The life of Sir John Falstaff;

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From the Library of

Charles Erskine Scott Wood

and his Wife

Sara Bard Field

Given in Memory of

JAMES R.CALDWELL

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THE

LIFE

OF

SIR JOHN FALSTAFP.

LONDOtf:

PBINTED PY SPOTTISWOOni; AlfD CO.

KEW-STBEET SlJUiHE.

JJFr^

'i-^h^^^

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THE

LIFE

OF

SIR JOHN FAL8TAFF.

ILLUSTRATED BY

GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

WITH

A BIOGEAPHY OF THE KNIGHT EliOM AUTHENTIC SOURCES

Br

ROBERT B. BROUGH.

LONDON :
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, LONGMANS, AND ROBERTS.

1858.

" Men of all sorts tyke a pride to gird at me : The brain of this foolish-compounded
clay, man, is not able to vent anything that lends to laughter, more than I invent, or
is invented on me : I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men."

King IIjiNKV IV. Part 2.

^l^t Writer's gcbicatioit

TO MARY E. r. BROUGH.

My dearest Sistek,

The following pages represent (if nothing else) a considerable
amount of labour — achieved, as you know, under the most trying circum-
stances— which I am mainly indebted to your sisterly care and devotion
for having been able to accomplish at all.

Accept their dedication, not for their intrinsic worth, but as the
only kind of testimonial of love and gratitude just now available to

Your afl'cctionate Brotlier,

ROBERT B. BROUGH.

:f!,uck 27, 1858.

PREFACE.

The nature and objects of the present work require little, if any,
explanation. The whole ran^e of imaginative literature affords no
instance of a fictitious personage, ranking, almost inseparably, in the
public faith with the characters of actual history, parallel to that of the
inimitable Falstaff of Shakspeare. Other creations of the world's
greatest dramatist may be as vraiseonblable and as vividly drawn. But
the peculiar association of Falstaff with events that are kno\\Ti to have
occurred, and personages who are kno^vn to have lived, — added to tlie
fact that his character has been developed to greater length and with
more apparent fondness than the poet was wont to indulge in, — make it
a matter of positive difficulty to disbelieve that Falstaff actually lived
and influenced the age he is assumed to have belonged to, — as much
as to doubt that Henry the Fifth conquered at Agincourt, that Hotspur
was irascible, and Glendower conceited.

r

It was a natural thought, then, for a modern humorist, — using the
pencil and etching point as his means of expression, — a man whose
competence to appreciate and illustrate the arch-humorist, Shakspeare,
will scarcely be disputed — to propose to himself a series of pictures
embodying the most prominent events in the imaginary career of
Shakspeare's most humorous character — in which the illusion intended

Xll PREFACE.

by the dramatist should be carried out by an attention to chronological
and archjBological probability of detail, in a pictorial sense, corresponding
to the marvellous fidelity of historic local colour, which, surrounding the
movements of Sir John Falstaff in the Shakspearian dramas, will con-
tinue (in spite of all material proof whatever) to bring the veracious
records of English history during the fifteenth century into disrepute
and suspicion — from the fact of their omitting all mention of Sir John
Falstaff's name and achievements.

This design Mr. Greorge Cruikshank has carried out in a series of
etchings which forms the essential part of the volume now offered to
the public, — with what success, it would not become the present writer —
his friend and colleague — to dilate upon. It may be stated, fairly, that
no pains have been spared by the artist to make his work conscien-
tiously complete. Every locality indicated by the poet has been carefully
studied either from personal observation or reference to the most
authentic records — (take, for example, the views of Shrewsbury and
Coventry as they appeared in the fifteenth century and the tall spire of
" Paul's " before it was struck by lightning). The costumes, weapons,
furniture, &c., are from the best available authorities. Had Sir John
Falstaff really lived (as it must remain a matter of impossibility to
persuade the majority of mankind he did not), and gone through the
various experiences imagined for him by Shakspeare, it may be very
safely assumed that an eye-witness of all or any of them Avould have
observed a series of scenes very closely resembling the designs which
accompany these pages.

The writer of the letter-press — in no spirit of false modesty, but in one
of pure business-like candour — disclaims any share in whatever public
approval the work may attract. The design was not his but the artist's;

• ••

PREFACE. Xni

and he has simply fulfilled, to the best of his powers, a contract, cheer-
fully accepted, but not drawn up by him. An imaginary biography
of Falstaflf, away from the scenes described by Shakspeare — supposing
the kind of life that must have led up to the marvellous development of
an individuality with which the poet has made us all familiar — might
have been a work worthy an ambitious man's undertaking. The am-
bitious man would, probably, have failed to satisfy either his readers or
himself, — but that is neither here nor there. The plan of this work —
namely, to illustrate the life of Sir John Falstaff exclusively from the
most striking passages in his career, as invented by Shakspeare — was
completed by the artist ere his literary colleague was applied to for his
willingly-rendered assistance. The latter claims no higher place in the
transaction, than one proportionate to that of the fiddler who amuses the
audience between the acts of a play, or the lecturer who talks unheeded
nonsense while a panorama is unrolling.

The author may be permitted one little word of apology, and, perhaps,
self-justification, for frequent breaches of punctuality in the periodical
issue of the work, for which he, alone, is responsible. The concluding
portion of his labours has been achieved under acute and prolonged
physical suffering. This may be no excuse for loose or indifferent
writing ; but, in the memorable words of Ben Jonson to John Sylvester
— it is true.

March 27, 1858.

CONTENTS.

BOOK THE FIRST.

1352—1365.

CHAPTER I.

PAGE

Intkodttctory Ciiapteu ....... • I

CHAP. H.
Birth and Genealogy of Sir John Falstaff . . . . .4

CHAP. HI.
Of the Trick played by Little Jack Falstaff on Sir Thomas Mowbray

and his FOLLOWING; AND IIOW JacK WAS CARRIED AWAY TO LoNDON 12

CHAP. IV.

Of Jack Falstaff's coming to London. — How he saw Life there, and how

HE broke Skogan's Head at the Court Gate . . . .27

BOOK THE SECOND.
1381.

CHAPTER L

How Mr. John Falstaff CAare into ms Property, and was knighted by King

Richard the Second ........ 37

XVI CONTENTS.

BOOK THE THIRD.

1410.

CH APT Ell I.

PAGE

For the most part a Treatise on Heroes and Knights-Errant • . 49

CHAP. n.

How Sir John Falstaff, with his Satellites the Prince Henry and Mr.
Edward Poins, in Council assembled, planned the famous Gadshill
Expedition ......... 56

CHAP. HI.
The Battle of Gadshill ..... . . .59

CHAP. IV.
The Day after the Battle ........ 65

CHAP. V.

Historic Dissertation upon the great Civil War waged between the re-
volted Houses of Percy and Mortimer, abetted by the Welsh Chief-
tain, Owen Glendower, and the Scots, under Archibald Earl of
Douglas, on the one side ; and King Henry the Fourth and Sir John
Falstaff, with their Allies and Followers, on the other : with the
arming of Sir John Falstaff's Troops, and the March to Coventry . 71

CHAP. VI.
How Sir John Falstaff won the Battle of Shrewsbury . . .83

BOOK THE FOURTH.
1410—1413.

CHAPTER I.

Of the signal Victory gained by Sir John Falstaff over the Lord Chief

Justice of England . ....... 94

CONTENTS. XVll

CHAP. II.

TAGS

The same Subject continued : Defence of the Character of the Lord
Chief Justice Gascoigne : charitable Construction of his Conduct in
the celebrated Action of Quickly v. Falstaff . . . .99

CHAP. HI.

Sir John Falstaff an Author Fragments of his Correspondence. — Episode

OF the fair Dorothea and Ancient Pistol ..... 106

CHAP. IV.

Warlike Strategy of Sir John FAi.sTArF : how the Knight assisted the
Yorkshire Rebels against the King's Forces. — Reappearance of Master
Robert Shallow . . . . . . . • .114

CHAP. V.
Visit to Justice Shallow's ........ 133

CHAP. VI.

On the Magnanimity of Sir John Falstaff in abstaining from Participation

IN A disgraceful Action. — Episode of Colbvile of the Grange. . 144

CHAP. VII.

Doubts on the Genius and Testimony of Shakspeare. — Letter from Master

Richard Whittington. — and other Matters . . . • 147

CHAP. VIH.

Mildness of the Spring Season in 1413. — Ditto of Thomas Chaucer's
Poetry at the same Epoch. — Death of King Henry the Fourth, and
OTHER Indications of National Prosperity . . . . .159

CHAP. IX.
Inauguration of the new Regime. — Malignity of the Lord Chief Justice . 173

CHAP. X.

Coronation of Henry the Fifth. — Triumph of the Lord Chief Justice

Gascoigne, and DiSGR./i.CE of Sir John Falstaff . . .178

a

»

Xvm CONTENTS.

BOOK THE FIFTH.
1413—1415.

CHAPTER I.

PAGB

SiK John Falstaff in Exile. — Consequent Stagnation in the Codrt of

IIenry the Fifth. — The Windsor Campaign, its Motives and Results . 187

CHAP. H.

The End of the Life of Sir John Falstaif . . . . . li'S

LIST OF PLATES.

1 . roRTEAiT OF SiK JoHN Falstatf, Knight • . .To face Title-page

2. Jack Falstaff, when Page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of

Norfolk, breaking Skogan's Head at the Court Gate To face page 34

3. The Prince and Poins driving Falstaff, Gadshill, Peto

AND BaRDOLPH from THEIR PLUNDER AT GaDSHILL . „ 56

4. Falstaff giving his Account of the Affair at Gadshill. „ 68

5. Falstaff enacting the part of the King . . . ,, "0

6. Falstaff's Ragged Regiment ..... » 81

7. Sir John Falstaff's grand Manceuvre at the Battle of

Shrewsbury ...... ,» 89

8. Sir John Falstaff arrested at the Suit of Mrs. Quickly „ 101

9. Sir John Falstaff by his extraordinary Powers of Per-

suasion NOT only induces Mrs- Quickly to waTHDKAW

her Action, but also to lend him more Money . „ lii4

10. Sir John Falstaff driving Pistol from his Presence . „ 114

11. Sir John Falstaff (at Justice Shallow's) exercising his

Wit antd his Judgment in selecting Men to serve

THE King ....... „ 139

12. Pistol inforjiing Sir John Falstaff of the Death of

Henry the Fourth . . . . . . ., 171

XX LIST OF PLATES.

13. Sir John Falstaff receiving a most unexi'ected Rebuke

FROM King Henry tue Fifth . . . Tofacepuije 178

14. Sir John Falstaff on a visit to his Friend Page at

Windsor . . . . . . „ 184

15. Sir John Falstaff in the Buck -basket . . . „ 186

16. Sir John Falstaff thro"wn into the muddy Ditch close

BY the Thames Side ..... „ 188

17. Sir John Falstaff, disguised as " Mother Pratt," cudgeled

AND DRIVEN OUT BY Mr. FoRD . . . . „ 190

18. Sir John Falstaff and the Fairies at Hekne's Oak . „ 192

19. Sir John Falstaff discovering that Mrs. Ford and Mrs.

Page have been making a Fool of iiim . . „ 194

20. The last Scene, in the Life of Sir John Falstaff . ,. 196

SIR JOHN FALSTAFF:

% fii0grHpIjjr,

BOOK THE FIKST.
1352—1365.

L

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.

The early lives of heroic personages, born at a date anterior to the invention
of parish registers, police sheets, and sucli vehicles of subordinate renown,
are usually enveloped in mystery. This remark (which is not offered merely
as a specimen of the writer's originality) does not, of course, apply to that
highly favoured class of heroes who may be said to be born to the business,
and to note down whose earliest heroic throes and struggles official chroni-
clers have been retained in all ages ; but exclusively to the work-a-day or
journeyman hero, Avho has had to establish himself in the heroic line from
small beginnings — who has had, as it were, to build his own pedestal in the
Temple of Fame, finding his own bricks, mortar, and wheelbarrows. This
kind of construction, in all ages, necessitating an immense deal of labour and
application, we generally find that by the time the pedestal is finished and
the hero ready to mount it, his condition of wind and limb is no longer such
as to enable him to do so with any remarkable degree of alacrity ; and that
he has but little time and eyesight left to enjoy the prospect afforded by his
eminent position. In other words, by the time a great man has acquired
such dimensions as to make him an object of public attention, it is generally
at the moment when — like an over-blown soap-bubble — he is about to col-
lapse into nothing. And what man who has travelled to distinction on foot
cares — when he has changed his boots — to talk or be reminded of the mud
he has walked through ?

B

2 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

These reflections are peculiarly applicable to the case of Sir John
Falstaff, — the individual hero whose career it will be the business of these
pages to trace. That great man, at the date of those sayings and achieve-
ments which have gained him a world-wide celebrity, was — in spite of his
pardonable reluctance to admit the fact — already advanced in years. His
own accounts of his early life are meagre in the extreme, and, justice compels
us to add, by no means authentic. They are, in fact, confined to a rather
vague statement, that he was " born at three o'clock in the afternoon, with
a white head," and other physical peculiarities, which would lead to a sus-
picion that the knight was not wholly free from a weakness common to great
men of his epoch, namely, an ambition for the doubtful honours of a prodi-
gious birth. A further assertion of early injuries, received through too assi-
duous application to certain ecclesiastical duties, must be regarded as equally
apocryphal. Of the place of his birth, he makes no mention whatever ;
nor do we find, in his admirable conversations immortalised by the historian
Sliakspeare — to whose dramatic chronicles we shall frequently have to
confess our obligations in the course of this history — any allusion to the
character and circumstances of his parents.

But should the Biographer recoil before this merely negative obstacle of
barrenness, at the outset of his researches — as though a traveller, with his
mountain goal in sight, should sit down and despair because he sees the plain
beneath obscured by intervening mists ? Has not the difiiculty of finding a
needle in a bottle of hay (which, by the way, has always appeared to us a
remarkable article to be kept in bottle) been greatly exaggei'ated ? All you
have to do, is to make sure that the needle is really in the bottle. Patience
and a microscope will lead you to its discovery. It may be stated that
between Sir John Falstaff and a needle there is not much resemblance, and
that an allusion to anything microscopic in his case is inappropriate. We
merely anticipate the objection that we may pass it over. The fact that
our knight lived to the age of threescore odd is a proof (by induction) that
he must have been born somewhere, and at a date anticipatory by some
sixty odd years of that of his death. That he had the usual number of
parents is at least probable. That he had received a good education, for his
time, we have ample proof. These are great data to go upon. The needle
is in the bottle. All we have to do, is to separate carefully the musty hay of
antiquity, aided by the glass of investigation ; to plunge boldly into the
mists of contradictory evidence, and push our way patiently till we get to the
mountain, — which, with the full length and breadth of Mr. George Cruik-
shank's faithful historical portrait on our opening j)age before us, is perhaps
a better image than the needle.

INTIIODUCTORY KEMAEKS. 3

Reader ! think not that we are going to trouble you to hunt with us.
Deem not that we should have presumed to appear befoi'e you till Ave had
found the needle, and cleared it from the last hayseed. Like Mohammed, of
the Arabian desert, — or Mr. Albert Smith, of the Egyptian Hall, — we
have been to the mountain ; and, imitating the more modern popular leader,
appear before you, wand in hand, ready to describe the particulars of our
ascent, with illustrations. The amplest materials for the Life of Sir John
Falstaff are in our possession — from his birth, even to the date of that
morning when, at three of the clock, a small white head (we reject the
accompanying phenomena) made its first appearance in the world ; to his boy-
hood, — where the moving panorama will pause awhile, at the court gate, to
show you Thomas Mowbray's page breaking Skogan's head, on that doubly
memorable day that also witnessed an encounter between Master William
vShallow and Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer ; on, past his summer of man-
hood, to his glorious autumn, when our knight reaped sheaves of golden
renown at Gadshill and at Shrewsbury; to that second Indian summer,
when Sir John FalstaflP, round and glorious as the harvest moon, could
still attract the gilding rays of sunny Mistress Page's view ; down to that
cold winter night, between twelve and one — e'en at the turning of the tide !
— when those fingers that of old had grasped the hilt and managed the
target, fumbled with the sheets and played with flowers — when that voice
that had been the mouthpiece of Wit itself, the igniting spark of Avit in
others, could only babble of green fields — till Sir John Falstaff 's feet grew
cold as any stone, and so upward and upward till all was as cold as any
stone, even as that Avhich careless, laughing workmen fell to hewing and
chipping on the following day !

And where found we all this knowledge ? It is no matter. In the pursuit
of our task, we shall reject the pitiful, inartistic plan of modern historians,
who are ever in such trepidation to stop you with their authorities, (as though
a man should wear his tailor's receipt pinned to the collar of his coat, to show
that the garment has been honestly come by !) but will rather imitate the
independent manly fiishion of the old chroniclers, who told their stoi-ies in a
simple, straightforward manner, never caring to say whence they had them,
but throwing them down in the world's face, like the gages of honest, chival-
rous gentlemen, whose word might not be questioned. This rule we intend
observing scrupulously ; except, indeed, on occasions of necessity, when we
may think proper to deviate from it.

Our edifice once raised, we have removed the scaffolding. The public is
invited to enter.

B 2

LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

n.

BIRXn AND GENEALOGY OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.

John Falstaff was born in tlie city of London, at tlie Old Swan Tavern,
near the Ebgate Stairs, at the north end of London Bridge, on the 23rd of
January, 1352. It is to be regretted that the place of his birth, which,
though much decayed, and frequently altered, retained its ancient name and
usage for more than three centuries after the event which shed such
lustre on its humble walls, should have been destroyed in the great fire
of London ; whereby, as is well known to antiquarians, the wharves and
buildings in that part of the town were burnt down to the water's edge. By
those who believe in idle presages, this circumstance of birth in a tavern
will be deemed prophetic of a life foredoomed to be for the most part spent
in such places, and, indeed, to end in one. But such vain speculations are as
unworthy the historian's attention as their conclusion is anticipatory of his
object.

For the extreme minuteness of the details we have been so fortunate as to
acquire on this important event, — even to a special mention of the very
room in which our hero's first cry was heard, — we are indebted to the ac-
cidental preservation of a family letter. The publication of this document
entire, with necessary orthographical and idiomatic modifications, will not
merely simplify this portion of our biographical studies, but will also afford
the biographer an early opportunity of asserting the independent course he
means to pursue, by setting at glorious defiance the rule laid down by him-
self for his own observance in the closing remarks of the foregoing chapter.

(To my bery ticar ^tocct ©ISifc, tijc Entry ^Itrc dTal^taff, of JTnT^tnff tii mnit.

El)i^ tpitl; ija^tc.

"Written at the Gate-house, in Westminster, Jan. 24, 1353.

" My dear Sweet, — I think I am the most wretched man in all England, I and no other
am he. I must fain tell you the truth, which, in my great love and care for thy sweet peace,
I have hitherto kept back, and would have done, cost me what might, had it been longer pos-
sible. I lie here at the suit of one Bruno, a Longobard, for a pitiful sum I was constrained
to borrow of him, and for which he exacts fifty in the hundred usury. And for a miserable
debt like this*, am I to be made wretched, and kept from my dear wife and child ? Did I
not say I was the most unhappy wretch in England ? Oh ! ])ity me, my dear wife ; I am
here in a foul room, with greasy rogues and villains. If I send out for civet to sweeten the

» It is worthy of remark that Sir Gilbert does not admit his lady so far into his confi-
dence as to mention the amount.

LETTER TO LADY ALICE FALSTAFF. 5-

air, the knaves rob me in my exchange, and bring mc in foul stuflf'. Truly I am in the hands
of thieves and robbers ; for they charge me sixpence the quart for thin drugged wine, when
the best Gascon wine is but fourpcncc the gallon in the Vintry. Thou seest how impossible
it is for me to send thee the money thou dost require. Already have I shortened my gold
chain by four links, for meat and drink. I may not part with moi-e, for there be here con-
fined certain gentlemen of the court, before whom I am fain to keep u]) my estate. But for
all their gentility, I suspect some of their number to be no better than false knaves and cog-
gers. For last night, they decoyed me, through my distraction and unbearable misery on thy
account, into play, and stripped me of my last gold Florence, as I do think by foul means.
Oh, my dear wife ! how thankful thou shouldst be to be spared the sharing in my troubles !
Do not grieve nor fret at the thought that they were brought on by my great love for thee, as
indeed they were ; for was it not my zeal to have thee make a figure at court that first got
me in such debt? But have I not cheerfully borne all for thee, — as thy love hath indeed
well merited ? Did I consider my rank and ancestry when thou didst witch me with thy
rosy cheeks and blue eyes, though but the daughter of a low-born trader ? Nay ! I must
dwell on it, for methinks thou dost sometimes rate my love too low. Did I not bear with
thine ignoble kinsmen, till they took to reviling and slighting me ? I believe thou art a
changeling, thou pretty rogue ! and none of their blood. I meant not to tell thee of this, but
I am on the matter, and it must needs out. Yesterday, on my arrest, being at the end of
my wits what to do, I sent a boy to thine uncle Simpkin the Tanner, saying, that in time of
suffering, ill blood should cease, and I would be willing to forget all past differences so that
he would come and release me with his surety. I shame to write his answer ; but that thou
shouldst know, for once and all, from what a churlish stock thy good fortune hath rescued
thee, it must needs be told. He sent back word, that he had thought Sir Gilbert Falstaff had
forgotten all past differences long ago, including a difference of a hundred and fifty golden
marks ; meaning the paltry sum I had of him on my receiving the grant of arms from the
King's Majesty, whom heaven preserve ! I could have wept for shame and vexation.

