, to the
chearful, to the elegant reader we appeal; our exercise is much too light
for the sour eye of strict severity; it professes amusement only, but we
hope of a kind more rational than the History of Miss _Betsy_, eked out
with the Story of Miss _Lucy_, and the Tale of Mr. _Twankum_: And so, in a
leisure hour, and with the good natured reader, it may be hoped, to
friend, we return, with an air as busy and important as if we were engaged
in the grave office of measuring the _Pyramids_, or settling the antiquity
of _Stonehenge_, to converse with this jovial, this fat, this roguish,
this frail, but, I think, _not cowardly_ companion.
Though the robbery at _Gads-Hill_, and the supposed Cowardice of
_Falstaff_ on that occasion, are next to be considered, yet I must
previously declare, that I think the discussion of this matter to be _now_
unessential to the reestablishment of _Falstaff_’s reputation as a man of
Courage. For suppose we should grant, in form, that _Falstaff_ was
surprized with fear in this single instance, that he was off his guard,
and even acted like a Coward; what will follow, but that _Falstaff_, like
greater heroes, had his weak moment, and was not exempted from panic and
surprize? If a single exception can destroy a general character, _Hector_
was a _Coward_, and _Anthony_ a _Poltroon_. But for these seeming
contradictions of Character we shall seldom be at a loss to account, if we
carefully refer to circumstance and situation.—In the present instance,
_Falstaff_ had done an illegal act; the exertion was over; and he had
unbent his mind in security. The spirit of enterprize, and the animating
principle of hope, were withdrawn:—In this situation, he is unexpectedly
attacked; he has no time to recall his thoughts, or bend his mind to
action. He is not now acting in the Profession and in the Habits of a
Soldier; he is associated with known Cowards; his assailants are vigorous,
sudden, and bold; he is conscious of guilt; he has dangers to dread of
every form, present and future; prisons and gibbets, as well as sword and
fire; he is surrounded with darkness, and the Sheriff, the Hangman, and
the whole _Posse Commitatus_ may be at his heels:—Without a moment for
reflection, is it wonderful that, under these circumstances, “_he should
run and roar, and carry his guts away with as much dexterity as
possible_”?
But though I might well rest the question on this ground, yet as there
remains many good topics of vindication, and as I think a more minute
inquiry into this matter will only bring out more evidence in support of
_Falstaff_’s constitutional Courage, I will not decline the discussion. I
beg permission therefore to state fully, as well as fairly, the whole of
this obnoxious transaction, this unfortunate robbery at _Gads-Hill_.
In the scene wherein we become first acquainted with _Falstaff_, his
character is opened in a manner worthy of _Shakespeare_: We see him in a
green old age, mellow, frank, gay, easy, corpulent, loose, unprincipled,
and luxurious; a _Robber_, as he says, _by his vocation_; yet not
altogether so:—There was much, it seems, of mirth and _recreation_ in the
case: “_The poor abuses of the times_,” he wantonly and humourously tells
the Prince, “_want countenance; and he hates to see resolution fobbed off,
as it is, by the rusty curb of old father antic, the law_.”—When he quits
the scene, we are acquainted that he is only passing to the Tavern:
“_Farewell,_” says he, with an air of careless jollity and gay content,
“_You will find me in East-Cheap._” “_Farewell,_” says the Prince, “_thou
latter __ spring; farewell, all-hallown summer._” But though all this is
excellent for _Shakespeare_’s purposes, we find, as yet at least, no hint
of _Falstaff_’s Cowardice, no appearance of Braggadocio, or any
preparation whatever for laughter under this head.—The instant _Falstaff_
is withdrawn, _Poins_ opens to the Prince his meditated scheme of a double
robbery; and here then we may reasonably expect to be let into these parts
of _Falstaff_’s character.—We shall see.
Poins. “_Now my good sweet lord, ride with us tomorrow; I have a jest to
execute that I cannot manage alone. __FALSTAFF__, __BARDOLPH__, __PETO__,
and __GADSHILL__ shall rob those men that we have already waylaid;
yourself and I will not be there; and when they have the booty, if you and
I do not rob them, cut this head from off my shoulders._”
This is giving strong surety for his words; perhaps he thought the case
required it: “_But how_,” says the Prince, “_shall we part with them in
setting forth?_” _Poins_ is ready with his answer; he had matured the
thought, and could solve every difficulty:—“_They could set out before, or
after; their horses might be tied in the wood; they could change their
visors; and he had already procured cases of __BUCKRAM__ to inmask their
outward garments._” This was going far; it was doing business in good
earnest. But if we look into the Play we shall be better able to account
for this activity; we shall find that there was at least as much malice as
jest in _Poins_’s intention. The rival situations of _Poins_ and
_Falstaff_ had produced on both sides much jealousy and ill will, which
occasionally appears, in _Shakespeare_’s manner, by side lights, without
confounding the main action; and by the little we see of this _Poins_, he
appears to be an unamiable, if not a very brutish and bad, character.—But
to pass this;—the Prince next says, with a deliberate and wholesome
caution, “_I doubt they will be too hard for us._” _Poins_’s reply is
remarkable; “_Well, for __TWO__ of them, I know them to be as true bred
Cowards as ever turned back; and for the __THIRD__, if he fights longer
than he sees cause, I will forswear arms._” There is in this reply a great
deal of management: There were _four_ persons in all, as _Poins_ well
knew, and he had himself, but a little before, named them,—_Falstaff_,
_Bardolph_, _Peto_, and _Gadshill_; but now he omits one of the number,
which must be either _Falstaff_, as not subject to any imputation in point
of Courage; and in that case _Peto_ will be the _third_;—or, as I rather
think, in order to diminish the force of the Prince’s objection, he
artfully drops _Gadshill_, who was then out of town, and might therefore
be supposed to be less in the Prince’s notice; and upon this supposition
_Falstaff_ will be the _third, who will not fight longer than he sees
reason_. But on either supposition, what evidence is there of a
pre-supposed Cowardice in _Falstaff_? On the contrary, what stronger
evidence can we require that the Courage of _Falstaff_ had to this hour,
through various trials, stood wholly unimpeached, than that _Poins_, the
ill-disposed _Poins_, who ventures, for his own purposes, to steal, as it
were, _one_ of the _four_ from the notice and memory of the Prince, and
who shews himself, from worse motives, as skilfull in _diminishing_ as
_Falstaff_ appears afterwards to be in _increasing_ of numbers, than that
this very _Poins_ should not venture to put down _Falstaff_ in the list of
Cowards; though the occasion so strongly required that he should be
degraded. What _Poins_ dares do however in this sort, he _does_. “_As to
the third_,” for so he describes _Falstaff_ (as if the name of this
Veteran would have excited too strongly the ideas of Courage and
resistance), “_if he fights longer than he sees reason, I will forswear
arms._” This is the old trick of cautious and artful malice: The turn of
expression, or the tone of voice does all; for as to the words themselves,
simply considered, they might be now truly spoken of almost any man who
ever lived, except the iron-headed hero of _Sweden_.—But _Poins_ however
adds something, which may appear more decisive; “_The virtue of this jest
will be the incomprehensible lyes which this fat rogue will tell when we
meet at supper; how thirty at least he fought with; and what wards, what
blows, what extremities, he endured: And in the reproof of this lies the
jest_”:—Yes, and the _malice_ too.—This prediction was unfortunately
fulfilled, even beyond the letter of it; a completion more incident,
perhaps, to the predictions of malice than of affection. But we shall
presently see how far either the prediction, or the event, will go to the
impeachment of _Falstaff_’s Courage.—The Prince, who is never duped,
comprehends the whole of _Poins_’s views. But let that pass.