" And yesterday, our dear little Jack was a twelvemonth old ! Pretty fellow, and I not
near him, to load him with sweets and knick-knacks ! lie should go ever in Italian velvet
and Flanders lace, had I my will. Thou shouldst know this, wife, without telling ; and I
own (though 'tis rarely I have to chide thee) there seemed lack of love and thoughtfulness in
thy vexing me about trifling things amid all my troubles. With a heart breaking for lack of
kindliness and sympathy, I get a letter tormenting me about such petty grievances as hose
and blankets. This was selfish, wife ! The worst part of the winter is past, and the boy's
homespun coat will serve well with a little piecing and darning ; and for nether stocks, there
is nothing like knitted wool. I must indeed urge thee to thrift, wife. It doth not behove a
fallen house like ours, to waste in outward vanities ; except, indeed, the wretched master,
who is compelled to keep up a show in courts and cities. Thou knowest well the shifts I
have been put to, to pass for a man of a hundred pounds a year, and avoid the sumptuary
law. But these things are riddles to thee. I believe thou wouldst submit to see me for-
bidden the use of silk, gold, and silver, in my garments. Thou wouldst be content to see a
man of my standing restricted to two courses of three dishes each. Well, it is not thy fiiult,
but that of thy training.

" I would forgive thee in a greater matter than this, my sweeting, for the great love I bear
thee ; but I am nigh distracted with my sorrows, and know not what I write. Had it not been
for those gentlemen knaves, who carried me to play with them last night (may the foul fiend
seize them !), I should have gone mad. I thought of that time twelvemonth. The whole
matter stood, as it were, on a picture before me. I remembered our landing at the Ebgate
stairs, from the boat we took at Deptford,when thou wast taken ill. Say what thou wilt, thou
shalt never persuade me but it was thy violence of temper hastened thy trouble. Thou wast
well enough till it proved that I had brought thee to London without money, or preparation
for thy condition. I acted (as I always do) for the best. Were there not brave rejoicings at
Court, in honour of the new-founded order of knighthood, that I wished thee to see ? and how

B 3

6 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

could I get the money I wanted, from the churl, thy brother, which he refused, without thy
l)resence ? Thou dost not know, and never wilt know, what I suflered for thee at that time.
I was too much moved to lend a hand, as they bore thee from the boat into the Old Swan.
"When they had taken thee up stairs, the hostess had to ply me with strong waters, in her little
room, for more than an hour. They told me afterwards, I did nothing but exclaim, many
times, ' The Flagon, — where the Flemish bed is ! ' which I had heard them name as the
chamber thou wast to be carried to, and wherein our dear little Jack was soon afterwards
boi-n. (I pray you send down to Dame Cackle's orchard, and beg two of her finest last
year's pears, the which present to master Jack as the gift of his good father.) How I rushed
out of the house when I heard thy cries ! I knov/ not where I went, nor what company I fell
into. I was as one possessed. And oh ! what agonies I endured during the five days after-
wards, when I was kept from visiting or having news of thee, through a rumour of the great
pestilence breaking out again near London Bridge, for fear of bringing contagion in with me,
which in thy weak state would have been fatal. Well ! we shall all have our reward. But
when I reflect that, during that trying time, none of thy heartless kinsfolk came near thee, I
could even but 'tis no matter.

" But first to get me out of this accursed place. If I have not fifty silver marks by Wed-
nesday, I am a dead man. I cannot longer endure the knowledge of thine unprotected state.
Thou hast no great need of thy cramoisy velvet gown in thy secluded life. Lambert can dis-
X)ose of it secretly in Sandwich, where we are not known. (Thou seest I am thoughtful to
spare thee shame.) Let him also ride to Canterbury, with thy golden bracelets, and little
Jack's baptism cup and trencher. They will fetch together some ten silver marks. Thou
canst boiTow twenty marks from Dame Adlj'n, the yeoman's wife. Li times like these, wc
must not be over nice ; and I withdraw the prohibition I have laid on this good woman's visits
to Falstjiff. Thou mayest even call her gossip at a pinch. Make up -the rest as thou canst.
Lambert himself must have saved money in our service. Promise him increase of wage
(though, indeed, the last three years have been indifferently paid), and dwell upon a vassal's
duty to his lord. At any rate, I must have the moneij. When thou hast raised it, let Lambert
gallop post to London, and spare no expense, in order that he may arrive not later than
Wednesday, for the river is already frozen over, and if tiie frost holds, there are to be sports
on the ice, with the king and all the princes present, which I would not miss for a barony.

"I would answer thine inquiries about the blankets and under -clothing, but it is so cold in
this detestable place, that I can no longer hold a pen. Happily thou art spared this.

" 1 commend thee to the care of Heaven, my beloved wife.

"Gilbert Falstaff,

" Eques et armig." *

This Gilbert FalstafF was the tenth in lineal descent from Ilundwulf
Falstaff, the great Saxon leader who performed such signal service to William
Duke of Normandy, on that prince's memorable invasion of England, and of
whose exploits and succession it behoves us here to speak.

A numerous and well-armed troop of patriotic English noblemen had been
enrolled some Aveeks for the purpose of resisting the invaders, but had been
detained, debating, in a truly English manner, as lo the, cousMtulioniil means

* This remarkable epistle (wliicli is justly esteemed the gem of the Strongate Collection)
appears rather to have owed its preservation to the fact of its being scrawled on the backs of
leaves torn out of a costly illuminated chronicle of the period — the authorship of which is
apocryphal, — than to any intrinsic merit of composition. 'J'his fact nuiy be accepted as signi-
ficant of the licreditaiy Falstaff character. — Ed.

ORIGIN OF THE FAMILY NAME. 7

of choosing a leader, till news reached them of the landing of the Norman, at
a distance of a hundred and fifty miles from their camp. They were about to
disj^erse in a panic, when Hundwulf Falstaff appeared suddenly amongst
them, and, by dint of much eloquence, — also, it must be added, of some secret
influences in the camp, wherein he had skilfully introduced his agents, —
succeeded in rallying these disheartened warriors, and inducing them to
accept him as their leader. He led them by forced marches to the Isle of
Thanet, where they bivouacked in a chalk pit ; expecting to come up with
the main Saxon army encamped near Hastings, under prince Harold, who was
notoriously in want of soldiers, on the following day. Here, while divested
of their armour — as had been preconcerted between FalstaflT and Duke
William — they were ftxllen upon by a superior body of Normans and cut to
pieces.

For this admirable piece of generalship and loyalty, whereby the victorious
Normans were spared the opposition of some hundreds of warriors, the flower
of English chivalry, Hundwulf FalstaflT — contrary to the general treatment
of the Saxon proprietors — was allowed not only to retain his own lands (his
title to which had, indeed, been disputed in favour of his nephew, Essel
Falstaff, who, serving under his uncle, had been engaged in the action of the
chalk pit, and died, leaving no issue), but to add to them the possessions of
many gentlemen, his neighbours, who had perished in the glorious engage-
ment above mentioned.

The Falstaff" estates, on the settlement of the land, were found to be as
spacious and wealthy as those of many powerful barons. Nevertheless, their
holder was not suffered to take the rank of nobility, an honour he had been
led to expect : nay, on his humble petition for the lesser dignity of knight-
hood— backed by a memorial of his services to the crown — .he was informed
that he should think himself fortunate to be allowed to retain possession
of his estates, and that the honours of chivalry were not for a False Thief
like him.

This sobriquet of False Thief stuck to him, and has been by many writers
asserted to be the origin of the family name — corrupted into Fals-taff.
Nothing is easier of refutation. In the first place, it is improbable that a
gentleman should voluntarily adopt, as his family title, a term of ignominy
and reproach. Moreover, the name is known to be of ancient Saxon origin,
derived from Fel-staf — felling-staff", or cudgel ; clearly tracing the antiquity
of the house as far back as those barbarous times when the savage German
warriors took their names from their favourite weapons. There is a curious
old record (in the Strongate Collection), of the time of Edward the Elder, in
which one Keingelt Felstaf appeals to the brethren of a Sodalitium, or fra-

B 4

8 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

ternity of mutual protection, whereof he is a member, to subscribe two marks
apiece towards the liquidation of a fine levied on him for the murder of three
ceorles, which he is unable to pay, owing to the straitened circumstances of
his family. He adds, that there is another fine against him for a like offence;
but the victim in this case being only a Welchman, he believes he will be
able to meet it without assistance.

Hundwulf Falstaflf died in 1088, at the age of fifty-four, it is supposed of
a broken heart, caused by the ingratitude of a monarch whom he had so
efficiently and loyally served, aggravated by the unnatural conduct of his two
daughters, whom, in pursuance of his chei-ished scheme of attaching himself
to the Norman aristocracy, he had bestowed in marriage, with the dowry of
a substantial estate apiece, on two poor knights of Guienne, — Philip Ic
Borgne and Ungues le Bossu .(surnamed Bandylegs). These ladies imme-
diately after their marriage deserted their munificent parent for the gaieties
of a court life ; refusing even to recognise him in the jiublic thoroughfares,
except on pressing occasion for pecuniary assistance. The Falstaff possessions
were further crippled in this reign by repeated gifts to divers Norman noble-
men, who being chivalrous gentlemen, with an instinctive abhorrence of
wrong, got up frequent agitations against Hundwulf ; suggesting to their
monarch the propriety of hanging up that chieftain for his glaring political
immorality, and distributing his estates among themselves — men of spotless
integrity. These agitations generally broke out at a time of national
pressure, and Hundwulf found no means of allaying them but the one already
alluded to. Thus, early after its acquisition, were the seeds of decay sown
in the very system of the great Falstaff" estate ; which, as the sequel will
prove, may be likened to a strong man attacked with a mortal disease, who
may live and struggle for years, but whose every effort to recover strength
serves to hasten his dissolution.

The FalstaflTs, in every reign, were staunch courtiers. Hundwulf 's son and
successor, Aymer de Falstaffe (the name had been Gallicised by his father),
was a great favourite with William the Second, by whom he was knighted.
In proof of the good fellowship that existed between the monarch and sub-
ject, the latter is not merely known to have lent his royal master rejieatcd
sums of money (which, owing to the troubles of the reign, Avcre never
accounted for), but is rumoured to have embraced the Jewish religion with
that humorous monarch. This calumny remained as a stigma on the family
for three generations, to the great annoyance of its representatives. Any sus-
picion, however, of leaning to the tenets of Judaism was triumphantly refuted
in the reign of Henry the Second, by Eoger de Falstaffe (fourth in descent
from Hundwulf), who, lacking the means of keeping up his dignity at court,

TETER DE FALSTAFFE A TOETASTER. 9

entrapped two travelling Jews into his castle, wliom, with a view to making
them divulge the secret of their hidden treasures, he placed upon hot plates
over a slow fire, having previously extracted their teeth, according to the
custom of the period. The cries of these wretches (who, with the obstinacy
of their race, declared they wer6 only poor Jewish youths, driven out of the
Empire and in search of help from a wealthy kinsman in London) attracted
the attention of a passing troop of King Henry's private guards. The
leniency of that monarch towards the Jews has been commented on with due
severity by the clerical writers of the period. It is certain that his persistent
protection of those outcasts, in their lives and properties, was difficult of
explanation to all well-disposed thinkers of that time, except on the ground
of an utter absence of religious principle. Be that as it may, the king's
guards besieged Falstaff Castle, and took the two Jews off the fire ere they
were half done. Roger was tried for the oiFence, and sentenced to perpetual
banishment, with confiscation of his estates.

Peter de FalstafFe, his son, followed Cceur de Lion to the Crusades ; and, in
consideration of faithful services, was reinstated by that monarch in the pos-
session of a considerable portion of his inheritance. Peter, who was an
enthusiastic hero-worshipper, imitated his lion-hearted benefactor in every-
thing— even to adopting the Royal mistake of wishing to be thought a poet.
It was a received maxim among the critics of the period, that there was only
one man living capable of writing worse poetry than the king's — that man
being Peter de FalstafFe. Falstaff Park, in his time, was known by the
ignominious title of Fiddler's Green, in allusion to the droves of minstrels,
troubadours, and illuminators who, with their wives and families, flocked to
enjoy the munificent hospitality of Peter's mansion, where (strangely belying
their ancient nomadic reputation) they took up their quarters as a per-
manency. Peter died in 1132, much in debt to the Gascon merchants of the
Vintry, and deeply regretted — by the minstrels and illuminators.

The first act of Haulbert, his son, was to clear the premises of those gifted
occupants ; in which work of ejection he was assisted by a faithful bulldog. He
administered to his father's literary effects by tying them up in a bundle, and
disposing of them for something under the cost price of the vellum to a
Lombard broker in the city of London.

There is a blank in history as to the fate of Haulbert. He is known to
have been a man of violent character, and to have died somewhere towards
the end of Henry the Third's reign. In this reign, several noblemen and
country gentlemen were executed for highway robbery.

Henry Falstaff (son of Haulbert, and seventh in descent from Hundwulf ),
in the time of Edward the First, restox-ed the family name to its ancient

10 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

spelling. Inspired by the successful efforts of this prince to fuse the various
elements of the nation into one common English whole, he attempted to
restore the old Saxon ways on his estate. He called himself Hengist ; and,
amongst other obsolete institutions, revived the Hirlas Horn, with the cus-
toms of Drink Hael and Waes Hael. These — by way of enforcing precept
by example — he made frequent use of in his own person ; till, like many
other inventors and reformers, he fell a victim to his own devices. His
death, however, was accelerated by a singular circumstance. He had a
number of brass collars made, intending to fix them about the necks of his
tenantry, or, as he preferred to consider them, his ceorles, after the manner of
the ancient Saxon proprietors. Meeting with a prosperous farmer on his
estate, one Snogg, the son of Huffkin, he requested the latter to kneel down
that he might affix the badge of servitude, which, he assured him in the
blandest and most engaging manner, was the old English way of doing things.
Snogg replied, that he knew another old English way of doing things,
namely, the way to give anybody a good thrashing who attempted any
liberties with a free-born Briton. Snogg explained this method of pro-
ceeding in a practical manner, and left his landlord (already enfeebled by
copious reference to the Hirlas Horn) for dead on the field. Snogg's life was
declared forfeit ; but as he was very popular among his labourers, and had
some excellent pitchforks at his disposal, he succeeded in keeping the forces
of the sheriff at bay for a considerable period, receiving the extreme unction
at the age of ninety-seven, in the reign of King Edward the Second.

Uffa, son of Hengist Falstaff, was a wit, and court favourite in the reign
of Edward the Second. None of his good things have been preserved ; but
as a proof that his facetious powers were of no mean order, it is on record
that towards the close of Edward's reign he received a crown from the privy
purse for making that unhappy monarch laugh ; an achievement which, con-
sidering his Majesty's lively position at the time, could not have been easy.
What the exact jest was is unknown ; but it seems to have been levelled at
lloger Mortimer, the leader of the queen's faction. For, on the seizure of the
king's person, as Falstaff (dreading the resentment of the victorious party)
was hastening to conceal himself on his estate, he was arrested by Mortimer
himself, at the head of a troop. On being told the name of his prisoner,
Mortimer said, " So ! this is the knave who got a crown for a jest at my
expense. He owes me a crown in common equity ; and by the Loi'd he shall
pay it. Let his head be lopped off straightway." Which sentence was put
into immediate execution.

The above anecdote is in part mentioned by Hume.

Geoffrey Falstaff, son of the sprightly but ill-fated Uffa, lost a limb in the

Geoffrey's magnificent intentions. 11

Scottish wars, wlierein he had greatly distinguished himself. Thus incapaci-
tated from further service in the field, he resolved to devote himself to the
improvement of his estate — which, to be sure, stood in need of something of
the kind. The manner in which he set about the undertaking is character-
istic. He ordered William of Wykeham, the celebrated architect (then
engaged in rebuilding the king's palace at Windsor), to construct for him, on
the site of the old tumble-down family mansion, — which, though dignified by
the name of castle, Avas merely a dilapidated old Saxon grange, frequently
altered and added to at the caprice of its successive owners, — a baronial resi-
dence, fit for a man of his rank and fame. William drew out his plans, and
the works of demolition and reconstruction were set in hand. A splendid
tower, which was to form the corner of an immense quadrangle, to be sur-
mounted by a donjon keep in the centre, was all but finished, when it was
discovered that money and building materials were no longer forthcoming.
Geofirey — always a bad accountant — was with difiiculty made to understand
that the mortgage or even sale of his entire possessions would not suffice to
meet the cost of erecting two sides of the proposed quadrangle. As the good
knight's building mania had already reduced his estate to a bare sufficiency
for the maintenance of his household, the design was reluctantly abandoned.
Fortunately, the main portion of the old structure had been left standing for
purposes of temporary accommodation. The solitary tower with William of
Wykeham's bill (in an unreceipted condition) were preserved by the family
as colossal monuments of Geoffrey's magnificent intentions.

Geoffrey's son and successor was the father of our hero, that Gilbert
Falstaff* of whose character and financial condition a glimpse has been
already obtained from his own Avriting. As he will appear personally in our
narrative, we will dismiss him for the present with a brief allusion to his
marriage. For the most part, the early Falstaffs seem to have married into
the poorer branches of noble families, in order to support their aristocratic
pretensions. This being impossible in Gilbert's case, owing to the scantiness
of his patrimony, he wisely resolved on reversing the rule, and disposing of
the honour of his alliance. He espoused Mistress Alice Bacon, the daughter
of a wealthy merchant of the Wool Staple. The dower of this gentlewoman
established the house of Falstaff" — for some months at any rate — in a position
of something like comfort and solvency. Sir Gilbert never ceased to remind
his lady of the great sacrifice his love for her had induced him to make, in
bestowing on her his name and protection. He was at the pains to do this,
in order that she might feel assured he had made such sacrifice willingly,
and to prevent her debt of gratitude to him from being burdensome.

There seem to have arisen no collateral branches of the Falstaff" family.

12 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

The circumstances of the house, generally, make it improbable that there
should have been any material provision for its younger sons. These seem
usually to have left home, at an early age, to seek fortune ; and as there is
no record of any of them having found it, we must conclude that the evil
genius of their race pursued them, and that they met with various dooms
among the bands of free lances, condottieri, Braban^ons, crusaders, rapparees,
pirates, sheepstealers, rogues, thieves, and vagabonds, with which the history
of those ages abounds.

III.

OF THE TRICK PLAYED BY LITTLE JACK FALSTAFF ON SIR THOMAS MOWBRAY
AND HIS FOLLOWING ; AND HOW JACK WAS CARRIED AWAY TO LONDON.

There is no merrier place in all Merry England — for it shall not lose the
well-earned nickname, in spite of commercial enterprise and j)olitical economy
— than the county of Kent ; that rosiest of the fair country's cheeks, which
she so artfully presents on the side whence visitors first approach to salute
her ; where the giant hops grow like Garagantua's vineyards, and Avhere the
larks fly about the tall corn nearly as big as partridges : the county of all
counties, that is famous for fair maids, monstrous cherries, and all things that
are ripe, ruddy, and wholesome !

Five hundred years ago, in the very heart of this laughing district, FalstafF
Castle — or Folly, as it was irreverently styled by the neighbours — stood, at
a distance of some twelve miles from the sea, and seven or eight from what
was by courtesy called a road from Dover to Canterbury.

It was a quaint old building — situated in a wide, flat valley, between low,
sloping hills. The site appeared too well chosen to have been the selection
of any of the thriftless, blundering race who had held the soil for so many
generations. Rumour, indeed, asserted that the estate had been wrested by
an early Falstaff (taking advantage of an invasion of the heathen Danes to
make war upon the professors of Christianity) from an order of Saxon monks. -
The rich suri'ounding plains — nicely watered by a brisk, gurgling stream,
on the surface of whose waters the word " trout " was written in letters of
burnished silver — and the thickly wooded uplands, certainly made it a very
likely looking monastic site. Still, as the building itself presented no
trace of ecclesiastical architecture. Humour might be safely defied on this
question.

The house was an old three-sided, one-storied Saxon grange, enclosing a
quadrangle. Its original form, however, was not easy of detection at a

FALSTAFF FOLLY. 13

glance. Here and there, where the thatched roof had fallen in, some ambi-
tious proprietor had run up a turret, apparently with no other design than
that of " playing at castles." In one place, a Gothic transept had been
attempted, with a tolerably handsome mullioned window ; but the hall, which
the window had been intended to illuminate, not having been constructed,
that ornament had been backed up with slanting thatch, and served only to
enlighten the family cows, by whom its beauties were, doubtless, appreciated.
Eccentric sheds, outhouses, and supplementary wings of all shapes and
dimensions, — except the symmetrical or the grand, — clustered round the
parent edifice like limpets on a stone. The whole was surrounded, at some
distance, by a goodly moat (fed from the neighbouring trout stream), which
had long been ceded as a perpetual seat of war between the ducks and
tadpoles. The approach to the house was by a drawbridge, that had not been
raised for many years, and was now incorporated with the common road, till
such time as its rotten timbers should give way, and possibly precipitate a
load of wheat or so into the ditch beneath. The bridge was backed by a small
but well-built turreted gate of the early Norman school. In this there Avere
the grooves for a portcullis. But if the iron grillage had ever been furnished,
it had disappeared before the recollection of the oldest clodhoi:)per. A low
wooden gate had once supplied its place, but had lost its hinges, and lay half-
buried in farm-yard refuse. The arched gateway, black with age and
neglect, was surmounted by a dazzling, jaunty -looking freestone shield, — on
which the arms of the family had been newly carved by no inartistic hand, —
marvellously suggestive of a new patch on an old jerkin or a jewel in a
swine's ear.

At some distance from the main building, and close inside the moat — for
Geoffrey Falstaff 's magnificent architectural dreams had conceived the cover-
ing of almost the entire enclosure — stood the really splendid tower of William
of Wykeham, which had given the name of Folly to the family mansion.
This was a most imposing and picturesque object. Though barely twenty
years had elapsed since its construction, it presented all the aspects of a
venerable ruin. Being built of soft Norman stone, which rapidly crumbles
and darkens in our climate ; being roofless and windowless in the upper
stories ; having been utterly neglected and being overrun by ivy and other
creeping plants, nourished by a scarcely credible waste of farm ordures
heaped on the soil beneath, the tower looked like the last proud relic of some
mighty fortress long since swept away by the ravages of war — the original
building appearing like a heap of ignoble fabrics constructed from its ruins.

On the compulsory abandonment of his building mania, Geofii'ey Falstafi*
had been seized by a counterpoise one for economy. He had resolved on

14 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

converting the tower into a mill ; and even went so far as to dam the moat
and construct a water-wheel. He was thinking about borrowing money to
purchase mill-stones, when he died. His son Gilbert, having no turn for
such ignoble pursuits, neglected to supply the deficiency. The dam was
allowed to stagnate and the wheel to rot — adding much to the picturesqueness
of the place.

Altogether, Falstaff Castle — viewed by the light of a dazzling May morn-
ing in the year 1364, on which we are supposed to make its first acquaintance
— presented as nice a higgledy-piggledy of improvidence, vanity, and eccen-
tricity as one could wish to see. And yet it was charming from its sheer
disorder ! Every vagabond species of tree and shrub that would was suffered
to run riot up the sloping banks of the moat (strongly reminding the historic
student of the minstrels and illuminators in the time of Peter). Myriads of
birds kept up an incessant din. Communism reigned as an established prin-
ciple among the domestic animals. The cows, from a defective wall in their
Gothic residence, had free access to the briar-grown orchard behind the
house. The philosophic pig was everywhere. Fowls, ducks, and pigeons
roamed wild without count or restriction among the shrubberies, building
where they pleased a.^ferce natures, and affording excellent sport and provender
to the house-dogs, with whom they were not on sufficiently intimate terms to
claim the immunity of neighbours.

There was one little oasis, of prim, quakerlike neatness, amid this unkempt
desert of thriftlessness. On the left wing of the building a little horn-latticed
door opened upon a garden leading down to the moat. Here the grass was shorn
like a friar's poll, and interlaced with shingle-walks as even and well-ordered
as the galloon on a lackey's coat. It was streaked with little beds of jet-black
earth that might have been dug with silver spoons and raked with my lady's
comb. On these the snowdrops and crocuses lay already dead, and the
primroses were drooping. But the daffodils still held their own bravely. The
Kentish roses were also budding about the walls and hedges in this en-
closure— for it was a sheltered spot looking to the south, and the season
was early. On one side was a straight bed, showing as yet no vegetation,
but studded with little cleft pegs surmounted by wooden labels. This was •
evidently the department of medical simples of the rarest virtues, and was
shut out from its more holiday neighbour by a hedge of apple-trees trained
espalier-wise. Two or three more fruit trees — cherry, apple, and plum —
I'ose above tlie flower beds, evidently of a choice description, and all
smothered in white or pink blossoms. There was also a goodly vine, trained
against the house, and forming a green porch over the latticed door.

There was no approach to this spot but from the house. The two sides

EXCITEMENT AT FALSTAFF CASTLE. 15

leading down to the moat were jealously guarded by stout hedges of black-
thorn and sweetbriar, overrun with luxuriant hop-bines, at that time a rarity,
in what has since grown to be the hop-garden of the world.

This was the private garden of Lady Alice FalstafF, tended almost ex-
clusively by her own hands. There was, haply, not such another at the
time in all rich, improvident England. But Mistress Alice Bacon had been
a travelled merchant's daughter, and had brought more than flower seeds
with her from the land of the patient, thrifty Flemings.

A broad, uneven horse-track led from the front gate by a rough wooden
bridge over the trout stream, and then wound its way to the right up what
had once been FalstafF Chase, keeping in sight for full half a mile till it dis-
appeared behind a hill.

Now, mark what happened at Falstaff Castle on the bright May morning
I have spoken of.

There came, cantering and jingling over the hill and down the chase
towards the castle, a gay troop of cavaliers, with pennon streaming and
steel caps flashing in the sun.

Now, it was a time of peace. Had it not been, Falstaff Keep was in no
condition to stand a siege. And yet, from the effect caused by the sight of
these horsemen, an observer would have thought to hear drums beating and
horns blowing — with drawbridge up and portcullis down in a crack of time.
For no sooner had the sound of hoofs roused a neatherd from a comfortable
nap by the banks of the trout stream (from crossing which it was his business
to prevent the cattle in his charge — the pasturage on the other side being
mortgaged to a neighbour), than he leaped to his feet, and, leaving his coavs
to enjoy themselves in the field opposite, scampered towards the house like
one possessed, as fast as his hob-nailed cowskins would let him, and roaring
at the top of his voice —

" Volk a horseback ! "

There was only one point of strict discipline really enforced at Falstaff.
This was, that on the approach of strangers, the lord of the castle, if at home,
should be immediately apprised thereof. Many awkward accidents had
occurred from the breach of this rule.

The neatherd rushed unceremoniously into the presence of Sir Gilbert
Falstaff, and the lady Alice, his wife, cowskins, hob-nails and all. Fortunately,
there were no carpets in those days.

The knight was pricking arms on vellum, at a little side table, with a
flagon by his side. The lady Alice, helped by two neat little maids, was
mending hose at a window.

" Volk a horseback coming down park," said the breathless messenger.

IG LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Sir Gilbert started up in alarm.

" How many ? What kind ? How far off ? "

" Ten or fifteen, mayhap. Steel-caps, speards, and a penance."

The knight wrung his hands, and rushed to the window to reconnoitre.
It was pitiful to see his distress as he whimpered, —

" Alack ! alack ! 'Tis a knight and his following. Pestilence seize them !
What seek they here ? Certes some Lord of the Court, — and to see me in
this plight — with darned hose ! Bar the shutters ! Say the knight and
lady are at court — at their castle in the north — in Flanders. Plague on
them ! Would I were dead ! "

The hind moved to depart, scratching his head, with a confused notion as
to his general orders.

" Stay, good fellow," the lady Alice said, rising from her seat. She was a
comely English matron, well grown, with blue eyes and golden hair, — yet
fair to look on ; though with a face harder in expression than it doubtless
had once been, for she had been sorely tried in her married lifetime.

" Shame on you. Sir Gilbert FalstaiF, to teach your hinds such base artifices !
How can you hope they will serve you truly ? Bid them welcome, Jankin,
to such poor cheer as we can give them. Why, man ! there is not an inn
within eight leagues."

" Jankin, go not. Art thou mad, woman ? Art thou mad ? Thou with

nothing but a cloth kirtle, and I in this miserable But thou go to ! Thou

art a true trader's daughter."

"Even so. One of those whose office it is to keep poor knights from
starving." (It was a fault of this good dame's, that she would be bitter in
her speech at times.) " I will not send these away an hungered. Come,
maidens, away with the hose-baskets, and busily with me to the kitchen."

Lady Alice, followed by her two little maidens, left the room. The sound
of the horses' feet approached rapidly. Thei-e was no time to be lost. Sir
Gilbert clutched Jankin nervously by the arm, and said to him in hurried
tones, —

" Take thou brown Crecy ; thou wilt find her in the orchard (if she be not
loose in the wheat); saddle and gallop like wind to Sir Simon Ballard's. Bid-
him lend me his new green velvet surcoat, — that with the gold stars. Dost
heed ? Say a nobleman of the court is with me, who desires one like it. Then
to Dame Adlyn, the yeoman's wife. Say I have a wager with a certain earl.

who lies here, that the weight of her gold chain is greater than iiis. Bid
her lend it me for an hour. Spare not whip or spur, and I will owe thee a
guerdon. Stay! — if these riders question thee, say the knight is gone out
with his hawks. Speed ! "

ARRIVAL OF VISITORS. 17

Jankin departed with a beaming face. He had no great faith in the
promised guerdon, but he was fond of horse exercise.

The cavalcade was at the gate.

" A murrain on them ! " Sir Gilbert muttered. " Would they were in the
Red Sea ! And yet I lack court news sorely. Pray Heaven that miser
Ballard, and that farmer's jade, Adlyn, stand me in good stead."

Sir Gilbert having impressed upon the household the fiction he was
desirous of keeping up, retired to bite his nails in a garret, till such time as
Jankin should return with the boi'rowed plumes.

The visitors were met at the gate by one of Lady Alice's little maids.
Falstaff was rather bare in the commodity of men-servants, and those it
possessed were none of the most presentable. Master Lambert, the Reve or
Steward, who was believed to be much richer than his master, had been
called to Sandwich on business of his own, leaving his master's to take care
of itself.

The leader of the cavalcade was a handsome young man of some one or

two and twenty. He was

■ " a doughty swaine;

White was his face as pandemaine,

His lippes red as rose.
His rudde is like scarlet in grain,
And I you tell in good certain,
He had a seemly nose.

" His here his berde was like safroun,
That to his girdle raught adoun ;

His shoon of cordewane ;
Of Brugges were his hosen broun,
His robe was of ciclatoun,

That coste many a Jane."

Read further the description of Sir Thopas, and you will have a good
idea of the sort of mediceval exquisite who announced himself to the little
maiden as Sir Thomas Mowbray, who having, with certain other poor
gentlemen of his company, mistaken his way, was desirous of paying his
respects to the fair lady of the castle.

The little maid, with much blushing, but going through her task right
cleverly, invited them to enter, and pointed out to them where their steeds
might be bestowed. She then led the way to the hall, where spiced sack,
and, what was then termed, a " shoeing-horn," but what, in this unpoetical
age, we call broiled rashers of bacon, awaited them, spread temptingly on a
snowy napkin.

Then the little maid told them, in a pretty set speech, that her mistress
would be with them presently, if they would be so good as to entertain them-

c

18 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

selves the while ; adding (and here the little maid blushed, as with positive
shame,) that Sir Gilbert Falstaff was gone out with his falcons, but would
doubtless be home in time to welcome his guests to their poor family dinner.

The visitors fell busily to work on the sack, and used the shoeing-horn
unmercifully. It would seem that they required no other entertainment,
having brought in some excellent jest with them, at which they had been
laughing immoderately, Avhen the little maid first met them at the gate, and
which kept them laughing, at intervals, for a good half-hour after their being
seated at table ; at the end of which time Jankin was seen to gallop into the
courtyard on Brown Crecy — now white Crecy with foam — with a bundle
before him on the saddle. Jankin appeared in high spirits, and had indeed
enjoyed his ride immensely.

The travellers only checked their laughter, when, a few minutes later, the
hangings were raised, and Sir Gilbert Falstaff entered the hall, leading the
lady Alice by the hand. The knight wore a green velvet surcoat, embroi-
dered with golden stars, and twirled a massive gold chain, as became a
gentleman of his rank and ancestry. His dame was clad in a plain cloth
gown, without ornament, befitting her origin as a wool-merchant's daughter.

The visitors were welcomed by Sir Gilbert Falstaff with much ceremony.

" You take us by surprise, fair Sirs," he said, after the exchange of many
formal salutations, " and must fain content you with our daily fare. Poor
country folk. Sir Thomas ! (How does your honoured father, Sir ?) Had we

known of your coming, then, — a welcome more befitting But I am glad

to see you merry, gentlemen."

This was to Sir Thomas Mowbray's two esquires, who, not joining in the
conversation, had bethought them of their late jest, and were convulsed once
more.

Sir Gilbert liked not laughter in his presence. He always imagined
himself to be its object.

" Nay, Sir Gilbert," said the young knight, " forgive their lack of manners.
We have all had good cause for laughter, on our way hithei*, as you shall own
when you have heard the jest."

Sir Gilbert felt relieved. They were not laughing at him. He twiddled
Mistress Adlyn's gold chain with courtly ease, and simpered, —

" Doubtless some court pleasantry. Let me know it, I pray you. I am
sadly behind date in such matters, gentlemen. But a fallen house, you
know "

" Nay I " Mowbray made answer ; " the court would be a livelier place to
live in, did it abound in such jests. But you shall hear. I should tell you
first, we have come from Deal this morning, and were seeking a short cut to

jack's trick on sir THOMAS MOWBRAY. 19

the Canterbury road, but missed our scent, like dull-nosed dogs as we are.
When about six miles from here, we met a party of boys "

« Boys ! "

Sir Gilbert Falstaff and the lady Alice exchanged glances.

"Aye, real English, true Kentish boys, — a score of them perhaps, — of all
sorts and sizes. Ragged boys, warm-clad boys, shock-headed boys, and
shorn boys, — after no good, I warrant me, for they were armed with bows
and arrows, poles, cords, and knives."

Again Lady Alice glanced at her husband. This time Sir Gilbert looked
in another direction.

" However, their business was none of ours. We asked them our way ;
and one of them, who seemed to be their ringleader, a burly, flaxen-headed,
blue-eyed urchin, of some fourteen, — who — the saints forgive me if I have
spoken offence ! — but now I look, he was the very image of your ladyship.
N'est-ce pas, Jean ? " Sir Thomas turned to a lazy -looking, handsome
gentleman, of about thirty, who had dropped into a seat at his elbow.

« Eh bien ! Quoi ? "

"Excuse my friend. He speaks very little English. He is a French
priest, though he does'nt look it."

The alleged priest was dressed in the wildest extravagance of the current
fashion ; he had deep hanging sleeves, "purfled" with fur, and the toes of
his Cordovan boots were a foot and a half long:.

" N'est-ce pas que ce gargon la ressemblait beaucovp a Madame ? "

Monsieur Jean shook off his apathy, like a true Frenchman, at the mention
of a lady's looks. He bowed graciously, and showed a splendid set of teeth,
as he replied,

" Mais, parbleu ! est-ce que je n'aie pas dcja dit, qvCil etait fort jolt
gargon ? "

" I believe you are speaking of my own son, gentlemen," was the quiet
reply of Lady Alice, who understood a little French. " He left home at day-
break ; on what errand, or in what company, I know not."

She looked a third time at her husband, who shuffled his long limbs under
his chair uneasily.

" Then he is a son to be proud of ! " said Mowbray heartily. " But to end
my story. He advanced, cap in hand, to answer our inquiry ; and, with
mock politeness, which made us all laugh, told us, that if we would turn down
a certain lane in the forest, some two miles off, we would find ourselves ' in
face of our ultimate destination.' We were well amused at the lad's pedantic
speech, but, never doubting his good faith, we turned down the lane as
directed. At the end of a few paces, we found ourselves in an open space in

20 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

the wood, where there was — a Gallows ! This was 'our ultimate destination.'
We laughed good twenty minutes at the urchin's roguery — for which Maitre
Jean here gave him absolution on the spot — and hav"e scarcely ceased laughing
since. Our ultimate destination ! Ehy Jean ? Nous allons tous Jinir
par la ? "

" Possible ! " said Jean, shrugging his shoulders.

Lady Alice, in spite of the thoughtfulness that seemed to have possessed
her, laughed till her bonny fat sides shook again.

Sir Gilbert looked wrathfully at her.

" The young villain ! Believe me. Sir Thomas, he shall be soundly
whipped for this, if, indeed, it was our son, as I hope not. To pass so
insolent a jest on a gentleman of your standing ! It is like you, wife, to
treat so grave a matter lightly."

" Nay, if the boy come to any harm through my betrayal," said Mowbray,
kindly, " I shall consider myself cut out of all good fellowship for evermore.
Besides, had he not led us astray, we had never caught sight of your splendid
tower, as we did from an opening in the woods, and so should have lost
your kind entertainment. This must have been a rare fortress in its day,
Sir Gilbert."

"Held its own. Sir, — held its own, — and that indifferently. We are a
fallen house. But be seated. Sirs, I pray you. Here comes our humble fare."

" On what errand did that boy leave home this morning ? " Lady Alice
asked her husband, in a fierce whisper.

" Gentlemen, pray Heaven you are all too sharp-set to be dainty," said the
knight, evading his wife's question. His face was deadly pale, and his hand
trembled as he clutched the carving-knife, to do mischief on a smoking pig's
head.

The dinner was substantial and abundant ; setting at glorious defiance
that law of the period, for the restriction of luxury, which prescribed that
"no one should be allowed, either for dinner or supper, above three dishes
in each course, and not above two courses : " and which further decreed that
"soused meat" should count as one of the aforesaid dishes. Nevertheless,
conversation languished. The host, constantly making efforts to apologise
to his guests for the humble fare set before them, seemed too ill at
his ease to enjoy what was in reality a better dinner than he Iiad sat
down to for months. Lady Alice was attentive and hospitable ; but her
last laugh had been forced from her, at the mention of her son's waggery,
before dinner. Sir Thomas Mowbray was fain to talk in French with his
friend, Maitre Jean. His two esquires, and the men-at-arms below the salt,
acted like sensible men : they eat and drank, and held their tongues.

THE DRUNKEN STEWARD. 21

Just after the hartshorn jellies, almond marchpanes, and cherry marmalades,
had gone the way of their predecessors, the white broth capons, veal toasts,
and chicken salads, and had been replaced by new cheese and old apples,
Master Lambert, the Rev^e, was seen riding into the courtyard, — on a stout
grey mare, — full of importance, and, as it shortly proved, of something else.
That fiiithful steward burst into the dining-hall, Avith the unmistakeable
abruptness of an unpaid servant — saluting nobody.

" How now, Lambert ? " Sir Gilbert asked, witli a sorry attempt at dignity.
" What is the matter ? "

" Hanging matter, Sir Gilbert," answered the steward, in a thick voice.
" Flogging matter at least, — caging matter for certain. But riding's dry work,
and talking, drier. Save this fair company, — though I don't know 'em."

Master Lambert quietly drained Sir Gilbert's drinking cup, flopped himself
down in an arm-seat beside the fire, blinked his eyes insolently at the
company, and deliberately proceeded to take off his muddy boots.

" How now, knave I art thou mad ? Dost thou know in whose presence
thou art ? "

" Don't call me knave. Sir Gilbert Falstaff, knight," hiccupped the drunken
steward ; " or I'll have the house over your head. You know I can do it. I
ha'nt got coat armour, nor breeches armour ; but I can pay my way, and
keep my sons from the gallows, — more than you can do at this time of day
either one or the other."

Lady Alice turned deadly pale. Sir Gilbert's lank bones fairly rattled, as
he fell back, half dead, in his chair. The guests looked at one another.

Lady Alice, with forced calmness, rose from her seat, and, approaching the
drunkard, addressed him —

" Speak thy meaning, fellow — for thou hadst a meaning Avhen thou earnest
into this room. What has given thee the right to insult thy master and
myself, before our noble guests ? "

"Insult you, my lady?" howled the steward, suddenly diverging into the
maudlin state. " I couldn't do it. You're a sweet angel, you are, born and
bred ; and I love the very ground you tread on ; alwaj^s did. And when I

see you thrown away on that snivelling gull "

Whether the miserable sot meant gallantry or gratitude is uncertain. At
any rate, utterly forgetting the questions asked him, as well as the presence
he sat in, he made a staggering movement to take the Lady Alice's hand.
Failing in the first attempt — the lady, rigid with astonishment, still remain-
ing at his side — he rose, smilingly, to repeat it.