In the next scene we behold all the parties at _Gads-Hill_ in preparation
for the robbery. Let us carefully examine if it contains any intimation of
Cowardice in _Falstaff_. He is shewn under a very ridiculous vexation
about his horse, which is hid from him; but this is nothing to the
purpose, or only proves that _Falstaff_ knew no terror equal to that of
walking _eight yards of uneven ground_. But on occasion of _Gadshill_’s
being asked concerning the number of the travellers, and having reported
that they were eight or ten, _Falstaff_ exclaims, “_Zounds! will they not
rob us!_” If he had said more seriously, “_I doubt they will be too hard
for us_,”—he would then have only used the Prince’s own words upon a less
alarming occasion. This cannot need defence. But the Prince, in his usual
stile of mirth, replies, “_What a Coward, Sir John Paunch!_” To this one
would naturally expect from _Falstaff_ some light answer; but we are
surprized with a very serious one;—“_I am not indeed __JOHN OF GAUNT__
your grandfather, but yet no __COWARD__, __HAL__._” This is singular: It
contains, I think, the true character of _Falstaff_; and it seems to be
thrown out _here_, at a very critical conjuncture, as a caution to the
audience not to take too sadly what was intended only (to use the Prince’s
words) “_as argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for
ever after_.” The whole of _Falstaff_’s past life could not, it should
seem, furnish the Prince with a reply, and he is, therefore, obliged to
draw upon the coming hope. “_Well_,” says he, _mysteriously_, “_let the
event try_”; meaning the event of the concerted attack on _Falstaff_; an
event so probable, that he might indeed venture to rely on it.—But the
travellers approach: The Prince hastily proposes a division of strength;
that he with _Poins_ should take a station separate from the rest, so that
if the travellers should escape one party, they might light on the other:
_Falstaff_ does not object, though he supposes the travellers to be eight
or ten in number. We next see _Falstaff_ attack these travellers with
alacrity, using the accustomed words of threat and terror;—they make no
resistance, and he binds and robs them.
Hitherto I think there has not appeared the least _trait_ either of boast
or fear in _Falstaff_. But now comes on the concerted transaction, which
has been the source of so much dishonour. _As they are sharing the booty_
(says the stage direction) _the Prince and __POINS__ set upon them, they
all run away; and __FALSTAFF__ after a blow or two runs away too, leaving
the booty behind them._—“_Got with much ease,_” says the Prince, as an
event beyond expectation, “_Now merrily to horse._”—Poins adds, as they
are going off, “_How the rogue roared!_” This observation is afterwards
remembered by the Prince, who, urging the jest to _Falstaff_, says,
doubtless with all the licence of exaggeration,—“_And you, __FALSTAFF__,
carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for
mercy, and still ran and roared, as I ever heard bull-calf._” If he did
roar for mercy, it must have been a very inarticulate sort of roaring; for
there is not a single word set down for _Falstaff_ from which this roaring
may be inferred, or any stage direction to the actor for that purpose:
But, in the spirit of mirth and derision, the lightest exclamation might
be easily converted into the roar of a bull-calf.
We have now gone through this transaction considered simply on its own
circumstances, and without reference to any future boast or imputation. It
is upon these circumstances the case must be tried, and every colour
subsequently thrown upon it, either by wit or folly, ought to be
discharged. Take it, then, as it stands hitherto, with reference only to
its own preceding and concomitant circumstances, and to the unbounded
ability of _Shakespeare_ to obtain his own ends, and we must, I think, be
compelled to confess that this transaction was never intended by
_Shakespeare_ to detect and expose the false pretences of a real Coward;
but, on the contrary, to involve a man of allowed Courage, though in other
respects of a very peculiar character, in such circumstances and
suspicions of Cowardice as might, by the operation of those peculiarities,
produce afterwards much temporary mirth among his familiar and intimate
companions: Of this we cannot require a stronger proof than the great
attention which is paid to the decorum and truth of character in the stage
direction already quoted: It appears, from thence, that it was not thought
_decent_ that _Falstaff_ should run at all, until he had been deserted by
his companions, and had even afterwards exchanged blows with his
assailants;—and thus, a just distinction is kept up between the natural
Cowardice of the three associates and the accidental Terror of _Falstaff_.
Hitherto, then, I think it is very clear that no laughter either is, or is
intended to be, raised upon the score of _Falstaff_’s Cowardice. For after
all, it is not singularly ridiculous that an old inactive man of no boast,
as far as appears, or extraordinary pretensions to valour, should
endeavour to save himself by flight from the assault of two bold and
vigorous assailants. The very Players, who are, I think, the very worst
judges of _Shakespeare_, have been made sensible, I suppose from long
experience, that there is nothing in this transaction to excite any
extraordinary laughter; but this they take to be a defect in the
management of their author, and therefore I imagine it is, that they hold
themselves obliged to supply the vacancy, and fill it up with some low
buffoonery of their own. Instead of the dispatch necessary on this
occasion, they bring _Falstaff_, _stuffing and all_, to the very front of
the stage; where, with much mummery and grimace, he seats himself down,
with a canvas money-bag in his hand, to divide the spoil. In this
situation he is attacked by the Prince and _Poins_, whose tin swords hang
idly in the air and delay to strike till the _Player Falstaff_, who seems
more troubled with flatulence than fear, is able to rise: which is not
till after some ineffectual efforts, and with the assistance (to the best
of my memory) of one of the thieves, who lingers behind, in spite of
terror, for this friendly purpose; after which, without any resistance on
his part, he is goaded off the stage like a fat ox for slaughter by these
_stony-hearted_ drivers in _buckram_. I think he does not _roar_;—perhaps
the player had never perfected himself in the tones of a bull-calf. This
whole transaction should be shewn between the interstices of a back scene:
The less we see in such cases, the better we conceive. Something of
resistance and afterwards of celerity in flight we should be made
witnesses of; the _roar_ we should take on the credit of _Poins_. Nor is
there any occasion for all that bolstering with which they fill up the
figure of _Falstaff_; they do not distinguish betwixt humourous
exaggeration and necessary truth. The Prince is called _starveling_,
_dried neat’s tongue_, _stock-fish_, and other names of the same nature.
They might with almost as good reason search the glass-houses for some
exhausted stoker to furnish out a Prince of _Wales_ of sufficient
correspondence to this picture.
We next come to the scene of _Falstaff_’s braggadocioes. I have already
wandered too much into details; yet I must, however, bring _Falstaff_
forward to this last scene of trial in all his proper colouring and
proportions. The progressive discovery of _Falstaff_’s character is
excellently managed.—In the first scene we become acquainted with his
figure, which we must in some degree consider as a part of his character;
we hear of his gluttony and his debaucheries, and become witnesses of that
indistinguishable mixture of humour and licentiousness which runs through
his whole character; but what we are principally struck with, is the ease
of his manners and deportment, and the unaffected freedom and wonderful
pregnancy of his wit and humour. We see him, in the next scene, agitated
with vexation: His horse is concealed from him, and he gives on this
occasion so striking a description of his distress, and his words so
labour and are so loaded with heat and vapour, that, but for laughing, we
should pity him; laugh, however, we must at the extreme incongruity of a
man, at once corpulent and old, associating with youth in an enterprize
demanding the utmost extravagance of spirit, and all the wildness of
activity: And this it is which make his complaints so truly ridiculous.