Sir Thomas Mowbray gave two strides from his seat, and felled the
drunkard to the ground with a well-directed blow on the temples.

22 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Master Lambert rolled, apparently lifeless, into the fire-place among the
wood-ashes.

" You have killed him ! " said Lady Alice, not without a grateful glance at
Ikt champion.

"lam afraid not," said Mowbray, cruelly enough, it must be admitted;
" though, after all, we shall want him alive, to answer a question or two.
How now ! Sir Hogshead. Must Ave stave in that wooden head of thine to
get anything out of thee ?"

The young knight administered a ruthless kick to the prostrate steward,
which sent that man of Avealth rolling into the blazing embers.

The kick and the brisk fire roused Master Lambert Reve to something like
consciousness and sobriety. He rose upon all fours (the threatening heel of
Mowbray, armed Avith a terrible spur, and raised, from time to time, above his
head, forbidding him to adopt a more dignified position), and whimpered out
a lament that an honest serving-man should be thus treated after riding, at
risk of neck and limb, to apprise his masters of a matter threatening their
fiimily honour.

" Come to the point," said Mowbray, raising his heel.

" Master Jack, with Tom Simcox, and Will the Tanner's son, and young
Hob Smith, and others, stole a buck this morning. They have been taken
by Sir Simon Ballard's keepers. Sir Simon swears he will have law of all,
gentle and simple. They are in the cage at Maldyke," the steward rattled
out, with marvellous clearness and volubility.

" So they were the lads we met. Fear nothing, Madam. My young wag
shall come to no harm. Where is this JNIaldyke ? "

" A league and a half from here, by the road you came."

" Enough. You may get up. Lads, to horse ! Jean, en venx-tu f "

" De quoi ? "

" Des coups.''''

" Toujoursr

And Maitre Jean put away a set of tablets on which he had been making
some notes ; and pulled on a pair of embroidered gloves, over which he Avas
at great pains to draw on. several jewelled rings. These Avarlike preparations
completed, he declared himself — in the French language, and Avith a charm-
ing smile — ready for action.

The men-at-arms Avere soon equipped and mounted.

Sir Thomas Mowbray took a hasty farcAvell of his hostess, saying, as he
did so —

" I perceive, Madam, your noble husband takes this matter greatly to
h':'art. Either you lack his sensibility, or he your fortitude" (there Avas some

IN THE CAGE AT MALDYKE. 23

irony in the speaker's tone as he said this). "Yet, fear nothing, I give
you my knightly word to bring back your son safe and whole. We are
strong enough to beat all the keepers in the county and bear the conse-
quences. We owe you this trifling service in return for our entertainment.
Farewell. Stay ! There is yet a duty to perform."

Master Lambert, the Reve, lacking the stimulus of kicks, had relapsed into
his arm-chair and a state of somnolency. Sir Thomas dragged the capitalist
by his hood into the court-yard, dipped his head in a horse-trough, as a
sanitary precaution, and shut him up in a log-house, placing a heavy invalid
plough against the door for security.

And then Sir Thomas Mowbray with his friend Jean rode off at the head
of their troop to rescue little Jack Falstaff.

Sir Gilbert had not spoken a word, nor moved an inch in his chair.

When they were alone, his wife approached him slowly, and said, in mea-
sured tones —

" Sir Gilbert Falstaff, from this day foi'th we are man and wife no longer."

" How ! how ! " said the knight, quivering with rage and shame. " That's
weU ! that's well! All the world will desert me in my wretchedness —
and you the first, 1 might be sure. It is in your blood. Would I were
dead I To be seen in this plight by gentlemen of the court — insulted by my
own groom — all in one day — and my son a felon *'

" For that he may thank his father," said the lady, coldly.

" It's a lie, woman ! " the knight screamed. " I have done all I can to
instil gentleman-like notions into him becoming his rank."

" You set him on to steal Sir Simon Ballard's deer — the man whose coat
you are wearing. You have sacrificed my son and yours — body and soul,
perhaps — to your liking for a certain dish of meat ! You pitiful wretch !
without the heart to rob a henroost for yourself ! "

" 'Tis a lie — a black, wicked, shocking lie !" the knight could only gasp;
but it was plain to see with whom the lie was. " It is the low training you
have given him, made him mistake my words — and the taste forbad company
he had with your blood. I may have said, in the olden time it was thought
good sport for young gentlemen of spirit to carry away a buck ; as, indeed,
it was, in the good old days when gentlemen were not meddled with in their
sports by base hinds — for this Ballard is no better, for all he wears three-pile

velvet, while his betters But 'tis no matter! All the world is against

me. I am the most miserable wretch on earth ! "

" I believe you are, indeed ! My poor boy ! My brave boy ! whom I have
tried to make good and honest, as God intended him to be ! "

D 2

24 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Lady Alice FalstafF sobbed as if her heart would break.

" Good ! Good ! Look to one's wife for comfort ! Not a thought for my
sufferings ! But, if the young fool gets safely through this, I'll beat liim
within an inch of his life. And to try it in the day-time, too !"

" Enough ! I will humble you no farther. You have heard my decision.
Whether the kind, brave men who left us, to break the laws to spare our
shame, — whether they bring me back my son or no, — whether he is to die a
felon, or live an honest man, — from this time forth we two are strangers."

" You don't mean it," Sir Gilbert whined, in a half-imploring, half-threaten-
ing manner. " You would not have the base, black heart to leave me in my
miseries — to be robbed and neglected by servants ? You know I am ailing,
and require little comforts. I can eat nobody's Warden pies but yours "

" I have spoken my last word to you," said the lady, in an inexorable voice.
And she left the room, to watch and pray for her son's safe return.

The poor mother spent a wretched hour, standing far out in the road, with
strained eyeballs and compressed lips, watching the horizon. Her tribulation
Avas shared by the entire household, by all of whom (with the exception of
Master Lambert, the Reve, the favourite butt of young Jack's practical
jokes) the young scapegrace in trouble was greatly beloved. Eough kitchen-
maids and lumbering j^loughmen were out on the road, watching as eagerly
as their mistress — many of them with cheeks as wet as her own.

That hour seemed a lifetime to Lady Alice FalstafF.

Horses' hoofs were at length heard pattering over the hill.

" Here they be," roared Jankin, Avho had stationed himself as look-out in
a high tree. " Hooray ! they'm got'un."

The cavalcade burst down the chase. The mother's quick eye detected her
son, in safety, at a glance.

In a few minutes the horses had thundered over the bridge, and little Jack
Falstaff, leaping from Sir Thomas Mowbray's crupper, was in his mother's
arms.

" My own boy ! My brave, wicked boy ! " the lady murmured, holding
him tightly to her bosom. " God bless thee. God forgive thee ! But what
is this ? Blood ? Sir Tliomas Mowbray, you pi'omised me my son safe
and whole. Jack ! Jack ! What is it ? Have they killed thee ? "

" No hurt, mother," said Jack. (I have called him little Jnck ; but ho was
a strapping urchin of fourteen, and, as Mowbray had said, tlio very image of
his comely mother.) " Only scored across the costard. But he had it iig;iiu.
Eh, Sir Thomas? By the Lord ! mother, this is a brave gentlemnn !"

" And thou art a brave rascal," said MoAvbray, admiringly. " But get thee
indoors. Lady Alice, there is no time to be lost. This Ballard is not a man

RESCUE OP JACK. 25

to be trifled with. We found the doves trying to break their cage ah-eadj,
and had but to help them. There was a strong watch of keepers and
constables set. Master Jack fought for his liberty like a hero of Troy, and
has his wounds to show for it. But he is not safe here." Sir Thomas said
this with a significance the lady too well understood. " He must to
London with me. We have settled all. He is to be my page, and has
promised to mend his manners."

" God bless you, sir," was all the mother could say through her sobs.

" Think of that, mother," said Jack, in the highest glee. " Page to a
gentleman like Sir Thomas Mowbray ! And going to London ! Was ever
such luck ? "

" Luck, thou graceless varlet ! when thou shouldest be on thy bare
knees praying for forgiveness."

" Yes, that's all ftiir and good, mothei'," Jack answei-ed, drily. " But, you
see, the sherifFof Kent and his following might happen to come and interrupt
my devotions. So I think horseback is safest."

" Away ! Thou art incorrigible ! "

" I hope not," said Mowbray, " But moments are diamonds. Find a
horse for my page — I will see to the rest of his equipment. Why, how
now, Jean ! what the devil hast thou got there ?"

" I don't know," said Maitre Jean, in French, riding leisurely up after the
rest. " I found the thing in the cage when we let the rest of the boys loose.
It looked very small to be in prison. And its little pig's eyes twinkled so
pitifully after its leader there, when you took him up behind you, that I
was fain to carry the mite with me under my cloak. There, jump down,
monkey."

And Maitre Jean dropped among the straw of the courtyard a very small
boy, clad in leather.

He was a remarkable boy — apparently about eight years of age, though
from his countenance he might have been eighty. His eyes were very far
apart, and surmounted by gravely frowning brows. He had a good deal of
nose for his age, and mouth enough for any age. He walked with a sort of
defiant straddle, and was altogether a stolid, grim, unrelenting sort of boy.
But he was absurdly little.

" Let's have a look at it," said Mowbray, touching the stolid pigmy
with his whip. " He's very funny to be sure. What's thy name ? — Colbrand
the Giant?"

The queer little boy returned no answer ; but stood, with his legs further
apart than ever, gravely confronting his interrogator, and waiting to be
whipped again.

D 3

26 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Young Jack Falstaff bustled up, leading out Brown Crecy, — the only good
horse on the estate, — hastily saddled for the journey.

" Don't hurt little Peter, Sir Thomas," he said. " He would come with
us this morning : when we talked of leaving him behind, on account of his
size, he cried, — a thing he had never been known to do before, though he
gets more thrashings than any boy in these parts. Indeed, it was he found
the buck for us. It's no use trying to make him talk — he won't. Poor little
man ! he is very fond of me, and will be sorry to lose me."

A snort was heard from Peter, who was discovered, to the astonishment of
all familiar bystanders, to be in tears, for the second time in his life.

" The son of a — ahem ! — keeper of mine, Sir Thomas," put in Sir
Gilbert Falstaff, who had sneaked out on the assurance of safety, and began to
think, with the unexpected turn things had taken, that a little deer-stealing
was no bad family investment. " I am ashamed that gentlemen of your rank
should have been troubled by a single thought for such vermin. Out of the
Avay, thou beggar's scum ! "

Sir Gilbert aimed a fierce blow at Peter's head, which that philosopher
avoided skilfully, and disappeared among the horses' legs.

" Have you aught to say to me, Sir Gilbert Falstaff, before I carry your
son away with me ? Time is short ; and all the keepers and constables of the
county may be upon us at any moment."

"Nothing, Sir Thomas — but — ahem ! — a trifling matter. The horse that
carries my son — being a steed of gi'cat value — albeit I shall never cease to
feel bounden by your inconceivable kindness — yet, as the said horse — I am
a poor knight, Sir Thomas, as you know — as it will be used henceforth in
your service — seeing that Jack is to have the honour of being one of your
household — I would merely say that "

Mowbray cut him short by throwing two pieces of gold in the mud at his
feet with a contemptuous oath.

" There's for your horse. Keep from the heels of mine. There is a cer-
tain kind of man he has a taste for kicking. Now, Jack ! art ready ? The
sooner thou art out of this the better for thee. The air here is not good for
thee, lad."

"All ready. Sir. Good bye, again, mother. God bless thee."

" God mend thee, my boy."

"Goodbye, father!"

Sir Gilbert did not hear the parting salute of his son. He was busy
picking up something in the mud — which he carefully pocketed, dirt and all.

Mowbray waved a gay farewell to Lady Alice. The poor lady had been
playing listlessly with a withei'cd rose-bud which she had stuck in her girdle,

ON THE ROAD TO LONDON. 27

and forgotten in the day's troubles. She let it fall. Maitre Jean leaped from
his horse and picked up the treasure, pressed it to his lips, stuck it into a
" love knot on the greter end of hys hoode," and vaulted again into his saddle
with an air of triumph.

This was very kind of Maitre Jean, for it made Lady Alice smile. And
the poor mother stood in need of some such diversion, however passing.

" Now, lads," said Mowbray. " Whip and spur with a vengeance. No
rest this side of Canterbury. And for London, ho ! "

"For London, ho!" shouted Jack Falstaff, with a beaming face, looking
more like a jovial young prince riding to tournament, than a rescued purloiner
of animal food flying the constable.

And away they galloped.

" Jean," said Mowbray, as they rode up the chase, " do you intend to
chronicle to-day's exploits among your nobles aventures et fails darmes pour
encourager les preux en Men faisant V^

" Parbleu ! Why not ? I have put a good face on many a worse, before
now."

That night, Lady Alice Falstaff begged a shelter with her good gossip
Dame Adlyn, and never entered Falstaff Castle again.

That night, also, there was sore tribulation in the hovel of a ploughman on
the Falstaff estate. Little Peter was missing.

IV.

OF JACK FALSTAFf's COMING TO LONDON. HOW HE SAW LIFE THERE, AND

HOW HE BROKE SKOGAn's HEAD AT THE COURT GATE.

Now you know how it was that the future Sir John Falstaff got his first
start in life as page to that renowned knight Thomas Mowbray, more famous
by his later title of Duke of Norfolk, who, though only a chivalrous Avell-bred
young gentleman as we have seen him, afterwards became Mareschal of
England, and what not, and learnt, in virtue of his high position, to betray
sovereigns, and murder their uncles, and get himself banished, and altogether
to play a great part in history. But with all that we have nothing to do.
Edifying in the extreme is the moral of young John's advancement to this
nobleman's favour, showing by what kind of achievement it behoves youths
of spirit to draAV upon them the early attention of those in power. Had young

D 4

28 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

John merely stopped at home, minding his book and heeding his mother,
ten to one but he would have grown up with no higher ambition than to
improve his ftither's estate and do justice to his tenantry, and might have lived
till ninety and never been heard of beyond the sound of his parish bell, instead
of But it is not the business of the chronicler to anticipate events.

Fain would I tell of the many novel and wonderful things which delighted
Jack's eyes and ears on his memorable ride to London, pleasantly diverting
his mind from dwelling upon disquieting themes, such as forest laws,
broken-hearted mothers, and the like. That rough blacksmith fellow,
for instance, — who, when they were about three miles on their way, came
running out of his smithy, thrusting a mug of ale upon Sir Thomas, and
thanking the knight and his troop for releasing his son Hob, one of Jack's
casre-fellows, — be":2;in2; them to drink to the confusion of all forest-lords,
keepers, taxmen, and the like ; how, when Sir Thomas declined the toast,
and bade him teach his son better manners, he fell to cursing Sir Thomas
roundly, saying he had thought him a true man, but found he was but a
gentleman after all ; and then fell to cursing Jack FalstafF for deserting the
brave lads of Kent and leaguing with gentlemen and oppressors, till Jack
was fain to draw Sir Thomas away, saying that Wat Smith was a good
fellow and a rare cudgeller, only rather fierce when he got upon such topics
as gentlefolks, keepers, and taxmen.

Much would it delight me, too, to tell you of the meeting at Canterbur}- —
where the party rested for the night — between Maitre Jean and an English
gentleman, his friend, with a peaked beard and falling hood — also a clerk
and scholar ; how Sir Thomas Mowbray invited him to share their travel-
lers' supper ; of the compliments that passed between the two writers as
to each other's wondrous gifts ; how each would give place to the other
at table, Maitre Jean saying that the chronicler was less worthy than the
poet, and the gentleman in the peaked beard prettily declaring that the
mere stringer of idle fancies must yield to the grave compiler of history,
and so forth, — until, after su^iper, Maitre Jean having requested the gen-
tleman in the beard to delight them with some of his new Canterbury
verses, which the gentleman in the beard agreeing to with much ala-
crity, but not leaving off in time to give Maitre Jean a chance of reading
a trifle he had recently composed on the death of Estienne Marcel, Avith
which he was anxious to favour the company, they fell to calling each other
names ; how the gentleman in the beard called JNIaitre Jean " Scrivener's
Clerk," to which Maitre Jean retorted with " Town Bellman," and the like,
until Sir Thomas Mowbray threatening to scoi-e them both across the
costard and ordering in more sack, they became like brothers again, citing

PAGE TO SIR THOMAS MOWBRAY. 29

and lauding eacli otliei''s works, and embracing at intervals, until they were
taken up to bed.

Again, there was the odd adventure that befel them hard by Blackheath —
of a strange, gaunt, ill-clad youth, with a small knapsack, who came limping
up to them and seizing John FalstafF's bridle, declaring that our hero owed
him a ride, seeing that he had once rescued Jack from drowning from a
fishing-boat off Sandwich, by swimming to shore with Jack on his shoulders ;
which Jack recognising (though he had forgotten his preserver), Sir Thomas
Avould have i-ewarded the lad with a gold piece ; whereupon the latter said,
No, he would take nothing that he had not earned ; but having lamed his
foot, and being unable to walk, he would claim a ride from John FalstafF as
his due, and then cry quits : and, indeed. Jack was fain to ride into London
with this strange fellow behind him, dropping him at the Southwark end of
the bridge.

All these things, and many more such written in full, might fill many
diverting pages ; but, alack ! if such time were given to each adventure in
my hero's life where would this chronicle end ? We have only yet got to
the fourteenth year of one who led a long life, and, as some assert, a merry
one. As to that we may be better able to judge by-and-by.

Well, here we have Jack Falstaff in London, in his fifteenth year, page to
Thomas Mowbray, afterward Duke of Norfolk.* Let us see the sort of life
he leads there. He lives in a fine house and is gorgeously dressed ; the Mow-
bray badge on his arm he considers an honour and an ornament. He is very
jealous of this, and will maintain its superiority over the badges worn by
other pages, by blows if necessary, and if there happen to be bystanders.
A private taunt in a back street he treats with contempt, unless repeated in
public. He has nothing particular to do — his principal duties being to
attend his master to the Court or tilt-yard ; to kick his heels in anterooms at
the former (where he rapidly graduates as a master of the arts of repartee and
badinage, and acquires much edifying knowledge), and to pick up his master
when knocked out of the saddle at the latter. Certain menial duties, such
as brushing cloaks and polishing daggers, are his by virtue of office ; but he
early shows his powers of command by divining how these may be done by
deputy. When there is a letter or message to be delivered he performs this
conscientiously in person, such like commissions giving him an opportunity of
studying the town and forming his opinions on men and manners. He is by
no means a winged-footed Mercury ; but can usually coin a good excuse for

* " There was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a hor, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke
of Norfolk." — Justice Shallow-, Henry IV. Pt, II. act iii. sc. 2. The Justice naturally
speaks of Mowbray by his later title, as we say, " Arthur Wellesley, Duke of "Wellington."

30 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

delay, or, if detected, a jest to ward off punishment. He has plenty of
money ; for his master is liberal, and Jack is a great pet with the visitors to
the mansion — saying pretty things to the ladies and smart ones to the gen-
tlemen, in return for which he is loaded with presents. Thus, much of his
income, even at this early period, is obtained bj the exercise of his wits.
He mixes in the very best society. The princes of the blood are his
master's familiars ; they encourage him in his wit and impudence to crack
jokes upon their rivals or inferiors — occasionally getting one for themselves,
when Master Jack thinks fit to regulate the balance of society and teach
even princes their level. His observations of these great people, their habits
and capacities, imbue his young mind with the tenets of that philosophic
school of which the valets of heroes are said to be the head masters. He
has taken their measure in fact ; and, placing himself, mentally, back to back
with them, is — not disappointed to find them shortcoming, but complacently
satisfied with his own comparative dimensions. He thinks that perhaps
on a readjustment of the social scheme — but no matter ! Pie keeps his own
counsel and profits by his present opportunities. His acquaintance is much
sought after by numerous aspiring youths of the town — naturally, for he is the
companion of princes. Before these young men he is careful to keep up a very
high standard of the princely character, for those whom he acknowledges his
superiors must be proved great creatures indeed. He quotes a "merry jest
of John of Gaunt," or a " shrewd thing he heard Langley say upon such a
matter," — frequently the choicest and most elaborated sallies of his own
imagination. But he will allow no liberties with his royal patrons from
others. If any of his companions, inadvertently or presumptuously catching
his familiar tone, make inquiries as to the proceedings of " Clarence," or
" Young Thomas," he will rebuke them with " their Highnesses, the Duke of
Clarence and the Earl of Buckingham, if you please," and shroud himself
in dignified reserve for the rest of the evening, as one who has con-
descended too far.

It is natural that the society of a young man with such advantages should
be greatly courted : for, you see, every one of such a person's intimates is
enabled to retail his experiences to a still lower circle as having happened to
himself ; and so on, widening and weakening to the very borders of the
social pool.

One of Master Jack's familiars is a young gentleman from Gloucestershire,
Robert Shallow by name. As there must be language befoi'C there can be
grammar, and poetry before rules of composition, just so, long before our hero
had codified his laAvs of philosophy, he had learnt instinctively to obey a
maxim which he subsequently acted upon systematically, namely — always to

ACCUSED OF COWARDICE. 31

choose your associates from among your inferiors in wit who are your su-
periors in pocket. Master Shallow was descended from one of the oldest
fiimilies in England, whose representatives were (and are still) to be found in
every county. He had plenty of money — at least, his father had for him —
and no wit. He was desirous of the honour and support of Jack FalstatF's
acquaintance. Jack, striking a nice balance between humanity and justice,
decided that Master Shallow should enjoy that privilege and pay for it :
Master Shallow did both — enormously.

Master Shallow was a law student, and some five years our hero's senior ;
but, as usual, mind triumphed over matter (that is, to speak figuratively —
materially there was not much more of Master Shallow than mentally). Jack
patronised Shallow ; Shallow aped, toadied, and swore by Jack. He was
never tired of quoting our hero's sayings and boasting of his prowess. Nay,
he even, in a measure, unwittingly contrived to make Jack pay his own ex-
penses, for in such glowing terms did he describe his courtly patron in his
letters home, that his worthy parents encouraged him in the outlay of money
spent in the cultivation of so distinguished an acquaintance, and met his
claims upon their purse liberally. It is possible that even the parents got
some return for their expenditure, in the pleasure of humiliating their
country neighbours with stories of their son's high favour with a young
gentleman of the court. How little England has changed within five
centuries to be sure !

In fact, Master Jack, with a handsome person, fine clothes, abundance of
leisure and money, and, above all, a devoted toady, was in a most enviable
position. And he lorded it finely over the youth of his own age, at taverns,
ordinaries, and inns of court accordingly.

But, alas ! what is greatness but a mark for envy? Many were the fingers
itching to pick a hole in Jack's fine coat. At length an open seam presented
itself. His courage was called in question. He was accused, in full cenacle,
of having, in the most cowardly manner, deserted certain comrades — pages,
students, and others — in a street row with 'prentices.

The accusation was perfectly just. Jack, on the occasion alluded to, wore
a new doublet, and had no fancy to show himself at court in the morning
with a broken head earned in a fool's quarrel. So he had walked quietly on,
pretending to have heard nothing of the matter ; urging, Avhcn accused, that
having stayed out beyond his time, he had slipped away purposely when he
saw his friends halting, as he supposed, to speak with some acquaintances.

The explanation was coldly received. Jack felt himself, figuratively, far
on the road to that Coventry where years afterwards he distinguished
himself in a material sense. He felt he must recover his position by a

32 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

decisive coup. Mere single combat with one of his own age woukl be
inadequate to the emergency. He walked homeward meditating.

He was attracted by a disturbance in a tavern. Except witliheld by
extreme prudential motives, he could never resist the temptation of a broil.
He entered the tavern.

A burly black-bearded fellow of some five-and-twenty, far gone in his
cups, was challenging a roomfull of people to make verses, quote Latin, fight,
wrestle, or drink against him, declaring that he was the great poet cudgeller,
or wrestling scholar, Henry Skogan. He brandished a scrap of greasy parch-
ment, on which, he said, were written verses which Master Chaucer or Dan
Virgil himself need not be ashamed of, as would be owned when he read
them at the court gate in the morning to the Earl of Cambridge, in honour
of whose twenty-seventh birthday they were composed. He volunteered to
read them to the comjiany, and dared any one to find them bad.

A stolid Thames waterman, with no soul for poetry, bade him hold his
noise unless he wanted a cleft skull. They had had his trash a dozen times
already.

"Aha! what's this?" said the gladiator poet. "One tired of life ? A
worm 'neath Ajax's foot. Writhe hence or be crushed."

To make the scene brief, a cudgelling match ensued. The waterman was
vanquished, and the poet resumed his swaggering antics with renewed extra-
vagance.

Jack Falstaff walked home, musing as follows : —

" At the Court Gate to-morrow. The Court will all come out in procession
to the tilt-yard. All the lads will be there. That fellow for all his swagger
and bulk knows no moi'e about cudgel-play than a pig. Three chances that
poor waterman gave him, which, if he had been trained by Wat Smith, as
I have, would have shortened the battle eight minutes. Pray Heaven he
be not too drunk to keep his word in the morning ! "

In the morning Jack presented himself at the Court Gate to wait for the
coming out of his master, but earlier than his time of service required.
There, as he expected, were a good sprinkling of his companions of the previous
day assembled in the crowd to see the procession to the sports in honour of
Prince Edmund's birthday. There too, to his delight, was the poet Skogan,
parchment in hand, gesticulating and bullying as he had appeared on the
previous evening — merely a little cleaner and apparently sober.

After listening to his rhapsodies for a few minutes. Jack approached his
companions. They received him distantly. Even his staunch adherent and
believer Shallow — who being an arrant coward dared not stand aloof from
the majority — was constrained in his manner.

SKOGAN PROVOKED. 33

" I forgive you, gentlemen," said Jack ; " you have had some reason to
doubt my courage. I think I have an opportunity of proving it. This noisy
fellow offends me ; you shqll see me thrash him."

"What — Skogan — the cudgeller — Jack ?" gasped Shallow, in delighted
astonishment.

" Pray you, some of you ask him to read his verses. I will find fault with
them."

" Said I not — said I not ?" said Shallow, in ecstasies.

One Master Thomas Doit, a law student, of Staffordshire, stepped forward,
and in respectful tones begged the poet to favour him with a hearing of his
verses.

The poet required no second bidding. Tucking his cudgel under his arm,
he cleared his voice and began —

" Oh, royal Edmnnd, son of Edward Third, "

" You lie." said Jack, " he's the fourth son."
"Who spoke?"
" I did."

" Wilt be whipp'd, boy?"
" Ay — when thou goest a week without."
" He can do it ! He can do it ! " cried Shallow.

" Go on with the verses. Master Skogan," said the bystanders. " He is
but young."

"True. Boy, another time "

" 'Thougli fourth in line "

" I told him so," said Jack. " He steals my very words."

" How now ? cock-sparrow ! "

" How noAV ? hen-gull !"

" Send thy father here for a cudgelling."

" He sent me here to look for one," said Jack, " and I am not to go away
without seeing one given."

" Take care, lad," said Skogan, raising his stick. Jack, seizing a cudgel
from a bystander, knocked it out of his hand ; and, following the movement
up with a smart tingling blow across the bully's face, threw off his doublet
nimbly and claimed a ring.

Skogan declined the combat on the score of his adversary's youth.

" Here's a fellow !" said Jack. " I heard him, drunk, last night challen"-e
a score men — knowing well not one of them knew the use of a cudgel :
now, sober, he feai'S to meet a boy who does."

34 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

" You must needs give liim a lesson, Skogan," suggested a bystander, who
was rather tired of waiting for the princes and wanted some amusement ;
" or farewell to your repute." ^

" Then just one bout to silence him," said Skogan, stripping.

The lists were soon formed and orthodox weapons provided. The com-
batants took their places. Master Skogan convulsed the bystanders by pre-
tending to be terribly frightened. He shook all over in the most humorous
manner ; rejected half-a-dozen cudgels as not stout enough for so terrible an
occasion ; aifected to look for a soft place to tumble upon ; and hoped that
some kind gentleman would have compassion on his wife and family in case
of fatal accidents. The cudgel play commenced, and the spectators still
laughed ; but the mortifying conviction was soon forced upon Skogan that
they were no longer laughing with, but at him. The poet had assumed a
nonchalant patronising air, as who should say, " We will get this ridiculous
business swiftly and mercifully over," which Jack imitated to the life, con-
tinuing, indeed, to burlesque every one of his adversary's movements through-
out the encounter. Our hero parried every blow, easily. Skogan's jaunty
smile deepened into rather an ill-favoured grin. He had made the serious
mistake of underrating his opponent's powers. Jack, on the other hand,
had well calculated the weight of the peril he was incurring, and now brought
all his nerve, muscle, and intellect to bear in meeting it. He depended on a
chance for a peculiar stroke — one of Wat Smith's teaching— of which he
had seen Skogan to be ignorant. An opportunity for this offered itself. It
was seized like lightning. A sharp ringing sound was heard. Skogan let
fall his sword-arm, put his left hand uj) to his brow, and tried an unconcerned
smile, as though the thing were a mere nothing, in the midst of which facial
effort he fell senseless on his back with a fractured skull.

This was the manner in which Jack Falstaff broke »Skogan's head at the
Court Gate.

A loud shout burst from the spectators. Shallow wept tears of rapture —
mingled with envy.

" Oh, if I could but do it ! If I could but have such a thing to talk of!
If I could but once say I had broken a head like that I " he exclaimed
frantically.

" A word with you, sir," said a rough, shockheaded fellow, drawing him
aside confidentially.

A flourish of trumpets announced the approach of the princes. Jack's
companions flocked I'ound him, overwhelming him Avilh congratulations and
apologies. Jack affected to treat the whole matter lightly ; the knoAvledgc
that he had more than recovered his lost ground enabled him \o still the.

SAMPSON STOCKFISH THE FRUITERER. 35

beatings of his heart. He had fought with wondrous coohiess and apparent
enjoyment, but had, in reality, suifered all the agonies which a keen intellect
must always experience in an encounter with serious physical danger.

Skogan was carried away to be plastered. It is to bo hoped his poem
would keep till the next birthday.

By the time Sir Thomas Mowbray came out Avith the rest of the courtiers,
he found his page fully equipped, and ready to accompany him to the
tiltyard in Smithfield.

When they reached the ground, as Jack was struggling with a crowd of
men at arms to get through the narrow gateway, he felt his sleeve pulled
from behind, and an eager voice cried —

" Jack, Jack ! don't go in yet. Look here ; I've fought too ! "

He looked round and saw Master Eobert Shallow in a high state of
excitement, dragging a man by the collar, whose head was bound with a
cloth streaming with blood.

" Look, Jack! mind, say you saw it. Sampson Stockfish his name is — he's
a fruiterer — I made him come here to show his broken head, or I threatened
him with another."

"Another head?"

" I pray you let me go, sir," whined the wounded man ; " you have hurt
me sore enough for one day."

" There ! you hear him confess," crowed the delighted Shallow.

" Out of the way, thou cobbler's end," said an authoritative voice. " What
dost thou here among the INIarshal's men ? "

And Prince John of Gaunt, striding through the gateway, laid his sheathed
sword across Master Shallow's head — reducing that warlike gentleman to the
same condition as his blood-stained victim.

Master Shallow was led away howling, by the magnanimous Stockfish.

" Why what eelskin had'st thou got hold of there. Jack ? " inquired the
prince, looking after the discomfited champion.

" A Gloucestershire lamprey," answered Jack. " Your highness would
have done well to kill him, for truly he puts your title in danger."

"How so?"
' " Why your highness is no more Gaunt than he is. He fairly beats your
name."

When Master Sampson Stockfish and his conqueror were alone, the former
very considerately took the bandage from his own forehead — previously
wiping off the superfluous sheep's blood — and bound it round his employer's
head, as having more need of it. He then requested to be paid, as he wanted
to get home.

30 LIFE OP FALSTAFF.

" True ; a silver mark it was, I think," said Shallow, Avho was not much
hurt, handing the sum he named.

" A silver mark. Go hang ! I'll have forty."

" Why it was thine own plan and bargain."

" All's one for that. I must have forty if I'm to keeji counsel. If not,
out comes the whole tale."

Master Shallow compromised the matter for twenty marks on the present
occasion, — and, by occasional subsequent fees, was enabled to bind Stockfish
over to permanent silence. He boasted incessantly of his victory, which he
eventually led himself to believe he had gained. Moreover, he would have
considered any price cheap for an adventure which led to his making the
acquaintance of that renowned prince, John of Gaunt, with whom he was
Avont to declare he had enjoyed a most interesting conversation upon the
political and theological questions of the day.

37

BOOK THE SECOTs^D.

1381.

HOW MR. JOHN FALSTAFF CAME INTO HIS PROPERTY, AND WAS KNIGHTED JV/

KING RICHARD THE SECOND.

There is nothing in the latter and more publicly known portion of Sir John
FalstafF's career to make it surprising that he should have approached the
middle period of life Avithout having acquired greater nominal celebrity
than that aiforded by the registers of retail traders. Such greatness as he
afterwards attained to, having for its foundation a profound knowledge of
mankind, must needs absorb the study of a long life to develop its Aloetic
splendours.

Therefore, having clearly established my hero's antecedents, and seen him
launched on the sea of life, I might fairly take leave of him for many years
to come, as of an adventurous emigrant crossing the ocean, with the perils of
whose long voyage we have nothing to do, and who will only claim more
attention when he shall have cleared his forest and founded his colony on
the other side of the world.

But it must not be forgotten that we are treating of a knight and a
gentleman of the olden time. There are two events in the life of such a
person which, injustice to chivalry and noble birth, the historian may not
pass over: these are, 1. His accession to the inheritance of his ancestors.
2. The time and manner of his receiving the dignity of knighthood.

Sir Gilbert Falstaff, Knight, was gathered to his fathers early in the year
1381. The tidings of the melancholy event were conveyed to his son and
successor, then residing in the English town of Calais, by a faithful attendant
returning from England, whither he had been despatched on his young
master's business.

Master John Falstaff, at this period, occupied apartments in one of His
Majesty's fortresses in Calais, in favour of which he had vacated an official
suite in the Government-house of the same town. Here, for some months, he
had discharged the duties of an onerous but subordinate post, wholly unsuited
to his peculiar genius. Even at that early period the Government of England

£

38 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

was celebrated for a habit of injudicious selection in the matter of public
appointments — putting usually the right man in the wrong place, and vice
versa. Falstaff — burning to distinguish himself in the service of his native
land (and having his own private reasons for wishing to do so at a convenient
distance) — exerted his court interest to obtain a colonial appointment. At
the head of an invading army, or in command of a beleaguered city, there is
no reason to doubt that he would have acquitted himself with satisfaction to
all parties ; but, Government having nothing more suitable to offer him than a
deputy-collectorship of the wool duties (for which, it is true, he was certainly
qualified on the grounds accepted by British Governments in all ages — his
mother's father having been a wool-stapler), what could be expected but a
directly contrai'y result ? The exact deficit in the Falstaff accounts has not
been preserved in the public records. But there is no reason to doubt that it
was on a scale commensurate with the greatness of our hero's soul, inasmuch
as, after a few months' probation, an intimation was forwarded to him that
his resignation of office would be accepted. It is at least pi'obable that the
nation required his services in a wider and more honourable field. But of
this we have no means of judging accurately, an adverse destiny placing it
out of the ex-deputy-collector's power to avail himself of any such pending
advantages. Adverse destiny, in his case, took the shape of an Anglo-French
jailer.

Falstaff, in fact, like all men born to sway large destinies, had a lavish
disregard of trifling expenditure. Like Julius Cfesar, he contracted debts ;
that is to say, as much like Julius Caesar as possible — our hero lacking that
arch-insolvent's facilities of obtaining credit. With two millions of some-
body else's money (about the amount, I believe, on the Julian schedule), what
would not Falstaff have done ? It is difficult to answer. It may be safely
stated, however, that it was from no fault of John Falstaff 's that Julius Ccesar
had the best of him in this respect.

At any rate, having started this historic parallel between these two great
men, we may bring it to a triumphant close by stating that young Falstaff,
like young Csesar, was now a captive in the hands of pirates and waiting for
his ransom.

It was in search of this talisman that the faithful attendant, alluded to in
the opening of the present chapter, had been despatched, on a somewhat
forlorn hope, to England. The faithful attendant returned without it, having
no better substitute to offer than the tidings of Sir Gilbert's death. The
prodigal but philosophic son declared, with a sigh, that, under the circum-
stances, he must try and make that do.

He sent for the pirate chieftains, — in modern English, for his detaining

A PRISONER AT CALAIS. 39

creditors, — a Flemish clothier and a Lombard money-lender. He informed
them of the death of his obdurate parent, with whom he had been at variance
for years, but of whose princely estate he was now the undisputed possessor.
Now was the time for him to show his gratitude to the real friends who had
stood by him in the hour of need ; who had been long-suffering in his extra-
vagance ; lenient even in their tardy severity. What could he do for them ?

" Pay us our money," suggested the matter-of-fact traders.

Falstaff treated the proposition with disdain. Of course he would pay
them — a dozen times over if they liked. But he would be still in their
debt. No ; nothing would satisfy him but that his dear friends should accom-
pany him to England, to assist him in taking possession of his inheritance.
Falstaff Castle was close to the coast — they might see it almost on a
fine day. He would want their assistance in refurnishing his ancestral halls.
He must take them to court, and introduce them to his bosom friend the
young king, with whom (now the unnaturally adverse court influence of his
father was removed) he was all powerful. In a word, the heir of Falstaff
would not be able to enjoy his fortune unless he secured that of two friends
at the same time.

It is no discredit to the intellectual powers of these simple traders that
they suffered themselves to be won over by the eloquence of their great-
hearted captive. They agreed to release him from durance — previously
securing themselves by the most terribly binding documents (such as our
hero, at all periods of his life, was ready to sign with the greatest alacrity)
— and to accompany him to England.

In those days the traveller crossed from Calais to Dover in an open galley ;
that is to say, when he crossed at all : for, in a large proportion of cases, the
galley went down about half way and gave the traveller a premature oppor-
tunity of studying the engineering difficulties of the proposed submarine
railway.

In a still greater frequency of cases the traveller waited several days at
Calais for a fair wind. When it came, the gallant rowers hoisted what they
called a sail, stuck an image of the Virgin in the prow of the boat, prayed to
it — and became sick like men.

Jack and his faithful attendant, being Britons, and endowed with that
peculiar native salt in their veins for which the analytical chemists have as
yet found no name, were good sailors. The Fleming and the Lombard
were bad ones, and howled dismally at the bottom of the boat. The crew
were Frenchmen. No further explanation of their condition is necessary.

When the galley had made about three parts of her course, our hero's
faithful attendant broke silence with —

40 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

" Don't you think now would be about the time, sir?"

"What for?"

" What for ! why, to pitch them overboard, of course."

FalstafF wheeled suddenly round on his seat, and looked his faithful
attendant full in the face. There was approval in the scrutiny, mingled with
compassion.

" And do you suppose, young man," the master inquired, with a transpa-
rent assumption of severity, " that I am going to be guilty of such an act of
treachery ? "

" Then what the plague else did you bring 'em here for?" was the sulky
reply. " They've got your bonds in their pockets. The sailors are all sick
— none of 'em Avould be a bit the wiser."

" Away, tempter ! " said Jack, Avith twinkling eyes. " How dare you lure
an innocent youth to his destruction ? Avaunt thee, fiend ! Vade retro
Sathanas ! "

" Come ! Pm not going to stand being called out of names."

" Then hearken to the voice of Wisdom. Suppose I were to commit the
breach of confidence and gratitude you so insidiously propose, and, in your
own words, pitch these worthy gentlemen overboard. What then ? "

" Well, it would be a matter between ourselves and the lobsters."

"And pray, sir, in that case — who is to pay our expenses to
London ? "

The faithful attendant opened his eyes as wide as they would go, which
was not very far, and a grin of intelligence dawned upon his usually stolid
countenance. Mutual esteem once more reigned between the master and
servant.

A word as to this f^iithful attendant. Two years ago, having borrowed
sufficient money for his continental outfit, and to liquidate such debts as might
militate against his departure, our hero, with a serene mind and an easy con-
science, had entered St. Paul's Church in search of a serving man. A certain
aisle in the cathedral was at that period the central exchange or rendezvous
for unhired domestics. A servant out of place would not attempt such profa-
nation in the present day. In fiict, a beneficent and considerate Dean and
Chapter have wisely placed it beyond the means of such a person to do so.

Our hero passed a great many candidates for employment, some of whom
he rejected as being all fool, others as too exclusively rogue. Neither of
which elements, unmixed, would suit him. At length he came upon a stern
looking young man, with straight thick eyebrows, a gash for a mouth, and a
nose vermilion beyond his years. The red nose argued chronic and peren-
nial thirst. TliiSj in its turn, was suggestive of easily-purchased fidelity.

THE FAITHFUL ATTENDANT. 4l

" My friend," said Jack to him of the proboscis ; "I like your looks."