“_Give me my horse!_” says he, in another spirit than that of _Richard_;
“_Eight yards of uneven ground_,” adds this _Forrester of Diana_, this
_enterprising gentleman of the shade_, “_is threescore and ten miles
__A-FOOT__ with me._”—In the heat and agitation of the robbery, out comes
more and more extravagant instances of incongruity. Though he is most
probably older and much fatter than either of the travellers, yet he calls
them, _Bacons, Bacon-fed, and gorbellied knaves_: “_Hang them_,” says he,
“_fat chuffs, they hate us youth: What! young men, must live:—You are
grand Jurors, are ye? We’ll jure ye, i’ faith._” But, as yet, we do not
see the whole length and breadth of him: This is reserved for the
braggadocio scene. We expect entertainment, but we don’t well know of what
kind. _Poins_, by his prediction, has given us a hint: But we do not see
or feel _Falstaff_ to be a Coward, much less a boaster; without which even
Cowardice is not sufficiently ridiculous; and therefore it is, that on the
stage we find them always connected. In this uncertainty on our part, he
is, with much artful preparation, produced.—His entrance is delayed to
stimulate our expectation; and, at last, to take off the dullness of
anticipation, and to add surprize to pleasure, he is called in, as if for
another purpose of mirth than what we are furnished with: We now behold
him, fluctuating with fiction, and labouring with dissembled passion and
chagrin: Too full for utterance, _Poins_ provokes him by a few simple
words, containing a fine contrast of affected ease,—“_Welcome, __JACK__,
where hast thou been?_” But when we hear him burst forth, “_A plague on
all Cowards! Give me a cup of sack. Is there no virtue extant!_”—We are at
once in possession of the whole man, and are ready to hug him, guts, lyes
and all, as an inexhaustible fund of pleasantry and humour. _Cowardice_, I
apprehend, is out of our thought; it does not, I think, mingle in our
mirth. As to this point, I have presumed to say already, and I repeat it,
that we are, in my opinion, the dupes of our own wisdom, of systematic
reasoning, of second thought, and after reflection. The first spectators,
I believe, thought of nothing but the laughable scrape which so singular a
character was falling into, and were delighted to see a humourous and
unprincipled wit so happily taken in his own inventions, precluded from
all rational defence, and driven to the necessity of crying out, after a
few ludicrous evasions, “_No more of that, __HAL__, if thou lov’st me._”
I do not conceive myself obliged to enter into a consideration of
_Falstaff_’s lyes concerning the transaction at _Gad’s-Hill_. I have
considered his conduct as independent of those lyes; I have examined the
whole of it apart, and found it free of Cowardice or fear, except in one
instance, which I have endeavoured to account for and excuse. I have
therefore a right to infer that those lyes are to be derived, not from
Cowardice, but from some other part of his character, which it does not
concern me to examine: But I have not contented myself hitherto with this
sort of negative defence; and the reader I believe is aware that I am
resolute (though I confess not untired) to carry this fat rogue out of the
reach of every imputation which affects, or may seem to affect, his
natural Courage.
The first observation then which strikes us, as to his braggadocioes, is,
that they are braggadocioes _after the fact_. In other cases we see the
Coward of the Play bluster and boast for a time, talk of distant wars, and
private duels, out of the reach of knowledge and of evidence; of storms
and stratagems, and of falling in upon the enemy pell-mell and putting
thousands to the sword; till, at length, on the proof of some present and
apparent fact, he is brought to open and _lasting_ shame; to shame I mean
as a _Coward_; for as to what there is of _lyar_ in the case, it is
considered only as accessory, and scarcely reckoned into the account of
dishonour.—But in the instance before us, every thing is reversed: The
Play opens with the _Fact_; a Fact, from its circumstances as well as from
the age and inactivity of the man, very excusable and capable of much
apology, if not of defence. This Fact is preceded by no bluster or
pretence whatever;—the lyes and braggadocioes follow; but they are not
_general_; they are confined and have reference to this one Fact only; the
detection is _immediate_; and after some accompanying mirth and laughter,
the shame of that detection ends; it has no _duration_, as in other cases;
and, for the rest of the Play, the character stands just where it did
before, _without any punishment or degradation whatever_.
To account for all this, let us only suppose that _Falstaff_ was a man of
natural Courage, though in all respects unprincipled; but that he was
surprized in one single instance into an act of real terror; which,
instead of excusing upon circumstances, he endeavours to cover by lyes and
braggadocio; and that these lyes become thereupon the subject, in this
place, of detection. Upon these suppositions the whole difficulty will
vanish at once, and every thing be natural, common, and plain. The _Fact_
itself will be of course _excusable_; that is, it will arise out of a
combination of such circumstances as, being applicable to one case only,
will not destroy the general character: It will not be _preceded_ by any
braggadocio, containing any fair indication of Cowardice; as real
Cowardice is not supposed to exist in the character. But the first act of
real or apparent Cowardice would naturally throw a vain unprincipled man
into the use of lyes and braggadocio; but these would have reference only
to the _Fact in question_, and not apply to other cases or infect his
general character, which is not supposed to stand in need of imposition.
Again,—the detection of Cowardice, as such, is more diverting after a long
and various course of Pretence, where the lye of character is preserved,
as it were, whole, and brought into sufficient magnitude for a burst of
discovery; yet, mere occasional lyes, such as _Falstaff_ is hereby
supposed to utter, are, for the purpose of sport, best detected in the
telling; because, indeed, they cannot be preserved for a future time; the
exigence and the humour will be past: But the _shame_ arising to
_Falstaff_ from the detection of _mere lyes_ would be _temporary only_;
his character as to this point, being already known, and _tolerated for
the humour_. Nothing, therefore, could follow but mirth and laughter, and
the temporary triumph of baffling a wit at his own weapons, and reducing
him to an absolute surrender: After which, we ought not to be surprized if
we see him rise again, like a boy from play, and run another race with as
little dishonour as before.
What then can we say, but that it is clearly the lyes only, not the
_Cowardice_, of _Falstaff_ which are here detected: _Lyes_, to which what
there may be of Cowardice is incidental only, improving indeed the Jest,
but by no means the real Business of the scene.—And now also we may more
clearly discern the true force and meaning of _Poin_’s prediction. “_The
Jest will be_,” says he, “_the incomprehensible Lyes that this fat rogue
will tell us: How thirty at least he fought with:—and in the reproof of
this lyes the jest_”; That is, in the detection of these lyes _simply_;
for as to _Courage_, he had never ventured to insinuate more than that
_Falstaff_ would not fight longer than he saw cause: _Poins_ was in
expectation indeed that _Falstaff_ would fall into some dishonour on this
occasion; an event highly probable: But this was not, it seems, to be the
principal ground of their mirth, but the detection of those
_incomprehensible lyes_, which he boldly predicts, upon his knowledge of
_Falstaff_’s character, this _fat rogue_, not _Coward_, would tell them.