"You ought to," rei)licd the salamandrine ; "/ have been tivelve years
looking after you.^*

It was little Peter ! subsequently nicknamed Bardolph, in honour of a
fancied resemblance to a nobleman of the Court. What wonderful vicissi-
tudes Peter may have undergone since the memorable evening when he strad-
dled away from home in that very small leathern suit we may not pause to
inquire. He was promptly retained by his old leader, whom he never quitted
alive. Peter took kindly to the name of Bardolph ; and, in the course of
time, believed himself allied to the noble family from which it had been
derived.

Falstatf and his travelling companions touched English soil between Dover
and Deal. Who knows — for history delights in such coincidences — but it
may have been on the very spot where some fourteen hundred years pre-
viously, that very identical Julius Caesar, between whom and our hero so
many points of resemblance have been established, landed on a similar errand
— only with a few more people to back him ?

The Fleming and the Lombard were put on shore alive, to their consider-
able astonishment. Bardolph was despatched to the nearest inn, on the coast,
of which he knew every inch, in search of horses.

Our hero reviewed his position.

" I don't quite know what to do with them, now I have got them," he
meditated. " I am afraid they won't find the FalstafF Estates quite up to my
representations. I must make it out that I have been robbed by servants
during my exile. At any rate, one thing is decided. Tuey don't go

WITHOUT PAnNG FOR IT."

Bardolph returned running, Avith yellow cheeks, purple lips, and a blue
nose, — altogether a remarkable facial chromatic phenomenon.

His tidings were startling.

The lads of Kent had risen in open rebellion, and were devastating the
land with fire and sword. They had burnt and sacked every gentleman's
seat in the county, having hanged such of the proprietors as they could lay
hands on, and were now marching on to London. Horses, shelter, or pro-
visions were out of the question.

Falstaff was delighted. Had he been Destiny itself, he could scarcely
have pre-ordained things more in accordance with his present wishes. He
mastered his real emotion, and counterfeited another. He tore his hair, and
threw himself writhing and moaning on the beach.

His visitors were naturally curious to know what had happened.

The matter was this, he told them — when he could collect his scattered

V

42 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

thoughts: — he was a ruined man. The peasantry were in arms — had de-
clared themselves against the landowners. His ancestral castle had doubtless,
ere this, perished in the flames. Nothing remained for him but a nameless
grave, which he would thank his companions to dig for him on the beach.

The commercial mind is sceptical in all ages. The Fleming and the
Lombard — not by any means sure that they had acted wisely in the first
instance in trusting themselves to the mercies of their plausible debtor —
became doubly suspicious. They held a brief consultation apart, the result
of which was a somewhat lugubrious proposal that they should proceed
experimentally to Dover.

Towards Dover they walked ; Falstaff mechanically yielding to his con-
ductors, as one whom despair had robbed of volition.

Remarkable as the statement may read, it soon proved that Bardolph had
spoken the truth. Smoking homesteads, trampled crops, with here and there
a smouldering rick or coppice, too well corroborated his story. Scared and
crouching figures, emerging from concealment, warned the travellers not to
approach the town as they valued their lives. Numbers of the rebels, mad-
dened with success, were still in possession of the neighbourhood, vowing
destruction to every man with a delicate skin and a whole coat over it.

What was to be done ?

Falstaff, magnanimously forgetting his own troubles in his anxiety for his
guests, suggested that the latter should return to whence they came, leaving
him to his fate. In another hour it might be too late. Their boat would be
seized.

Not if the commercial gentlemen knew it. If every rebel in ten thousand
rebels had been in ten parts, and every part a rebel, they would have faced
the entii'e insurgent camp rather than those terrible waves a second time in
the same day. Besides, the thing was out of the question. The gallant
crew — including the body servants of the two merchants — learning that
plunder was the order of the day, had hastened in divers directions across
country to enrol themselves under the national banner like the truest ima-
ginable Britons. The unlucky foreigners begged of our hero not to desert
them, promising that, if he would see them safely through the present diffi-
culty, he should have no cause to complain of their — ahem ! — leniency.

John winked — aside ; and repressed an inclination to execute, there, on the
beach, Avhat might have anticipated the invention of hornpipes by some
centuries.

He wrung the hands of his two fricnuls, and vowed that, at all hazards, he
would stand by them. Still he was at a loss to decide for the present emer-
gency.

THE KENTISH KEBELS. 43

The merchants sugj^ested that they shoukl proceed to the Falstaff Estate.
It was possible that the incendiary spark had not yet reached so far. The
fact was, these two gentlemen were rather anxious for a glimpse of the
princely domain, of which they had heard such glowing accounts, under any
circumstances. Even its blazing ruins would be a consolation, as proving
that they had not been utterly taken in.

Falstaff appeared to brighten at the proposal. Yes, he declared, there was
hope in it. The people had been wronged and oppressed, and there was
some excuse for their violence in certain quarters. But when he reflected
what indulgent, beneficent masters — if, indeed, parents were not the fitter
word — his ancestors had always been to their tenants : — no ! for the sake
of human nature, he could not believe in such black ingratitude as to sup-
pose Falstaff had come to any harm. It would still be in his power to give
his friends a cordial welcome. He led the way almost cheerfully, deploring
only that the journey must be performed on foot.

At the first opportunity he whispered Bardolph —

" Slip on before us, borrow a horse, steal an ass, or run like mad.
The lads may have spared the old den for my sake. If you find it standing,
set a light to every room. I'll detain these gulls so as to give you time.
Burn every stick and rag except Wykeham's tower. Fire won't touch that."

Exit Bardolph in advance at a brisk trot.

His master explained,

" I have sent him on to herald us, and to meet us with horses ; if, as I
still hope, honesty and good faith be not extinct upon earth."

Our hero Avas taken ill frequently on the road ; the result of his agitation
and irrepressible misgivings. It was found necessary to solace him with
repose by the wayside, and refreshments from the private stores of his com-
panions.

" Oh, my friends ! " said Jack, in a voice wherein gratitude struggled bravely
against exhaustion ; " Hoav shall I ever repay you for this kindness ? And
if it should be too late — too late !"

" Come ! come ! Don't give way. We cannot have far to go now. "We
shall soon know the worst."

" True ! let me strive to be a man, and remember that I am answerable
for the safety of others."

They reached Maldyke, six miles from Falstaff.

Here the sight of a goodly castellated macsion, gutted and smoking in the
centre of a forest of charcoal, reduced our hero to a state of prostration. He
thx'ew himself on his face, imploring, as a last act of friendship, that his
companions should despatch him with their knives.

i- 2

44 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

The gateway of this mansion was situated on the public road. From the
raised portcullis of this gateway swung a human body, dead, and half-naked.

Yesterday, this estate had belonged to Sir Simon Ballard. To-day, Sir
Simon was its sole remaining occupant. But the rebels had hanged him by
the neck, and he was dead.

Falstaff groaned piteously.

" Rouse, man, rouse!" said the Fleming. " Surely this is not your castle ?"

" It's — it's — " sobbed Jack, spasmodically ; "it's one of them ! ! I"

Then, falling upon his knees before the corpse of his old enemy, he clasped
his hands, and exclaimed, piteously,

" My poor uncle ! my poor uncle George ! And is this the reward for
your devotion to my interests ? "

The two merchants led him away compassionately.

For several roods they passed through the crops and woodlands of the ill-
fated Ballard. The rebels had spared nothing.

" You see, gentlemen," said Falstaff, appealing to the devastation on either
hand, " to what they have reduced me."

There could be no harm in Jack's assuming right of property in the de-
funct Ballard's possessions. In the first place, those possessions were no
longer particularly worth having. In the second, it were unreasonable to
suppose that their late proprietor could possibly have any further use for
them.

The Fleming and the Lombard felt extremely sorry for their unfortunate
guide and debtor. Nay ; they even hoped that, in the upshot of things,
he might prove still to be in the possession of something valuable, as an
excuse for their assisting him with further advances.

As they neared the Falstaif Valley, Jack's uneasiness increased visibly.

" It is my home, gentlemen," he explained, " where I first saw light.* It
may be that they have spared me that. I scarcely dare hope it. But we
shall know anon."

They reached the summit of the hill overlooking the valley, — down which,
fourteen years ago, Sir Thomas Mowbray, now Earl of Nottingham, had
come, laughing and cantering with his friend Maitre Jean, the Chronicler,
now cure of Lestines, and a most respectable clergyman.

Falstaff" gave a rapid glance in the direction of his paternal mansion, then
drew a long breath.

" Enough ! I know the worst," he said ; and seemed all the easier for the
knowledge.

* See Book I. Chapter I. in explanation of this glaring broach of vcracitj-.

DESTRUCTION OF FALSTAFF CASTLE. 45

Not a trace of Falstaff Castle was standing except William of Wykeliam's
Tower. The rest was mere smouldering dunghill.

Bardolph had been spared the crime of arson. The rebels had been before

liim. He had found the castle in the state I have described it, and

Master Lambert, the Reve, hanging by the heels from a beech tree, with his
skull cleft. The travellers discovered the faithful messenger contemplating
this edifying spectacle with mingled philosophy and satisfaction.

At the sight of the steward's corpse Falstaif uttered a piercing cry, and
fled.

"Follow him!" cried Bardolph, eagerly (he had caught and appreciated
a flying wink from his broken-hearted patron), " or he will do himself a
mischief."

The ruined landowner, after some search, was discovered in the orchard
with his girdle slung to the arm of a pear tree. Into a noose, at the nether
extremity of this, he was about to slip his neck, when his privacy was in-
vaded. The rescuing party uttered a cry of thanksgiving for their timely
arrival. They needed not to have hurried themselves. Our hero's inherent
good breeding would have induced him to wait for them under any circum-
stances.

The merchants tried verbal consolation.

Futile in the extreme ! The intending suicide assured them that they had
but frustrated his purpose for a time. He could have borne the loss of home
and fortune — his friends might judge, from the sole remaining tower, of what
a dwelling the rebels had deprived him (though, of course, they could have
no conception of the extent of the family jewels, plate, &c.) ; but what he
could not bear was the sight of his faithful steward, hung by the heels like
an unclean beast, doubtless as a punishment for his fidelity !

" Bardolph !" sobbed the ruined man. " How we loved him !"

"Don't speak of it, sir!"

Bardolph himself was so overcome that he did not venture to show his
face, which he concealed within his palms. The latter, it should be stated,
were more than capacious enough for the purpose.

" He loved you, Bardolph !"

" Like a mother, sir. But don't ! "

The Flemish merchant then tried vinous consolation from his private
flask. Falstafi" rejected it. Bardolph didn't.

Falstaff — calmed in a measure, but determined — begged of his friends to
make the best of their way to London, and leave him to die. He had now
nothing left in the world but his sword. That, he was now too broken-
hearted to turn to advantage. Would they be kind enough to go, leaving

F 3

46 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

him their forgiveness for the trouble he had so unwittingly caused them.
That was all ! Stay — another boon — a dying man's request. Would they
promise to be kind to his faithful Bardolph, the last of a thousand devoted
retainers ?

" Don't, sir ! " that valuable relic gasped, kicking out his right leg spas-
modically.

Now, the Lombard creditor, in spite of his being a trader in money, was a
good-natured fellow. He hit upon a third and more efficacious means of con-
solation — to wit, the pecuniary.

" Come, Master Falstaff," he said kindly, in the cosmopolite French of the
period. " Things are not at the worst. You are young and strong, and, with
a good name to back you, may recover lost ground. Who ever knew an out-
break of peasants last over a few days ? If a few hundred marks will set you
on your legs for a time, they are yours ; and no questions about the past till
you are ready to answer them. Remember you have promised to bring us to
London and show us the Court. We are in your hands."

Jack leaped to his feet and dried his eyes. He was rebuked. This was no
time for selfish considerations. His eyes were opened.

" When I reflect," he said, " that, without me, your lives are not safe ; that
those fierce Kentish rebels will spare nobody, unless guaranteed by the safe
conduct of a true man of Kent ; for, after all, they must respect my presence
— come, gentlemen, I will see you safe to London, and the young king shall
hear of your devotion."

What a good sort of fellow this poor ruined, broken-hearted Jack Falstaff
was after all !

They led him away from the scene of devastation. At a few paces from
the ruins, he declared he must return for a minute or two. His friendly
gaolers, for so they had constituted themselves, looked at each other. Was
their prisoner to be trusted alone ?

" Gentlemen," said Jack, with much earnestness, and real tears starting
from his eyes, " I give you my honour, as a man and a soldier, that I will
return immediately."

They let him go, and waited for him.

Jack scrambled hastily over a heap of seething fragments, what had once
formed the right Aving of his father's dwelling, and found himself in a patch
of ground sloping down towards the stagnant moat.

It was a wilderness of charred weeds. Nothing remained to tell that the
spot had once been a dainty garden.

Yes. One thing.

LADY ALICE S GARDEX. 47

A hardy Kentish rose-bush still asserted its life above a mass of filtli,
bricks, and potsherds. It bore one flower.

Jack tore this fiercely from its stem, and concealed it in his bosom, as if he
had been stealing a diamond. lie hastened to rejoin his companions with
the most unconcerned look he could assume.

" What's afoot now ?" growled Bardolph, sotto voce. The worthy hench-
man was merely anxious to catch the new order of the day, if any.

"Hold your tongue!" said his master angrily, and looking very much
ashamed of himself, " Don't speak to me !"

Lady Alice FalstafF had been dead four years. The long loved son who
should have closed her bonny blue eyes, Avas away at the time ; — never mind
where, or what doing. The last flower of her pretty garden withered and
dried up beneath Jack's doublet. He never noticed its final disappearance ;
you see his time was so much occupied.

This was the way in which Master John Falstaff came into his property, the
residue of which he disposed of some few weeks later for the price of three
new suits and a couple of horses, but which he never ceased to speak of as a
princely inheritance, of which the troubles in 1381 had deprived him. Of
course he found great advantage in this ; for such is the inestimable value of
rank and possessions, that the mere recollection of them — nay, the bare
assertion of imaginary claims to them — will often procure for a gentleman
credit and esteem.

The manner of Sir John FalstafF's attaining to the honour of knighthood,
is a sequel to the same adventure.

He conducted his foreign guests faithfully toAvards London, as he had
promised. On their way, they were beset by several companies of rebels,
amongst whose numbers Jack recognised old acquaintances, to whom he made
himself known, and who were glad to let him and his company pass free, for
the sake of old times. On all such occasions our hero was careful to have it
impressed upon the merchants that they owed their safety entii-ely to his
countenance ; and the gratitude of those poor travellers knew no bounds.
Still, great precautions were necessary. In the first place. Jack counselled
them strongly to destroy all written papers they might have about them;
assuring them, that of all public evils, the men of Kent looked upon the art
of writing as the greatest, considering it a Norman invention, to which they
owed the bulk of their misfortunes. Admitting the policy of this precaution,
the merchants destroyed Jack's bonds before his eyes. Next to manuscript?,
he assured them the most dangerous thing they could possibly carry about
with them was money. He courageously took upon himself the onus of
bearing their purses for them, of the contents of which he distributed a

F 4

48 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

considerable portion as largesse to the insurgents. The purses were faithfully
restored to their owners.

At Blackheath our travellers came up with the body of the insurgent
camp, commanded by Jack's old master of fence, Wat Smith, who had
assumed the name of Tyler. Here it was Jack's good fortune to rescue
the Princess of Wales, the young king's mother, from the fury of the
malcontents, whom their honest but mistaken leader was unable to control.
Jack asserted himself as a man of Kent, and claimed immunity for the
princess as a Kentish woman — for had she not been known in the heyday
of her beauty as the Fair Maid of Kent ? Was she not the widow of the
Black Prmce, who had humbled the pride of the haughty Frenchmen, to
whom it Avas notorious that all such evils as taxes, game laws, bad harvests,
and expensive beer, were attributable ? The princess, he assured them, had
just been on a pilgrimage to Canterbury, to pray at the shrine of St. Thomas
ti Beckett for an extension of the peerage, by which every man of the age of
twenty-one would be entitled to landed property and a seat at His Majesty's
council. In conclusion, he would simply state, that, in order to prove her
sisterly affection, the princess was anxious to kiss them all round — a
proposition whereat the populace was highly amused, and to which the
princess readily assented, only too glad to be let off so easily.

Thus did Jack Falstaff rescue the Princess of Wales from imminent
danger, at no greater cost to her highness than a little sacrifice of personal
dignity, and much subsequent expenditure of soap and water — all of which
I have told briefly, seeing that the main incidents of the scene (doubtless
taken down from the words of Falstaff himself) have been already chronicled
by our old friend Maitre Jean Froissart, curate of Lestines — and from his
cheerful pages copied into the books of Hume and others.

For this good service to the royal family was John Falstaff knighted,
on the same day which saw the like honour conferred upon one William
Walworth, a fishmonger, for knocking out the misguided brains of poor
Wat Smith — a much honester man than himself Jack witnessed the per-
petration of this murderous act of snobbishness, and took a deeply rooted
dislike to Sir William Walworth ever afterwards.

Wat Tyler did not die unavenged. Sir John Falstaff dealt with Sir
William Walworth for fish. When Walworth sent in his bill, he began to
understand the meaning of Nemesis.

Bardolph greatly distinguished himself in the sacking of London by the
Kentish rebels, several of whom he had the honour of bringing to justice on
the pacification of societv.

49

BOOK THE THIRD.

1410.

I.

FOR THE MOST PART A TREATISE ON HEROES AND KNIGHTS-ERRANT.

Why should we call Time old, when we constantly find him playing tricks
like a schoolboy? Here we have him at the beginning of the fifteenth
century, amusing himself by rolling Sir John Falstafi" down a hill, which men
have agreed to call Life, like a snowball — Sir John getting rounder, and
bigger, and whiter, at every push.

And now we approach that period in our hero's life, when his acts are
public history. Our task grows lighter, our responsibility heavier. Hitherto
we have had to treat merely of Achilles in girl's petticoats, CiKsar at school,
Cromwell at the mash-tub, Bonaparte besieging snow castles. Now we are
in sight of our hero's Troy, Rubicon, Marston Moor, Toulon — whatever the
reader pleases.

Sir John Falstaff will next appear in these pages as the ripe full-blown
Falstaff of Shakspeare, the fat knight par excellence, the hero of Gadshill and
of Shrewsbury ; on the eve of the former of which great engagements we are
supposed to resume the thread of our narrative.

And here it may be as well that the historian and his reader should at once
understand each other as to the purport of this work.

It is impossible that a man should take the pains of research and com-
pilation necessary for a voluminous biography without the preliminary
inspiration of deep sympathy with, and exalted admiration for the character
of his subject. This is, at any rate, indispensable to the satisfactory execution
of his task. None but a man with a turn for such achievements as usually
result in solitary confinement could have written the " Life of Robinson
Crusoe." The "Newgate Calendar" would not be the work it is, had not the
last and present centuries been prolific in writers who, under a trifling
depression of circumstances, might have changed places with their heroes.

T do not mean to say, that had I lived in the fifteenth century I should have
been a Sir John Falstaff, Morally, in his position, I should have cut as sorry a

50 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

figure as, physically, in his garments. Boswells need not be Johnsons.
Sympathy and admiration, I repeat, are the necessaiy qualifications. I sympa-
thise with, and admire the hekoic character as developed in all ages ; and
I look upon Sir John Falstaff as the greatest hero of his own epoch.

Earthly greatness, like everything else to which the same adjective applies,
is comparative — to be measured only by besetting difiiculties.

The Italian captive, Avho blots down his autobiography on fragments of old
linen, with his forefinger nail nibbed into a pen, and dipped in an exas-
peratingly gritty fluid of soot and water, is not to be tested by the same
severe rules of criticism as the literary patrician, writing in his well filled
library, to the mellifluous gurgle of his eastern pipe, and with every advan-
tage that Bath post, gold pens, Webster's dictionaries, and the most care-
fully annotated editions of Lindley Murray can ofix^r. As just would it be
to compare the struggling unguided crudities of a mere Shakspeare or
-liEschjdus, with the more polished productions of a modern dramatist, in
the enjoyment of private means, and a troisieme on the Boulevard des Italiens,
having a running contract with the nearest theatrical printer for the earliest
first-proof sheets of his publications. Mr. Ilobbs, the American locksmith,
with his multifarious means and appliances of picklocks, " tumblers," and
what not, is entitled to our respect as a skilful mechanician ; but placed in
comparison with Jack Sheppard and his rusty nail, what becomes of Hobbs
and his reputation ?

It has been beautifully observed of Sir John Falstaff (by no less an
authority than himself), that having more flesh than most men, he should be
excused for displaying a greater amount of that frailty to which flesh is heir.
On the other hand, having fewer advantages than most heroes, he may easily
be proved to have displayed a more than proportionate share of heroism.

I consider it too late in the day to attempt a new definition of the word
hero. The world has been agreed for ages upon the only acceptation of
which it is susceptible, — namely, a man who takes a more than common
advantage of his fellow-creatures in furtherance of his own interests, or
those of his nation, county, township, street, row of houses, family, or self.
Exclusive devotion to the latter interest marks the real hero. But this is a
derai-god pitch of excellence rarely attained. Even Sir John Falstaff fell
short of it.

Achilles was invulnerable (with a contemptible exception of which the
oversight is a disgrace to the shoe-making science of the period), and iiiid a
supernatural mother to look after him. I think little of his heroism. Caesar,
as we have seen, had the vast advantage of almost unlimited credit. Cromwell
had the majority of a nation at his back ; — so had Napoleon.

FALSTAFF A KNIGIIT-ERRANT. 51

Sir John FalstafF won a hero's laurels, and attained a hero's ends) which
may be briefly summed up as the privilege of doing pretty much as you like
at the expense of other people), by the almost unaided exercise of his head
and arm. Is he to be blamed for only having gained purses, where Caesar or
Alexander pocketed kingdoms ? As ridiculous would it be to find fault with
him for making no greater speed than four miles an hour from the disputed
field of Gadshill, because swift travelling carriages had not been invented.
Imagine Napoleon with fifty-eight years and thirty stone of flesh at his
back, and none but pedestrian means of exit from Moscow before him !
Who would ever have heard of Waterloo or St. Helena ?

It may be objected, that of the recognised heroes I have cited for com-
parison, two at least (the last mentioned of the number) were originally
actuated by the desire to free an oppressed people. Here, even, the parallel
does not fail. Sir John Falstaff, too, had his subjects and followers, whose
condition required ameliorating. It is true that these were limited in number,
and that their most stringent oppressions were the severe debtor and creditor
laws of the period, aggravated by a season of scarcity in the matter of wages.
But, as I have said before, every thing in this world is comparative.

A great deal of misconception as to my hero's real character, may be traced
to a deplorable ignorance of the time in which he lived. Many celebrated
writers on the Falstafiian era (that is to say, people who know nothing at all
about it) have declared the age of chivalry, in that great man's time, to have
been extinct. This has led modern thinkers — who, according to the improved
lights of their age, look upon speculations on the Stock Exchange, joint-stock
banks, Samaritan institutions, cheap clothing warehouses, the adulteration of
coffee, pickles, &c. &c., as the only legitimate means of plundering your
neighbours — to apply harsh names to the more primitive mode of transferring
capital adopted by our hero. The fact is. Sir John Falstaff was a knight-
errant,' — the only one of his time, perhaps — the last ray of the setting sun of
chivalry, if you will ; but its most gorgeous ! To paraphrase the words of an
eminent historian, " he was the greatest, as well as the last, of those mighty
vagabonds who formerly overhauled the purses of the community, and ren-
dered the people incapable of paying the necessary expenses of their legal
prosecution." He was, in short, the Earl of Warwick of knight-errantry.

Let us prove our theory by an extension of the parallel lines.

The knight-errant of antiquity rode out, armed at all points, to win
renown. Even in the most Arcadian times, the acquisition of that commodity
appears to have been contingent on the display of a certain amount of spoil,
in the shape of weapons, prisoners, ransoms, and so forth. The public ene-
mies against whom the knight-errant's attention was chiefly directed, were — .

52 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

1. Giants.

Which, I take to mean, people who had grown so big as to require more land
and larger houses to live on and in than their neighbours.

2. 3Iagicians ; i. e. people rather cleverer than their non-conjuring

fellow-citizens.

It will be admitted that Sir John FalstafF did a great man's best to reduce
the influence of these two varieties in his own favour.

The knights-errant had their esquires and men-at-arms, who were allowed
the privilege of fighting under their leader's banner. It was not customary
for the chroniclers of the period to mention the names of these subordinate
personages. The dawn of a more equitable state of things, in this respect,
may be traced to the time of Falstaff. The names of his immediate followers
have been honourably preserved.

The list is as follows : —

1. P. Bardolph, Esquire.

[The ancient title of Esquire has been recently much abused ; being
assumed by mere writers, painters, and even members of the legal professions.
Though it originally meant nothing more than " ostler," in those barbarous
times, when manual labour was not a positive disgrace, yet, in the heyday of
chivalry, it was promoted to an equivalent of " bearer of arms." Esquire-
ship was the brevet rank of knighthood. The esquire, in order to become a
knight, having served his lord faithfully for a certain number of years, was
expected to sit up all night watching the arms by wliich he had earned
distinction. Tliese, in the case of Bardolph, adopting the heraldic acceptation
of the word " arms," — may be described as a bottle gules, on an oak table
proper, with a corkscrew trenchant, supported by thirst rampant. These
Bardolph is known to have sat up watching, not merely all one night, but
for several hundred nights in succession. And yet this gallant soldier never
attained to the distinction of knighthood. It is true that gentle blood was an
indispensable qualification for the honour. Bardolph's blood was not gentle,
but of the most obstinately opposite description. Coax it as he would, it
persisted in flying to his nose.]

2. Pistol, Ancient.

[Ancient — pardon the apparent contradiction of terms, — is a comparatively
modern expression, certainly not dating further back than the time of Falstaff".
The term has been corrupted into " Ensign." In tliose days, the most
ancient " and proved soldier in the ranks was supposed to earn the right of

((

FALSTAFF A KNIGHT-ERRANT : HIS RETINUE. 53

bearing the standard of the troop. I say " supposed," because I would not
have it imagined that, even then, folks were so uncivilised as invariably to
promote common people for mere desert. Then, as now, a loud tongue, a
timely service, or a family connection, were excellent substitutes for personal
merit. The individual under notice was a striking example of this truth.
The distinguishing mark of the ancient in Pistol's time, was a white feather.]

3. Peto.

4. Gadshill.

[Two subordinate officers belonging to a class described by the convertible
terms of " knaves," " villains," or " varlets."]

5. Nym, Corporal.

[The Corporal in our time is distinguished by two stripes. In those days
a deserving officer was more liberally treated ; Corporal Nym having marks
to show for a thousand. Neither Nym nor Pistol make their appearance till
rather late in the Falstaif annals ; each doubtless having his period of time
to serve in another sphere of action.]

6. Robin, Page.

[Also a late acquisition to the Falstaif forces, to be noticed more parti-
cularly in his fitting place.]

The knight-errant had the privilege of putting up, with his retinue, at the
most hospitable mansion he found in his way.

He never paid rent.

Formerly this billet system was applied to the mansions of powerful barons.
A succession of anti-chivalric monarchs had weakened the hospitable resources
of these establishments. Taverns were their modern substitutes. Our hero,
even as the commercial traveller in the present day (latest type of the
knight-errant) is fain to put up Avith Railway carriages, where he once
enjoyed his own gig, — accommodated himself to the change. But, whatever
alteration had taken place around him, he himself was still true to the tra-
ditions of his order. Yes ! John Falstaff could lay his hand on his heart and
say, — that he never entered the meanest hostehy without treating the host
and hostess exactly as, two hundred years earlier, he would have treated a
baron and his lady. The favoured mansion at present enjoying his high
consideration in this respect, was the renowned Boar's Head Tavern in
Eastcheap — of which more anon.

The knight-errant of old occasionally acted as the tributary vassal to a

54 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

powerful prince. Herein is the vast superiority of Falstaff manifest. He
made the most powerful prince of his time act as tributary vassal to him.

Yes ; it is not the smallest laurel in the Falstaffian crown, that our hero alone,
of all men that ever lived, could boast of having conquered the Conqueror of
Agincourt. That he did so is unquestionable. The prince himself, like a
true Englishman, Avho never knoAVs when he is beaten, was not aware of the
fact himself Those who may be inclined to doubt it, are requested to
study the lives of the two men, and to decide calmly Avhether, in the long run,
Sir John Falstaff had or had not decidedly the best of His Royal Highness,
the Prince of Wales, afterwards Henry the Fifth.

This young prince was a very great prince indeed ; and has been justly
held up as an example to the youth of succeeding generations. His claims
to admiration are indeed somewhat remai'kable, being founded apparently
less upon the fact of his having proved a respectable character in later life,
which might be questioned by detractors, than upon that of his having been
an intolerable reprobate at the outset of his career — as to which there can
be no doubt whatever. I cannot too highly commend the conduct of school-
masters and writers in encouraging young people to the adoption of this
effective principle of, what may be termed, Rembrandt Respectability, — a
little streak of pure light looking so excessively brilliant when touched on to a
background of utter darkness. Oh ! my young friends, declaimers of Pinnock
and readers of Goldsmith ! adopt the Henry the Fifth philosophy as you
hope to rise and be honoured. Would you aspire to a reputation for ex-
cessive humanity ? In that case, kick your grandmother daily for ten years ;
then suddenly leave off and present the old lady with a new bonnet in a
neat speech on gentleness. Is sobriety your ambition ? Get intoxicated two
or three times a day up to the age of, let us say thirty. By that time you will
have sufficiently disgusted your neighbours with your life and conduct to
make your sudden appearance in the character of a healthful, temperate, and
well-ordered citizen (which, of course, it will be the easiest thing in the
world for you to assume at a moment's notice, throwing off your old habits
like a harlequin's cloak), matter of startling commentary. Would you shine
by the light of your honesty ? Then begin with robbing orchards, and
proceed in due order to shop-tills, culminating with bank-safes and plate-
baskets. Having thus attracted the ]iublic attention, you need only send
your five pounds to the Chancellor of the Exchequer for unpaid Income Tax,
and take your place amongst the honest folk, who Avill be delighted lo
receive you.

It is true, that for the modern commoner tlie same advantages do not exist
for the safe pursuit of this line of conduct as were enjoyed by the crown

*' THE NIMBLE-FOOTED MADCAP PRINCE OF WALES." 55

prince of the fifteenth century. But, for the hist time, let it be stated that
greatness is to be measured by its besetting obstacles. Above all, there can
be no harm in trying.

The Prince of Wales acted on this principle of contrast through life.
Being a slim, well-built young gentleman, he liked to be seen walking with a
stout overgrown elderly gentleman like our hero. Knowing he would be a
king some day, when he would find it as advantageous to be thought an honest
man as it would be easy to hang anybody who might say he wasn't, he con-
sidered that his future would shine all the brighter from present companion-
ship with rogues — such as a prejudiced society agreed to consider FalstaflT
and his followers. So Prince Henry studied the first crude principles of
taxation by plundering his father's subjects on the public roads in company
with Sir John Falstaff. And Sir John Falstaff, like a sagacious treasurer,
had usually the first pickings of the revenues thus acquired.

Prince Henry, in his princely heart, had a great contempt for Sir John
Falstafi", whom he looked upon as a mere tool to be thrown aside when no
longer needed. It is to be feared that he had not properly calculated the
sharpness of the implement, nor its probable effect upon his own fingers. It
would have been gall and wormwood to his Royal Highness to know that, in
the estimation of our philosopher, he ranked no higher than a second edition
— more neatly got up, and with gilt edges — of Master Robert Shallow,
formerly of Gray's Inn, and now of His Majesty's Commission, in the county
of Gloucester.

Sir John Avas willing to be led wherever His Royal Highness pleased, and
to dance to any tunes of the Prince's dictation. Only it invariably happened
that His Royal Highness had to pay the piper I

And now Ave have carefully reviewed our hero's position ; we have ascer-
tained the site of his head-quarters, the number of his forces, the strength
and disposition of his allies. Pegasus, bestridden by the historic muse, snorts
impatiently for his first feed of warlike beans. Let us cling to the tail of
the noble animal, and suffer him to drag us (with no more than necessary
interruptions) to the field of Gadshill. At any rate, let us close the chapter ;
for Ave shall not come across such a splendid classical peroration again in a
hurry.

56 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

n.

nOAV SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, WITH HIS SATELLITES THE PRINCE HENRY AND
JIR. EDWARD POINS, IN COUNCIL ASSEMBLED, PLANNED THE FAMOUS GADS-
HILL EXPEDITION.

The reader is invited to assist at a council of war.

The scene is a private room in the palace of Westminster. The members
present are, 1. His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. 2. Sir John
Falstaff, Knight. The latter gentleman in the chair (which he finds rather a
tight fit).

Sir John Falstaff opened the proceedings by asking His Royal Highness
what time of the day it was.

The Prince of Wales. — " Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old
" sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after
" noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldest
•' truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of day ? unless
" hours were cups of sack and minutes capons ? "

For the remainder of His Royal Highness's speech (the language of which
is not strictly parliamentarj'^) see Mr. William Shakspeare's verbatim report ;
where, indeed, all particulars of the meeting are minutely chronicled. It is
the present writer's business merely to offer a brief summary.

After some general discussion (in the course of which Sir John moved for
the Abolition of the Punishment of Death for larcenious offences, in the ensuing
reign, but was induced to withdraw his motion by a promise of office under
the crown, as public executionei'), the meeting proceeded to the order of
the day.

His Royal Highness. — " Where shall Ave take a purse to-night, Jack ?"

Sir John Falstaff. — " Where thou wilt, lad ; I'll make one : an I do
" not, call me villain and baffle me."

Carried iiem. con.

At this juncture, a new member entered the council chamber in the person
of Master Edward Poins. This was a young gentleman of good family, but
bad morals ; that is to say, for the present. He was one of those loyal natures
who, in all ages, are to be found attaching themselves instinctively to some
great man, taking their tone and colour in all thir.gs from the illustrious
model. Mr. Poins cut his hair and his conscience in exact imitation of the
Prince of Wales. The existing court fashions, as established by the Prince,
were long hanging sleeves, pointed shoes, late hours, intoxication, and

COUNCIL OF WAR. 57

roystering. Mr. Poins followed them all with scrupulous fidelity ; but was
quite ready to change them for sad-coloured doublets, square toes, early
rising, temperance, and respectability, at a moment's notice.

The following debate ensued upon the order of the day : —

Mk. Poins. — " But my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning by four o'clock,
" early at Gadshill! There are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings,
" and traders riding to London with fat purses." (Hear, from the chair). " I
" have visors for you all, you have horses for yourselves : Gadshill lies to-night
" in Kochester : I have bespoke supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap ; we may
" do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of
" crowns : if you will not, tarry at home, and be hanged."

Sir John Falstaff. — "Hear me, Yedward ; if I tarry at home, and go
" not, ril hang you for going."

Mr. Poins. — " You will, chaps ?"

Sir John Falstaff. — " Hal, wilt thou make one ? "

The Prince of Wales. — " Who, I rob ? la thief ? not I, by my faith."

Sir John Falstaff. — " There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fel-
" lowship in thee, nor thou camest not of the blood royal, if thou darest not
" stand for ten shillino;s."

The Prince of Wales. — " Well, then, once in my days Pll be a
" madcap."

Sir John Falstaff. — " Why, that's well said."

The Prince of Wales. — " Well, come what will, Pll tarry at home."

Sir John Falstaff. — " Pll be a traitor then, when thou art king."

The Prince of Wales. — "I care not."

Mr. Poins. — " Sir John, I pr'ythee, leave the prince and me alone ; I will
" lay him down such reasons for this adventure, that he shall go."

Sir John Falstaff. — " Well, mayst thou have the spirit of persuasion,
" and he the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may move, and what he
" heai's may be believed, that the true prince may (for recreation sake) prove a
" false thief ; for the poor abuses of the time want countenance. Farewell ;
" you shall find me in Eastcheap."

The Prince of Wales. — " Farewell, thou latter spring ! Farewell All-
" hallown summer !"

The meeting then, as far as concerns Sir John Falstaff, broke up. The
Prince of Wales and his friend Poins, may be left to their own devices.

Thus do we see how a great man works silently to his own ends by en-
couraging his inferiors to think for him. Here was the campaign of Gadshill
ready planned and arranged down to the very moment of attack, and the
equipment of the forces, without a personal effort on the part of our hero.

G

58 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Forestalling the policy of a more modern general, Louis the Fourteenth —
who never showed himself on a field of battle till he was assured that his
subordinate officers had made victory certain, and who then, in the most
considerate manner, always came up in time to take the credit of it out of
their hands — the task of Falstaff was simply to gather the ripened fruit,
which, hut for the blackest and most unparalleled act of treachery that ever
disgraced the annals of warfare But let us not anticipate.

Had I the pen of Homer (who, by the way, supposing that fabulous person
to have existed, could not possibly have known the use of such an article) I
might write out a list of the warlike preparations made by Sir John Falstaff
and his followers, in the course of the day, that might equal, in vivid dramatic
interest, the famous catalogue of ships. Mine would it be to enumerate the
scores of Kentish oysters, the hundreds of Gloucestershire lampreys, the skins
of Canterbury brawn, the breasts of capons, the green-goose pies, the veal
toasts, the powdered mutton, the marchpanes, the hartshorn jellies^ the stewed
prunes, the pippins and the cheese, stowed away in the vast resources of our
hero's commissariat department, as provisions for the approaching campaign.
Then would ye have, in succession, the vast and irresistible phalanx of sturdy
oaths and light- winged cajoleries arrayed against the hostess of the tavern (a
married woman, it must be admitted, but whose husband was already ailing)
to induce her to yield further credit for the victualling and liquoring of the
troops, resulting in the entire rout of her scruples, and the unconditional sur-
render of her cellar keys. Nor would be forgotten the hundreds, nay thou-
sands, of matchless lies, by which Patroclus Bardolph obtained a new saddle
for his master from a dealer in Watling Street, and released the knight's steed
from the spells of enchantment, which a cruel magician (in what we should
now call the livery stable interest) had cast about the animal for some
weeks.

All these details, and many more — down to a list of the snores of the
thunder- vying Falstaff as he took his after-dinner nap to fortify himself for the
coming fatigues, and of the glasses of strong waters tossed off by the lightning-
shaming Bardolph while his master wasn't looking — would I enumerate had
I the pen of Homer.

But as it has been already satisfactorily- proved that neither I nor any
other writer, ancient or modern (especially Homer), could ever have enjoyed
the possession of that article, I will not attempt anything so ambitious.

THE GADSniLL CAMPAIGN. 59

III.

THE BATTLE OP GADSHILL.

Now did the chaste Diana despatch Mercury with a message to her brother
Phoebus, requesting the latter to pull up his horses for an hour or two, so
that Sir John Falstaff might not be incommoded by the light of his solar
gig-lamps ; promising the messenger that, if he would make haste back, she
would show him a little sport in his own line. It is not positively on record
that, on the morning of the battle of Gadshill, the sun rose two hours later
than his regular appointment with society. But, on the other hand, historic
fairness compels me to state that there is no proof whatever to the contrary.

Then did Diana throw her hooped petticoat of clouds over her head, so as
to conceal the silver light of her countenance — merely reserving a peep-hole
large enough to enable her to wink at the doings of her chosen minions.

She could not resist the temptation of showing her full face just once, to
bestow an Endymion kiss upon a solitary pedestrian who emerged from the
wood of Gadshill into the chalk-white Rochester Road. The Moon embraced
him coquettishly — and hid herself immediately. He was a fine looking man,
and portly — albeit advanced in years. There was certainly every excuse
for the Moon. Plowever, as she has quite enough scandals to answer for, let
us hope that nobody saw her.

The stout person was of martial aspect, and clad in the terrible panoply
of war. I will not say he was armed cap-a-pie. A full suit of armour to
his measure would have had a terrible effect, not merely upon the wearer, but
on the iron market of the period. But he bore weapons, offensive and
defensive, sufficient to indicate the most desperate intentions. To add to the
terror his presence was calculated to inspire, the warrior was under the
influence of a passion which, though ridiculous in its influence on ordinary
mortals, becomes sublime and awful when in possession of an heroic nature.
I allude to Anger. Sir John Falstaff was in a towering rage. It is no
stretch of poetical license to say that the earth shook beneath his angry tread
(there had been a little rain in the night, and the soil was tremulous).
Streams of perspiration poured from his massive brow. His breathing was
short and thick. Several times he essayed to speak, but rage impeded his
utterance. At length he cried, in a voice of thunder —

"Poins!"

It must be understood that the thunder of Sir John's voice was rather of a
muflied and distant character. Thunder, to be heard distinctly, requires a

CO LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

favourable wind — an advantage not enjoyed by Sir John Falstaff at this
period of his existence.

Mr. Poins, against whom the culverin of Sir John's wrath, i^rimed and
loaded to the muzzle, was especially directed, had withdrawn himself
prudently from the range of that fearful ordnance, and returned no answer.