This prediction therefore, and the completion of it, go only to the
impeachment of _Falstaff’s veracity_, and not of his _Courage_. “_These
lyes_,” says the Prince, “_are like the father of them, gross as a
mountain, open, palpable.—Why, thou clay-brained gutts, thou knotty-pated
fool; how couldst thou know these men in Kendal Green, when it was so __
dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell us your reason._”
“Poins. _Come, your reason, __JACK__, your reason._”
Again, says the Prince, “_Hear how a plain Tale shall put you down—What
trick, what device, what starting hole canst thou now find out to hide
thee from this open and apparent shame?_”
“Poins. _Come, let’s hear, __JACK__, what trick hast thou now?_”
All this clearly refers to _Falstaff_’s lyes only _as such_; and the
objection seems to be, that he had not told them well, and with sufficient
skill and probability. Indeed nothing seems to have been required of
_Falstaff_ at any period of time but a good evasion. The truth is, that
there is so much mirth, and so little of malice or imposition in his
fictions, that they may for the most part be considered as mere strains of
humour and exercises of wit, impeachable only for defect, when that
happens, of the quality from which they are principally derived. Upon this
occasion _Falstaff_’s evasions fail him; he is at the end of his
invention; and it seems fair that, in defect of wit, the law should pass
upon him, and that he should undergo the temporary censure of that
Cowardice which he could not pass off by any evasion whatever. The best he
could think of, was _instinct_: He was indeed a _Coward upon instinct_; in
that respect _like a valiant lion, who would not touch the true Prince_.
It would have been a vain attempt, the reader will easily perceive, in
_Falstaff_, to have gone upon other ground, and to have aimed at
justifying his Courage by a serious vindication: This would have been to
have mistaken the true point of argument: It was his _lyes_, not his
_Courage_, which was really in question. There was besides no getting out
of the toils in which he had entangled himself: If he was not, he ought at
least, by his own shewing, to have _been at half-sword with a dozen of
them two hours together_; whereas, it unfortunately appears, and that too
evidently to be evaded, that he had run with singular celerity from _two_,
after the exchange of _a few __ blows_ only. This precluded _Falstaff_
from all rational defence in his own person;—but it has not precluded me,
who am not the advocate of his _lyes_, but of his _Courage_.
But there are other singularities in _Falstaff_’s lyes, which go more
directly to his vindication.—That they are confined to one scene and one
occasion only, we are not _now_ at a loss to account for;—but what shall
we say to their extravagance? The lyes of _Parolles_ and _Bobadill_ are
brought into some shape; but the fictions of _Falstaff_ are so
preposterous and _incomprehensible_, that one may fairly doubt if they
ever were intended for credit; and therefore, if they ought to be called
_lyes_, and not rather _humour_; or, to compound the matter, _humourous
rhodomontades_. Certain it is, that they destroy their own purpose, and
are clearly not the effect, in this respect, of a regulated practice, and
a habit of imposition. The real truth seems to be, that had _Falstaff_,
loose and unprincipled as he is, been born a Coward and bred a Soldier, he
must, naturally, have been a great _Braggadocio_, a true _miles
gloriosus_. But in such case he should have been exhibited active and
young; for it is plain that age and corpulency are an excuse for
Cowardice, which ought not to be afforded him. In the present case,
wherein he was not only involved in suspicious circumstances, but wherein
he seems to have felt some conscious touch of infirmity, and having no
candid construction to expect from his laughing companions, he bursts at
once, and with all his might, into the most unweighed and preposterous
fictions, determined to put to proof on this occasion his boasted talent
of _swearing truth out of England_. He tried it here, to its utmost
extent, and was unfortunately routed on his own ground; which indeed, with
such a mine beneath his feet, could not be otherwise. But without this, he
had mingled in his deceits so much whimsical humour and fantastic
exaggeration that he must have been detected; and herein appears the
admirable address of _Shakespeare_, who can shew us _Falstaff_ in the
various light, not only of what he is, but what he would have been under
one single variation of character,—the want of natural Courage; whilst
with an art not enough understood, he most effectually preserves the real
character of _Falstaff_ even in the moment he seems to depart from it, by
making his lyes too extravagant for practised imposition; by grounding
them more upon humour than deceit; and turning them, as we shall next see,
into a fair and honest proof of general Courage, by appropriating them to
the concealment only of a single exception. And hence it is, that we see
him draw so deeply and so confidently upon his former credit for Courage
and atchievment: “_I never dealt better in my life,—thou know’st my old
ward, Hal_,” are expressions which clearly refer to some known feats and
defences of his former life. His exclamations against Cowardice, his
reference to his own manhood, “_Die when thou wilt, old __JACK__, if
manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I
a shotten herring_”: These, and various expressions such as these, would
be absurdities not impositions, Farce not Comedy, if not calculated to
conceal some defect supposed unknown to the hearers; and these hearers
were, in the present case, his constant companions, and the daily
witnesses of his conduct. If before this period he had been a known and
detected Coward, and was conscious that he had no credit to lose, I see no
reason why he should fly so violently from a familiar ignominy which had
often before attacked him; or why falshoods, seemingly in such a case
neither calculated for or expecting credit, should be censured, or
detected, as lyes or imposition.
That the whole transaction was considered as a mere jest, and as carrying
with it no serious imputation on the Courage of _Falstaff_, is manifest,
not only from his being allowed, when the laugh was past, to call himself,
without contradiction in the personated character of _Hal_ himself,
“valiant _Jack Falstaff, and the more __VALIANT__ being, as he is_, old
Jack Falstaff,” but from various other particulars, and, above all, from
the declaration, which the Prince makes on that very night, of his
intention of procuring this _fat rogue a Charge of foot_;—a circumstance,
doubtless, contrived by _Shakespeare_ to wipe off the seeming dishonour of
the day: And from this time forward we hear of no imputation arising from
this transaction; it is born and dies in a convivial hour; it leaves no
trace behind, nor do we see any longer in the character of _Falstaff_ the
boasting or braggadocio of a Coward.
Tho’ I have considered _Falstaff_’s character as relative only to one
single quality, yet so much has been said, that it cannot escape the
reader’s notice that he is a character made up by _Shakespeare_ wholly of
incongruities;—a man at once young and old, enterprizing and fat, a dupe
and a wit, harmless and wicked, weak in principle and resolute by
constitution, cowardly in appearance and brave in reality; a knave without
malice, a lyar without deceit; and a knight, a gentleman, and a soldier,
without either dignity, decency, or honour: This is a character, which,
though it may be de-compounded, could not, I believe, have been formed,
nor the ingredients of it duly mingled, upon any receipt whatever: It
required the hand of _Shakespeare_ himself to give to every particular
part a relish of the whole, and of the whole to every particular
part;—alike the same incongruous, identical _Falstaff_, whether to the
grave Chief Justice he vainly talks of his youth, and offers to _caper for
a thousand_; or cries to Mrs. _Doll_, “_I am old, I am old_,” though she
is seated on his lap, and he is courting her for busses. How _Shakespeare_
could furnish out sentiment of so extraordinary a composition, and supply
it with such appropriated and characteristic language, humour and wit, I
cannot tell; but I may, however, venture to infer, and that confidently,
that he who so well understood the uses of incongruity, and that laughter
was to be raised by the opposition of qualities in the same man, and not
by their agreement or conformity, would never have attempted to raise
mirth by shewing us Cowardice in a Coward unattended by Pretence, and
softened by every excuse of age, corpulence, and infirmity: And of this we
cannot have a more striking proof than his furnishing this very character,
on one instance of real terror, however excusable, with boast,
braggadocio, and pretence, exceeding that of all other stage Cowards the
whole length of his superior wit, humour, and invention.
What then upon the whole shall be said but that _Shakespeare_ has made
certain Impressions, or produced certain effects, of which he has thought
fit to conceal or obscure the cause? How he has done this, and for what
special ends, we shall now presume to guess.—Before the period in which
_Shakespeare_ wrote, the fools and Zanys of the stage were drawn out of
the coarsest and cheapest materials: Some essential folly, with a dash of
knave and coxcomb, did the feat. But _Shakespeare_, who delighted in
difficulties, was resolved to furnish a richer repast, and to give to one
eminent buffoon the high relish of wit, humour, birth, dignity, and
Courage. But this was a process which required the nicest hand, and the
utmost management and address: These enumerated qualities are, in their
own nature, productive of _respect_; an Impression the most opposite to
laughter that can be. This Impression then, it was, at all adventures,
necessary to with-hold; which could not perhaps well be without dressing
up these qualities in fantastic forms, and colours not their own; and
thereby cheating the eye with shews of baseness and of folly, whilst he
stole as it were upon the palate a richer and a fuller _goût_. To this
end, what arts, what contrivances, has he not practised! How has he
steeped this singular character in bad habits for fifty years together,
and brought him forth saturated with every folly and with every vice not
destructive of his essential character, or incompatible with his own
primary design! For this end, he has deprived _Falstaff_ of every good
principle; and for another, which will be presently mentioned, he has
concealed every bad one. He has given him also every infirmity of body
that is not likely to awaken our compassion, and which is most proper to
render both his better qualities and his vices ridiculous: he has
associated levity and debauch with _age_, corpulence and inactivity with
_courage_, and has roguishly coupled the gout with _Military honours_, and
a _pension_ with the _pox_. He has likewise involved this character in
situations, out of which neither wit nor Courage can extricate him with
honour. The surprize at _Gads-Hill_ might have betrayed a hero into
flight, and the encounter with _Douglas_ left him no choice but death or
stratagem. If he plays an after-game, and endeavours to redeem his ill
fortune by lies and braggadocio, his ground fails him; no wit, no evasion
will avail: Or is he likely to appear respectable in his person, rank, and
demeanor, how is that respect abated or discharged! _Shakespeare_ has
given him a kind of state indeed; but of what is it composed? Of that
fustian cowardly rascal _Pistol_, and his yoke-fellow of few words, the
equally deed-less _Nym_; of his cup-bearer the fiery _Trigon_, whose zeal
burns in his nose, _Bardolph_; and of the boy, who bears the purse with
_seven groats and two-pence_;—a boy who was given him on purpose to set
him off, and whom he walks _before_, according to his own description,
“_like a sow that had overwhelmed all her litter but one_.”
But it was not enough to render _Falstaff_ ridiculous in his figure,
situations, and equipage; _still_ his respectable qualities would have
come forth, at least occasionally, to spoil our mirth; or they might have
burst the intervention of such slight impediments, and have every where
shone through: It was necessary then to go farther, and throw on him that
substantial ridicule, which only the incongruities of real vice can
furnish; of vice, which was to be so mixed and blended with his frame as
to give a durable character and colour to the whole.
But it may here be necessary to detain the reader a moment in order to
apprize him of my further intention; without which, I might hazard that
good understanding, which I hope has hitherto been preserved between us.
I have ’till now looked only to the Courage of _Falstaff_, a quality
which, having been denied, in terms, to belong to his constitution, I have
endeavoured to vindicate to the Understandings of my readers; the
Impression on their Feelings (in which all Dramatic truth consists) being
already, as I have supposed, in favour of the character. In the pursuit of
this subject I have taken the general Impression of the whole character
pretty much, I suppose, like other men; and, when occasion has required,
have so transmitted it to the reader; joining in the common Feeling of
_Falstaff_’s pleasantry, his apparent freedom from ill principle, and his
companionable wit and good humour: With a stage character, in the article
of exhibition, we have nothing more to do; for in fact what is it but an
Impression; an appearance, which we are to consider as a reality, and
which we may venture to applaud or condemn as such, without further
inquiry or investigation? But if we would account for our Impressions, or
for certain sentiments or actions in a character, not derived from its
apparent principles, yet appearing, we know not why, natural, we are then
compelled to look farther, and examine if there be not something more in
the character than is _shewn_; something inferred, which is not brought
under our special notice: In short, we must look to the art of the writer,
and to the principles of human nature, to discover the hidden causes of
such effects.—Now this is a very different matter.—The former
considerations respected the Impression only, without regard to the
Understanding; but this question relates to the Understanding alone. It is
true that there are but few Dramatic characters which will bear this kind
of investigation, as not being drawn in exact conformity to those
principles of general nature to which we must refer. But this is not the
case with regard to the characters of _Shakespeare_; they are struck out
_whole_, by some happy art which I cannot clearly comprehend, out of the
general mass of things, from the block as it were of nature: And it is, I
think, an easier thing to give a just draught of man from these Theatric
forms, which I cannot help considering as originals, than by drawing from
real life, amidst so much intricacy, obliquity, and disguise. If
therefore, for further proofs of _Falstaff_’s Courage, or for the sake of
curious speculation, or for both, I change my position, and look to causes
instead of effects, the reader must not be surprized if he finds the
former _Falstaff_ vanish like a dream, and another, of more disgustful
form, presented to his view; one whose final punishment we shall be so far
from regretting, that we ourselves shall be ready to consign him to a
severer doom.
The reader will very easily apprehend that a character, which we might
wholly disapprove of, considered as existing in human life, may yet be
thrown on the stage into certain peculiar situations, and be compressed by
external influences into such temporary appearances, as may render such
character for a time highly acceptable and entertaining, and even more
distinguished for qualities, which on this supposition would be accidents
only, than another character really possessing those qualities, but which,
under the pressure of the same situation and influences, would be
distorted into a different form, or totally left in timidity and weakness.
If therefore the character before us will admit of this kind of
investigation, our Inquiry will not be without some dignity, considered as
extending to the principles of human nature, and to the genius and arts of
Him, who has best caught every various form of the human mind, and
transmitted them with the greatest happiness and fidelity.
To return then to the vices of _Falstaff_.—We have frequently referred to
them under the name of ill habits;—but perhaps the reader is not fully
aware how very vicious he indeed is;—he is a robber, a glutton, a cheat, a
drunkard, and a lyar; lascivious, vain, insolent, profligate, and
profane:—A fine infusion this, and such as without very excellent cookery
must have thrown into the dish a great deal too much of the _fumet_. It
was a nice operation;—these vices were not only to be of a particular
sort, but it was also necessary to guard them at both ends; on the _one_,
from all appearance of malicious motive, and indeed from the manifestation
of any ill principle whatever, which must have produced _disgust_,—a
sensation no less opposite to laughter than is _respect_;—and, on the
_other_, from the notice, or even apprehension, in the spectators, of
_pernicious effect_; which produces _grief_ and _terror_, and is the
proper province of Tragedy alone.
_Actions_ cannot with strict propriety be said to be either virtuous or
vicious. These qualities, or attributes, belong to _agents_ only; and are
derived, even in respect to _them_, from intention alone. The abstracting
of qualities, and considering them as independent of any _subject_, and
the applying of them afterwards to actions independent of the agent, is a
double operation which I do not pretend, thro’ any part of it, to
understand. All actions may most properly, in their own nature, I think,
be called _neutral_; tho’ in common discourse, and in writing where
perfection is not requisite, we often term them _vicious_, transferring on
these occasions the attributive from the _agent_ to the _action_; and
sometimes we call them _evil_, or of pernicious effect, by transferring,
in like manner, the injuries incidentally arising from certain actions to
the life, happiness, or interest of human beings, to the natural
operation, whether moral or physical, of the _actions_ themselves: _One_
is a colour thrown on them by the _intention_, in which I think consists
all moral turpitude, and the _other_ by effect: If therefore a Dramatic
writer will use certain managements to keep vicious intention as much as
possible from our notice, and make us sensible that no evil effect
follows, he may pass off actions of very vicious motive, without much ill
impression, as mere _incongruities_, and the effect of _humour_
only;—_words these_, which, as applied to human conduct, are employed, I
believe, to cover a great deal of what may deserve much harder
appellation.
The _difference_ between suffering an evil effect to take place, and of
preventing such effect, from actions precisely of the same nature, is so
great, that it is often _all the difference_ between Tragedy and Comedy.
The Fine gentleman of the Comic scene, who so promptly draws his sword,
and wounds, without killing, some other gentleman of the same sort; and
_He_ of Tragedy, whose stabs are mortal, differ very frequently in no
other point whatever. If our _Falstaff_ had really _peppered_ (as he calls
it) _two rogues in buckram suits_, we must have looked for a very
different conclusion, and have expected to have found _Falstaff_’s
Essential prose converted into blank verse, and to have seen him move off,
in slow and measured paces, like the City Prentice to the tolling of a
Passing bell;—“_he would have become a cart as well as another, or a
plague on his bringing up._”
Every incongruity in a rational being is a source of laughter, whether it
respects manners, sentiments, conduct, or even dress, or situation;—but
the greatest of all possible incongruity is vice, whether in the intention
itself, or as transferred to, and becoming more manifest in action;—it is
inconsistent with moral agency, nay, with rationality itself, and all the
ends and purposes of our being.—Our author describes the natural ridicule
of vice in his MEASURE _for_ MEASURE in the strongest terms, where, after
having made the angels weep over the vices of men, he adds, that _with_
our spleens _they might laugh themselves quite mortal_. Indeed if we had a
perfect discernment of the ends of this life only, and could preserve
ourselves from sympathy, disgust, and terror, the vices of mankind would
be a source of perpetual entertainment. The great difference between
_Heraclitus_ and _Democritus_ lay, it seems, in their spleen only;—for a
wise and good man must either laugh or cry without ceasing. Nor indeed is
it easy to conceive (to instance in one case only) a more laughable, or a
more melancholy object, than a human being, his nature and duration
considered, earnestly and anxiously exchanging peace of mind and conscious
integrity for gold; and for gold too, which he has often no occasion for,
or dares not employ:—But _Voltaire_ has by one Publication rendered all
_arguments_ superfluous: He has told us, in his _Candide_, the merriest
and most diverting tale of frauds, murders, massacres, rapes, rapine,
desolation, and destruction, that I think it possible on any other plan to
invent; and he has given us _motive_ and _effect_, with every possible
aggravation, to improve the sport. One would think it difficult to
preserve the point of ridicule, in such a case, unabated by contrary
emotions; but now that the feat is performed it appears of easy imitation,
and I am amazed that our race of imitators have made no efforts in this
sort: It would answer I should think in the way of profit, not to mention
the moral uses to which it might be applied. The managements of _Voltaire_
consists in this, that he assumes a gay, easy, and light tone himself;
that he never excites the reflections of his readers by making any of his
own; that he hurries us on with such a rapidity of narration as prevents
our emotions from resting on any particular point; and to gain this end,
he has interwoven the conclusion of one fact so into the commencement of
another, that we find ourselves engaged in new matter before we are
sensible that we had finished the old; he has likewise made his crimes so
enormous, that we do not sadden on any sympathy, or find ourselves
partakers in the guilt.—But what is truly singular as to this book, is,
that it does not appear to have been written for any moral purpose, but
for That only (if I do not err) of satyrising Providence itself; a design
so enormously profane, that it may well pass for the most ridiculous part
of the whole composition.
But if vice, divested of disgust and terror, is thus in its own nature
ridiculous, we ought not to be surprized if the very same vices which
spread horror and desolation thro’ the Tragic scene should yet furnish the
Comic with its highest laughter and delight, and that tears, and mirth,
and even humour and wit itself, should grow from the same root of
incongruity: For what is humour in the humourist, but incongruity, whether
of sentiment, conduct, or manners? What in the man of humour, but a quick
discernment and keen sensibility of these incongruities? And what is wit
itself, without presuming however to give a complete definition where so
many have failed, but a talent, for the most part, of marking with force
and vivacity unexpected points of likeness in things supposed incongruous,
and points of incongruity in things supposed alike: And hence it is that
wit and humour, tho’ always distinguished, are so often coupled together;
it being very possible, I suppose, to be a man of humour without wit; but
I think not a man of wit without humour.
But I have here raised so much new matter, that the reader may be out of
hope of seeing this argument, any more than the tale of _Tristram_,
brought to a conclusion: He may suppose me now prepared to turn my pen to
a moral, or to a dramatic Essay, or ready to draw the line between vice
and virtue, or Comedy and Tragedy, as fancy shall lead the way;—But he is
happily mistaken; I am pressing earnestly, and not without some
impatience, to a conclusion. The principles I have now opened are
necessary to be considered for the purpose of estimating the character of
_Falstaff_, considered as relatively to human nature: I shall then reduce
him with all possible dispatch to his Theatric condition, and restore him,
I hope, without injury, to the stage.
There is indeed a vein or two of argument running through the matter that
now surrounds me, which I might open for my own more peculiar purposes;
but which, having resisted much greater temptations, I shall wholly
desert. It ought not, however, to be forgotten, that if _Shakespeare_ has
used arts to abate our respect of _Falstaff_, it should follow by just
inference, that, without such arts, his character would have grown into a
_respect_ inconsistent with laughter; and that yet, without Courage, he
could not have been respectable at all;—that it required nothing less than
the union of ability and Courage to support his other more accidental
qualities with any tolerable coherence. Courage and Ability are first
principles of Character, and not to be destroyed whilst the united frame
of body and mind continues whole and unimpaired; they are the pillars on
which he stands firm in spight of all his vices and disgraces;—but if we
should take Courage away, and reckon Cowardice among his other defects,
all the intelligence and wit in the world could not support him through a
single Play.
The effect of taking away the influence of this quality upon the manners
of a character, tho’ the quality and the influence be assumed only, is
evident in the cases of _Parolles_ and _Bobadil_. _Parolles_, at least,
did not seem to want wit; but both these characters are reduced almost to
non-entity, and, after their disgraces, walk only thro’ a scene or two,
the mere mockery of their former existence. _Parolles_ was so changed,
that neither the _fool_, nor the old lord _Le-feu_, could readily
recollect his person; and his wit seemed to be annihilated with his
Courage.
Let it not be here objected that _Falstaff_ is universally considered as a
Coward;—we do indeed call him so; but that is nothing, if the character
itself does not act from any consciousness of this kind, and if our
Feelings take his part, and revolt against our understanding.
As to the arts by which _Shakespeare_ has contrived to obscure the vices
of _Falstaff_, they are such as, being subservient only to the mirth of
the Play, I do not feel myself obliged to detail.
But it may be well worth our curiosity to inquire into the composition of
_Falstaff_’s character.—Every man we may observe has two characters; that
is, every man may be seen externally, and from without;—or a section may
be made of him, and he may be illuminated from within.
Of the external character of _Falstaff_, we can scarcely be said to have
any steady view. _Jack Falstaff_ we are familiar with, but _Sir John_ was
better known, it seems, _to the rest of Europe_, than to his intimate
companions; yet we have so many glimpses of him, and he is opened to us
occasionally in such various points of view, that we cannot be mistaken in
describing him as a man of birth and fashion, bred up in all the learning
and accomplishments of the times;—of ability and Courage equal to any
situation, and capable by nature of the highest affairs; trained to arms,
and possessing the tone, the deportment, and the manners of a
gentleman;—but yet these accomplishments and advantages seem to hang loose
on him, and to be worn with a slovenly carelessness and inattention: A too
great indulgence of the qualities of humour and wit seems to draw him too
much one way, and to destroy the grace and orderly arrangement of his
other accomplishments;—and hence he becomes strongly marked for one
advantage, to the injury, and almost forgetfulness in the beholder, of all
the rest. Some of his vices likewise strike through, and stain his
Exterior;—his modes of speech betray a certain licentiousness of mind; and
that high Aristocratic tone which belonged to his situation was pushed on,
and aggravated into unfeeling insolence and oppression. “_It is not a
confirmed brow_,” says the Chief Justice, “_nor the throng of words that
come with such more than impudent sauciness from you, can thrust me from a
level consideration_”: “_My lord_,” answers _Falstaff_, “_you call
honourable boldness impudent sauciness. If a man will court’sie and say
nothing, he is virtuous: No, my lord, my humble duty remembered, I will
not be your suitor. I say to you I desire deliverance from these officers,
being upon hasty employment in the King’s affairs._” “_You speak_,”
replies the Chief Justice, “_as having power to do wrong._”—His whole
behaviour to the Chief Justice, whom he despairs of winning by flattery,
is singularly insolent; and the reader will remember many instances of his
insolence to others: Nor are his manners always free from the taint of
vulgar society;—“_This is the right fencing grace, my lord_,” says he to
the Chief Justice, with great impropriety of manners, “_tap for tap, and
so part fair_”: “_Now the lord lighten thee,_” is the reflection of the
Chief Justice, “_thou art a very great fool._”—Such a character as I have
here described, strengthened with that vigour, force, and alacrity of
mind, of which he is possessed, must have spread terror and dismay thro’
the ignorant, the timid, the modest, and the weak: Yet is he however, when
occasion requires, capable of much accommodation and flattery;—and in
order to obtain the protection and patronage of the great, so convenient
to his vices and his poverty, he was put under the daily necessity of
practising and improving these arts; a baseness which he compensates to
himself, like other unprincipled men, by an increase of insolence towards
his inferiors.—There is also a natural activity about _Falstaff_ which,
for want of proper employment, shews itself in a kind of swell or bustle,
which seems to correspond with his bulk, as if his mind had inflated his
body, and demanded a habitation of no less circumference: Thus conditioned
he rolls (in the language of _Ossian_) like a _Whale of Ocean_, scattering
the smaller fry; but affording, in his turn, noble contention to _Hal_ and
_Poins_; who, to keep up the allusion, I may be allowed on this occasion
to compare to the Thresher and the Sword-fish.
To this part of _Falstaff_’s character, many things which he does and
says, and which appear unaccountably natural, are to be referred.
We are next to see him _from within_: And here we shall behold him most
villainously unprincipled and debauched; possessing indeed the same
Courage and ability, yet stained with numerous vices, unsuited not only to
his primary qualities, but to his age, corpulency, rank, and
profession;—reduced by these vices to a state of dependence, yet
resolutely bent to indulge them at any price. These vices have been
already enumerated; they are many, and become still more intolerable by an
excess of unfeeling insolence on one hand, and of base accommodation on
the other.
But what then, after all, is become of _old Jack_? Is this the jovial
delightful companion—_Falstaff_, the favourite and the boast of the
Stage?—by no means. But it is, I think however, the _Falstaff_ of Nature;
the very stuff out of which the _Stage Falstaff_ is composed; nor was it
possible, I believe, out of any other materials he could have been formed.
From this disagreeable draught we shall be able, I trust, by a proper
disposition of light and shade, and from the influence of compression of
external things, to produce _plump Jack_, the life of humour, the spirit
of pleasantry, and the soul of mirth.
To this end, _Falstaff_ must no longer be considered as a single
independent character, but grouped, as we find him shewn to us in the
Play;—his ability must be disgraced by buffoonery, and his Courage by
circumstances of imputation; and those qualities be thereupon reduced into
subjects of mirth and laughter:—His vices must be concealed at each end
from vicious design and evil effect, and must thereupon be turned into
incongruities, and assume the name of humour only;—his insolence must be
repressed by the superior tone of _Hal_ and _Poins_, and take the softer
name of spirit only, or alacrity of mind;—his state of dependence, his
temper of accommodation, and his activity, must fall in precisely with the
indulgence of his humours; that is, he must thrive best and flatter most,
by being extravagantly incongruous; and his own tendency, impelled by so
much activity, will carry him with perfect ease and freedom to all the
necessary excesses. But why, it may be asked, should incongruities
recommend _Falstaff_ to the favour of the Prince?—Because the Prince is
supposed to possess a high relish of humour and to have a temper and a
force about him, which, whatever was his pursuit, delighted in excess.
This, _Falstaff_ is supposed perfectly to comprehend; and thereupon not
only to indulge himself in all kinds of incongruity, but to lend out his
own superior wit and humour against himself, and to heighten the ridicule
by all the tricks and arts of buffoonery for which his corpulence, his
age, and situation, furnish such excellent materials. This compleats the
Dramatic character of _Falstaff_, and gives him that appearance of perfect
good-nature, pleasantry, mellowness, and hilarity of mind, for which we
admire and almost love him, tho’ we feel certain reserves which forbid our
going that length; the true reason of which is, that there will be always
found a difference between mere appearances and reality: Nor are we, nor
can we be, insensible that whenever the action of external influence upon
him is in whole or in part relaxed, the character restores itself
proportionably to its more unpleasing condition.
A character really possessing the qualities which are on the stage imputed
to _Falstaff_, would be best shewn by its own natural energy; the least
compression would disorder it, and make us feel for it all the pain of
sympathy: It is the artificial condition of _Falstaff_ which is the source
of our delight; we enjoy his distresses, we _gird at him_ ourselves, and
urge the sport without the least alloy of compassion; and we give him,
when the laugh is over, undeserved credit for the pleasure we enjoyed. If
any one thinks that these observations are the effect of too much
refinement, and that there was in truth more of chance in the case than of
management or design, let him try his own luck;—perhaps he may draw out of
the wheel of fortune a _Macbeth_, an _Othello_, a _Benedict_, or a
_Falstaff_.
Such, I think, is the true character of this extraordinary buffoon; and
from hence we may discern for what special purposes _Shakespeare_ has
given him talents and qualities, which were to be afterwards obscured, and
perverted to ends opposite to their nature; it was clearly to furnish out
a Stage buffoon of a peculiar sort; a kind of Game-bull which would stand
the baiting thro’ a hundred Plays, and produce equal sport, whether he is
pinned down occasionally by _Hal_ or _Poins_, or tosses such mongrils as
_Bardolph_, or the Justices, sprawling in the air. There is in truth no
such thing as totally demolishing _Falstaff_; he has so much of the
invulnerable in his frame that no ridicule can destroy him; he is safe
even in defeat, and seems to rise, like another _Antæus_, with recruited
vigour from every fall; in this, as in every other respect, unlike
_Parolles_ or _Bobadil_: They fall by the first shaft of ridicule, but
_Falstaff_ is a butt on which we may empty the whole quiver, whilst the
substance of his character remains unimpaired. His ill habits, and the
accidents of age and corpulence, are no part of his essential
constitution; they come forward indeed on our eye, and solicit our notice,
but they are second natures, not _first_; mere shadows, we pursue them in
vain; _Falstaff_ himself has a distinct and separate subsistence; he
laughs at the chace, and when the sport is over, gathers them with
unruffled feather under his wing: And hence it is that he is made to
undergo not one detection only, but a series of detections; that he is not
formed for one Play only, but was intended originally at least for two;
and the author, we are told, was doubtful if he should not extend him yet
farther, and engage him in the wars with _France_. This he might well have
done, for there is nothing perishable in the nature of _Falstaff_: He
might have involved him, by the vicious part of his character, in new
difficulties and unlucky situations, and have enabled him, by the better
part, to have scrambled through, abiding and retorting the jests and
laughter of every beholder.
But whatever we may be told concerning the intention of _Shakespeare_ to
extend this character farther, there is a manifest preparation near the
end of the second part of Henry IV. for his disgrace: The disguise is
taken off, and he begins openly to pander to the excesses of the Prince,
intitling himself to the character afterwards given him of being _the
tutor and the feeder of his riots_. “_I will fetch off_,” says he, “_these
Justices.—I will devise matter enough out of this __SHALLOW__ to keep the
Prince in continual laughter the wearing out of six fashions.—If the young
__DACE__ be a bait for the old __PIKE__,_” (speaking with reference to his
own designs upon _Shallow_) “_I see no reason in the law of nature but I
may snap at him._”—This is shewing himself abominably dissolute: The
laborious arts of fraud, which he practises on _Shallow_ to induce the
loan of a thousand pound, create _disgust_; and the more, as we are
sensible this money was never likely to be _paid back_, as we are told
that _was_, of which the travellers had been robbed. It is true we feel no
pain for _Shallow_, he being a very bad character, as would fully appear,
if he were unfolded; but _Falstaff_’s deliberation in fraud is not on that
account more excusable.—The event of the old King’s death draws him out
almost into detestation.—“_Master __ROBERT SHALLOW__, chuse what office
thou wilt in the land,—’tis thine.—I am fortune’s steward.—Let us take any
man’s horses.—The laws of England are at my commandment.—Happy are they
who have been my friends;—and woe to my __LORD CHIEF JUSTICE__._”—After
this we ought not to complain if we see Poetic justice duly executed upon
him, and that he is finally given up to shame and dishonour.
But it is remarkable that, during this process, we are not acquainted with
the success of _Falstaff_’s designs upon _Shallow_ ’till the moment of his
disgrace. “_If I had had time_,” says he to _Shallow_, as the King is
approaching, “_to have made new liveries, I would have bestowed the
thousand pounds I borrowed of you_”;—and the first word he utters after
this period is, “_Master __SHALLOW__, I owe you a thousand pounds_”: We
may from hence very reasonably presume, that _Shakespeare_ meant to
connect this fraud with the punishment of _Falstaff_, as a more avowed
ground of censure and dishonour: Nor ought the consideration that this
passage contains the most exquisite comic humour and propriety in another
view, to diminish the truth of this observation.
But however just it might be to demolish _Falstaff_ in this way, by
opening to us his bad principles, it was by no means _convenient_. If we
had been to have seen a single representation of him only, it might have
been proper enough; but as he was to be shewn from night to night, and
from age to age, the disgust arising from the _close_ would by degrees
have spread itself over the whole character; reference would be had
throughout to his bad principles, and he would have become less acceptable
as he was more known: And yet it was necessary to bring him, like all
other stage characters, to some conclusion. Every play must be wound up by
some event, which may shut in the characters and the action. If some
_hero_ obtains a crown, or a mistress, involving therein the fortune of
others, we are satisfied;—we do not desire to be afterwards admitted of
his council, or his bed-chamber: Or if through jealousy, causeless or well
founded, _another_ kills a beloved wife, and himself after,—there is no
more to be said;—they are dead, and there an end; Or if in the scenes of
Comedy, parties are engaged, and plots formed, for the furthering or
preventing the completion of that great article Cuckoldom, we expect to be
satisfied in the point as far as the nature of so nice a case will permit,
or at least to see such a manifest _disposition_ as will leave us in no
doubt of the event. By the bye, I cannot but think that the Comic writers
of the last age treated this matter as of more importance, and made more
bustle about it, than the temper of the present times will well bear; and
it is therefore to be hoped that the Dramatic authors of the present day,
some of whom, to the best of my judgment, are deserving of great praise,
will consider and treat this business, rather as a common and natural
incident arising out of modern manners, than as worthy to be held forth as
the great object and sole end of the Play.
But whatever be the question, or whatever the character, the curtain must
not only be dropt before the eyes, but over the minds of the spectators,
and nothing left for further examination and curiosity.—But how was this
to be done in regard to _Falstaff_? He was not involved in the fortune of
the Play; he was engaged in no action which, as to him, was to be
compleated; he had reference to no system, he was attracted to no center;
he passes thro’ the Play as a lawless meteor, and we wish to know what
course he is afterwards likely to take: He is detected and disgraced, it
is true; but he lives by detection, and thrives on disgrace; and we are
desirous to see him detected and disgraced again. The _Fleet_ might be no
bad scene of further amusement;—he carries _all_ within him, _and what
matter_ where, _if he be still the same_, possessing the same force of
mind, the same wit, and the same incongruity. This, _Shakespeare_ was
fully sensible of, and knew that this character could not be compleatly
dismissed but by death.—“Our author,” says the Epilogue to the Second Part
of Henry IV., “will continue the story with Sir _John_ in it, and make you
merry with fair _Catherine_ of _France_; where, for any thing I know,
_Falstaff_ shall dye of a sweat, unless already he be killed with your
hard opinions.” If it had been prudent in _Shakespeare_ to have killed
_Falstaff_ with _hard opinion_, he had the means in his hand to effect
it;—but dye, it seems, he must, in one form or another, and a _sweat_
would have been no unsuitable catastrophe. However we have reason to be
satisfied as it is;—his death was worthy of his birth and of his life:
“_He was born_,” he says, “_about three o’clock in the afternoon, with a
white head, and something a round belly._” But if he came into the world
in the evening with these marks of age, he departs out of it in the
morning in all the follies and vanities of youth;—“_He was shaked_” (we
are told) “_of a burning quotidian tertian;—the young King had run bad
humours on the knight;—his heart was fracted and corroborate; and a’
parted just between twelve and one, even at the turning of the tide,
yielding the crow a pudding, and passing directly into __ARTHUR’S BOSOM__,
if ever man went into the bosom of __ARTHUR__._”—So ended this singular
buffoon; and with him ends an Essay, on which the reader is left to bestow
what character he pleases: An Essay professing to treat of the Courage of
_Falstaff_, but extending itself to his Whole character; to the arts and
genius of his Poetic-Maker, SHAKESPEARE; and thro’ him sometimes, with
ambitious aim, even to the principles of human nature itself.