It was about four o'clock in the morning. The enemy, that is to say, the
travellers, were momentarily expected to make their appearance. At this
critical juncture, Mr. Poins had removed the knight's horse, and tied the
animal its owner knew not where. What is the knight at any time without
his charger — especially when he labours under physical disadvantages which
make "eight yards of uneven ground" a journey as terrible as "threescore
and ten miles afoot ? " This was the case with Sir John Falstaff. Here he
was, burning with martial ardour ; Victory, as it were, about to rush down
hill into his arms ; and the treachery of an inferior had placed him utterly
hors de combat! There is only one point of view from which the conduct
of Poins appears at all excusable : it was an act of real humanity to the
horse.

" Poins ! and be hanged ; Poins ! " the knight repeated.

"Peace, you fat-kidneyed rascal!" said the Prince of Wales, from a
neighbouring hedge. " What a brawling dost thou keep ! "

" Where's Poins, Hal?"

" He is walked up to the top of the hill : Pll go seek him."

And the Prince walked up the hill in an airy and unconcerned manner,
pretending to seek Poins. Herein is exemplified the habitual duplicity and
dissimulation of this young prince's character. He knew as well that Poins
Avas close behind him, grinning in a hollow tree, as that in their own hearts
(much hollower than the tree, by the way, only not nearly so big) they
were gloating over a scheme of malice and treachery, of which their un-
suspecting senior was to be the victim. " A plague on't," as that moralist
himself observed, a few seconds afterwards, " when thieves cannot be true
to one another ! "

Sir John himself was the soul of honour among men of his own order.

" If I travel but four foot by the square further afoot," said the knight,
sitting on a ftillcn tree and chafing like a caged lion — still more like a
stranded whale, " I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a
" fair death for all this, if I 'scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have
" forsworn his company, houidy, any time these two-and-twenty years ; * and

* Either this is an illustration of the hereditary Falstaft' looseness as to dates and figures,
or a proof of our hero's marvellous insight into human character. Accepting the latter

MR. POINS — HIS TREACHERY. 61

" yet I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not
" given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged ! it could not
" be else. I have drunk medicines. Poins ! Hal ! a plague upon you both !
" Bardolph ! Peto ! I'll starve ere I'll rob a foot further,"

Sir John felt sick of rogues. In his wrath he even meditated the terrible
vengeance of turning honest, and thus depriving his false-hearted comrades
of the advantages of his counsels and alliance. But it had needed a mora
implacable nature than our hero's to carry animosity to such a deadly pitch.
Moreover, Sir John, for one, would not set the base example in the camp of
sacrificing duty to private feeling. Besides, there was another weighty
consideration — he was in want of money.

These and other reflections calmed our hero ; so much so, that by the
time Gadshill, their scout (evidently from his surname a native of Kent, son,
perhaps grandson, of one of Jack's deerstalking comrades in the days of
yore ; who knows ?), arrived with tidings that there was money of the King's
coming down the hill and going to the King's Exchequer, Sir John was
himself again ; forgetting fatigue, danger, and resentment, everything but
that there was money of the King's going to the King's Exchequer.

" You lie, you rogue !" he said, "'tis going to the King's Tavern."

" There's enough to make us all," said Gadshill.

" Be hanged," put in Jack, in the highest spirits imaginable.

"Sirs," said the Prince, "you four shall front them in a nari'ow lane.
Ned Poins and I ivill loalk lower. If they 'scape from your encounter, then
they light on zis."

And will any one make me believe that this man won the battle of
Agincourt ? — unless, indeed, by some parallel stratagem. There, as at
Gadshill, I doubt not but he had his Falstaffs, Bardolphs *, and Petos to
bear the first brunt of the battle, while he and his congenial fellows walked
loiver — reserving themselves to enjoy the fruits of victory. Never tell me
what historians have said ! I am an historian myself ; and I know that
there are some people of that profession who will write anything — provided
they are properly paid for it.

"How many be. there of them?" General Falstafi' inquired, previous to
arranging his plan of battle.

" Some eight or ten."

hypothesis, Sir John must have discovered Mr. Poins to have been a dangerous acquaintance
in embryo, before that young gentleman had emerged from his cradle.

" This unpremeditated association of the names of Bardolph and Agincourt causes the
historian to drop a tear on his proof sheet, in anticipation of a painful event tliat inexorable
duty will compel him to chronicle by and by.

H

62 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

A prospective difficulty, such as could not have been foreseen by any but
a comprehensive mind capable of embracing all emergencies, presented itself
to our hero, who exclaimed —

"Zounds! ^vill, they not rob us?"

" What, a coward, Sir John Paunch !" asked the Prince, mockingly.

" Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather " (a favourite play on
words with our hero) ; " but yet no coward, Hal."

" Well, we leave that to the proof."

" Sirrah Jack ! " said Poins, as he sneaked away to ' walk lower' with the
Prince of Wales ; " thy horse stands behind the hedge : when thou need'st him
there thou shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast."

" Now cannot I strike him if I should be hanged ! " exclaimed the mag-
nanimous John.

Footsteps sounded, lanterns glimmered on the summit of the hill.

" Now my masters," said Jack, grasping his broadsword. " Happy man be
his dole, say I ; every man to his business."

They withdrew into " the narrow lane." This was a short cut, down which
the travellers would probably walk, leaving their horses to be led round by
the high road. Such proved to be the case. The travellers, four in number,
were plebeians of the vulgarest description ; shopmen, farmers, carriers, and
the like, — people with large hands and coarse minds, such as in all cases
have been reserved by destiny as the legitimate prey of the superior classes :
the only observable variation of their treatment being in the manner of
levying taxation.

Four terrible figures rushed out of the dai'kness, and four terrible voices
cried : —

"Stand!"

The unfortunate travellers would have been most happy to do so, only they
were too frightened. They fell on their knees instead, and roared.

As you may suppose, this was not the way to get rid of the assailants.
The four terrible figures attacked the four terrified ones. The leader of the
former, a man of colossal stature and intrepid behaviour, let fall in his fury
some remarkable words —

" Strike ! down with them, cut the villains' throats ! * * * Bacon-faced
knaves ! f/iei/ hate us youths

Sir John Falstaff was the speaker. Who shall presume to count a great
man's life by years ? Sir John, in the heat of action, was a mere boy again.
Nay, in proof that his weight of flesh even sat no heavier on him than his
weight of years, he exclaimed almost in the same breath :

" Hang ye, gorbcUied knaves, are ye uudone ? No, ye fat chtiffs ! I

VICTORY OF GADSHILL. 63

would your store were here. On, bacons, on ! What, ye knaves ; young men
must live.""

Why prolong the scene ? Surely the mere statement that a man like Sir
John Falstaff fell upon four travellers, is fully equivalent to saying that the
latter were completely crushed.

The enemy retreated, leaving their stores in possession of the victors.
The glorious field of Gadshill was unstained by a drop of blood. Nor was
there a single prisoner taken. In fact the victory was undisputed, which
appears to me the most desirable kind of victory. A man who will not let
you get the better of him without a great deal of trouble, is obviously almost
as good a man as yourself. And pray what is the object of a battle, except
the establishment of decisive superiority ?

Flushed with victory, and laden with spoils, Falstaff and his companions
sat down on the grass to divide the latter. No signs were visible of the
Prince or of Poins. Public opinion went strongly against those defaulters,
who were treated as mere amateurs, with no real soul or aptitude for business.
Of course, it was decided unanimously that neither of them should derive any
benefit from the proceeds of an action wherein they had taken no part.

" There is no more valour in that Poins than in a wild duck," said our hero
with trenchant scorn.

Had the selection of good Master Cruikshank's subjects rested with me, I
would have pointed out, as the theme for one picture. Jack Falstaff, sitting
on the ground, with a bag of silver between his thighs, stirring it round
unctuously with his hand from right to left, snifiing its odour, as it Avere,
and smacking his lips over it as over the ingredients of a choice pudding,
whereof he knew the flavour and nutritive qualities by anticipation. To this,
though, honest Master George might well object that Falstaff remained not
long enough in that attitude to sit for a pictui'e. Time rarely favours the
world with a sublime moment, scarcely ever with many of them in succession.

" Your money ! " cried a strange voice.

" Villains ! " cried another.

And two men in buckram suits, with masked faces, rushed out of the wood
and attacked the freebooters.

I will state the issue of this second and most unforeseen engagement,
briefly, and then comment upon it. Falstaff and the rest, after a blow or two,
ran away, leaving their booty behind them.

Now perhaps you have fallen into the vulgar error of imagining Sir John
Falstaff a coward ? Allow me to help you out of it.

The reflections and decisions of genius are instantaneous .and almost

H 2

64 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

simultaneous. The instinctive conclusions of Sir John Falstaff, on being
thus unexpectedly attacked, may be summed up and classified as follows : —

1. That men, who can afford buckram suits (defensive armour of the period,
of considerable costliness), are not common men.

2. That men out of the common seldom venture upon a dangerous
undertaking without plenty of satellites in reserve.

3. That no sensible man will attack superior numbers unless supported by
the reasonable certainty of some advantages.

4. That a man who watches a thief rob an honest man, and then takes
upon himself to rob the thief, is decidedly a sensible man.

5. That a purse of silver is more easily replaced than a forfeited existence.

6. That the men in buckram hit rather hard ; and that the sensation of
being thrashed was decidedly unpleasant.

7. That he, (Sir John), had better be off".

Acting upon these rapid convictions. Sir John Falstaff" performed one of
the most renowned manoeuvres in his warlike career — the retreat from
Gadshill.

Ordinary prose is inadequate to the emergency of describing this great
event. A moment's grace, reader, while the historian calls on the poetic
Muse — just to see if she be at home. Yes. It is all right.

Flashing sparks from clashing blows
Dimm'd the glare of Bardolph's nose ;
Gadshill, Peto, screaming ran,
(Warriors prompt to lead the van !)
Falstaft' last withstands the pressure,
Strikes three blows to guard the treasure ;
But the warrior braving death
Can but tight while he has breath :
Falstaff's stock is quickly done ;
Foes are on him two to one.
What's of martyrdom the fun,
Or of gold the value ? None —
When compared to flesh and bone
To the weight of half a ton !
White .as moon three-quarters done,
Hot and moist as autumn sun ;
Round and swift as shot from gun,

Down the valley see him run

Thus was Gadshill lost and won !

65

IV.

THE DAY AFTER THE BATTLE.

The Boar's Head Tavern, in Eastcheap — the head-quarters of our hero, and
where he drew his last breath — like the Old Swan, near the Ebgate Stairs,
where he uttered his first cry — like the church of St. Michael, Paternoster,
where his mortal remains found honourable asylum — was utterly destroyed
in the memorable fire of London. Authorities differ as to the exact site
of this famous hostelry. Some maintain that it stood at a certain distance,
in a given direction, from some part of the present Cannon Street — the
immediate vicinity of the Old London Stone being, not improbably, the
implied locality. Others are of a contrary opinion, and insist stoutly that
it stood elsewhere. Many archaeological writers, whose verdict would have
placed the matter beyond question, are silent on the subject. It is to be
hoped that the antiquarian reader is satisfied.

Towards this establishment, on the night after the battle of Gadshill
under the friendly cover of darkness, rode Sir John Falstaff" — and the
remains of his discomfited army. Do not be alarmed. No one had been
killed. The only loss of numbers had been caused by the desertion of the
Prince and Poins. But the march to London had been terrible. The troops
were utterly without provisions. The exchequer was empty. Foraging
excursions had been attempted, but in all cases had failed. To the horrors
of war had succeeded those of famine — still worse of thirst. To give you
an idea of the desperate condition to which they were reduced, it is actually
on record that Esquire Bardolph was seen to dri/ik ivater from a horse-
trough near Deptford. Singular phenomena are said to have attended on
this prodigy. It is asserted that, on the gallant ofiicer bringing his face to a
level with the noxious element, a hissing sound was heard, and a rapid cloud of
steam ascended from the surface. The water, on the warlike gentleman's
withdrawal, was discovered to be lukewarm, as if a heated iron had been
thrust into it. Sir John Falstaff is the authority for these remarkable
occurrences — which probably were but the creations of a distempered fancy,
the result of his own exhausted bodily condition. At any rate, it is certain
that the Falstaff troops reached the metropolis sadder and lighter men.

Still I would not have my readers imagine that I have fallen into the
common view with regard to the issue of the battle of Gadshill ; namely,
that Sir John Falstaff was utterly routed, discomfited, and bamboozled i«
that engagement ; that he was made by it a butt a laughing-stock, and a

u 3

66 LIFE OP FAL8TAFF.

victim ; that he lost fame, wealth, and standing by it ; that he repented, and
was ashamed of it for the rest of his days.

For much of this erroneous impression, we are, no doubt, indebted to
certain players, who, taking advantage of the dramatic form of Shakspeare's
Chronicles, have attempted the personation of Sir John Falstaff on the
public stage. I have frequently been moved almost to tears by the temerity
of these people in daring to dispoi't themselves in the lion skin of Falstaff.
I have never been deceived by any one of them for a moment. Even before
they have commenced braying, I have invariably recognised them by the

patter of their hoofs, even though some of them have been the greatest

creatures of their species. These creatures stuff themselves out with

certain pounds of wadding, glue on a pair of white whiskers, ruddle their
countenances, and say to themselves, "Now I'm Falstaff;" just as on the
previous night they may have rolled an extra flannel waistcoat or so into
a lump between their shoulders, and conceived themselves Richard ; just as
on the following night, in virtue of a goat-like beard, a long gown, and a
stoop in the shoulders, they will constitute themselves Shylock ! What is
the Falstaff of which these libellers give you an idea ? A bloated, ridiculous
poltroon. Now, in the first place, cowards do not get fut. They are a
nervous race — unquiet and dyspeptic. The stage Falstaff runs away from
Gadshill like a boy from a turnip-ghost; not like a sensible man with a
respect for his skin, having reason to believe the latter in some peril. He
lies about his adventures as if he expected Prince Hal to believe him — or
cared two pins whether he did or not. On being detected in his fictions, I
have invariably observed the stage Falstaff conduct himself in the following
manner. He covers his face with his shield, hides in a corner like a school-
girl, and kicks out one leg behind him in a fashion peculiar to battled old
gentlemen on the stage. At Shrewsbury he behaves so like an arrant nin-
compoop, as to make it preposterous that he should ever have shown his face
on a field of battle, let alone have been entrusted with the command of a
troop. Altogether he appears before us a ridiculous, giggling, spluttering,
snorting, inconsistent pantaloon, — a personage widely differing from the
majestic figure faithfully copied, line for line, by my excellent friend George
Cruikshank from the immortal full-length drawn by William Shakspeare, —
and a man whose life I would no more condescend to write than that of the
next potato-man who may become bankrupt through lack of brains to roast
his merchandise properly for the market.

Those who wish to have my opinion of Gadshill in the abstract and in its
upshot, as proving Sir John Falstaff the real master of the situation after all,
are requested to accompany me critically through a chapter in the groat

AFTER THE BATTLE. 67

Universal History of Shakspcarc, section Falstaff. Refer to the Chronicle of
King Henry the Fourth, part the first, act the second.

The scene is the Old Boar's Head (interior). The time midnight, suc-
ceeding the Gadshill engagement. The persons first present are the Prince
of Wales and Mr. Poins, his obsequious companion in infamy. (It is quite
right to abuse the Prince at this period of his life, when it was his own wish
to be thought a scoundrel. When he becomes a great man, I hope I shall
know how to conduct myself towards him with becoming respect.) They
have been in London some hours. There are no travelling difficulties for
princes.

His Royal Highness has been amusing himself for a quarter of an hour or
so by a series of practical jokes on a harmless waiter, which the Prince
himself appears to have thought excessively clever, but which Shakspeare
and the present writer have agreed to consider excessively stupid. Even the
obliging Poins has not been able to see the jest. He is trying his hardest to
discover it ; and is determined to be convulsed with laughter, or perish in the
attempt, when the landlord makes his appearance in the room, announcing the
arrival of Sir John Falstaff and his followers.

A word as to this landlord, — though, indeed, he is scarcely worth it. This
is the first and last we hear of him. In the course of a few weeks we find
his wife a perfectly reconciled widow, and sole mistress of the establishment-
There are two hypotheses as to the sudden disappearance of her husband
from the scene. The first — which I have already formally adopted — is, that,
at the period alluded to, he was ailing, — probably from the fatal facility of
the bar-parlour; — that he died soon afterwards; that he was a fool, and not
worth regretting or remembering. The second is, that his fair helpmate
(of whom we shall have much to say hereafter) being a credulous woman,
with a defective sense of legal obligation, had been entrapped into a fragile
marriage, — whereof the only consolation existed in its fragility. It is not of
the slightest consequence : the vintner has made his sole appearance, and has
been sent about his business to introduce Sir John Falstaff. Neither you nor
I need care two-pence what became of him. At any rate, I don't; — you,
reader, being a free-born Englishman, are at liberty to do as you please.

And now I wiU save myself the trouble of writing the next three or four
pages, by allowing Shakspeare to speak for me without interruption. I shall
be happy to hear anybody find fault with the substitution, and will even go
so far as to consider it a compliment.

Mr. Poins. — Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been ?

Sir John Falstaff. — A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! marry, and
ameu ! — Give me a cup of sack, boy. — Ere I lead tliis life long, I'll sew nether-stocks, and

U 4

68 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards ! — Give me a cup of sack, rogue. —
Is there no virtue extant ? [//e drinks.

The Prince OF Wales. — Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? pitiful-
hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun ! if thou didst, then behold that
compound.

Sir John Falstafp. — You rogue, here's lime in this sack too : There is nothing but
roguery to be found in villainous man : Yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime
in it; a villainous coward. — Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good
manhood, be not forgot upon the fiice of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There
live not three good men unhanged in England ; and one of them is fat, and grows old :
God help the while ! a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver ; I could sing psalms
or any thing : A plague of all cowards, I say still.

The Prince op Wales. — How now, wool-sack ! what mutter you ?

Sir John Falstaff. — A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a
dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like- a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear
hair on my face more. You prince of Wales !

Prince of Wales. — Why, you abominable * round man ! what's the matter ?

Sir John Falstaff. — Are you not a coward ? answer me to that ; and Poins there ?

Mr. Poins. — 'Zounds ! ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I'll stab thee.

Sir John Falstaff. — I call thee coward ! I'll see thee damned ere I call thee coward :
but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough
in the shoulders, you care not who sees your back. Call you that backing of your friends ?
A plague upon such backing ! give me them that will face me. — Give me a cup of sack : —
I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day.

The Prince of Wales, — 0 villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk'st last.

Sirt John Falstaff. — All's one for that. [jHe drinks.'} A plague of all cowards, still
say I.

The Prince of Wales. — What's the matter ?

Sir John Falstaff. — What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'en a thou-
sand pound this day morning.

The Prince of Wales. — Where is it, Jack ? where is it ?

Sir John Falstaff. — Where is it ? taken from us it is : a hundred upon poor four
of us.

The Prince of Wales. — What, a hundred, man?

Sir John Falstaff. — I am a rogue, if I were not at half- sword with a dozen of them
two hours together. I have 'scap'd by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet ;
four through the hose ; my buckler cut through and through ; my sword hacked like a hand-
saw, ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a man ; all would not do. A plague of
all cowards ! — Let them speak : if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and
the sons of darkness.

The Prince of Wales. — Speak, sirs ; how was it ?

Mr. Bardolph. — We four set upon some dozen,

Sir John Falstaff. — Sixteen, at least, my lord.
Mr. Baruoli'h. — And boimd them.
Mr. Peto. — No, no, they were not bound.

Sir John Falstaff. — You rogue, they were bound, every num of them ; or I am a Jew
else, an Ebrew Jew.

Mr. Bardolph. — As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us,

. * I have ventured to modify a few of the old dramatist's expressions. My sole motive
for doing so has been a natural objection to being pointed out in the streets .as the one living
writer who never did anything towards the imiirovenicnt of Shakspearc's text. — Biographer.

MR. WILLIAM SHAK8PEARE ON GADSHILL. 69

Sir John FALStAFF. — And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.

The Prince oF Wales. — What, fought ye with them all ?

Sir John Falstaff. — All ? I know not what ye call, all ; but if I fought not with
fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish : if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old
Jack then am I no two-legged creature.

Mr. PoiNS. — Pray God you have not murdered some of them.

Sir John Falstaff. — Nay, that's past praying for : I have peppered two of them :
two, I am sure, I have paid ; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, — if I tell
thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward ; — here I lay, and
thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me,

The Prince of Wales. — What, four ? thou saidst but two, even now ?

Sir John Falstaff Four, Hal ; I told thee foui-.

Mr. Poins. — Ay, ay, he said four.

Sir John Falstaff. — These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made
me no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

The Prince of Wales. — Seven ? why, there were but four, even now.

Sir John Falstaff. — In buckram.

Mr. Poins. — Ay, four, in buckram suits.

Sir John Falstaff. — Seven by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

The Prince of Wales. — Pr'ythee, let him alone ; we shall have more anon.

Sir John Falstaff. — Dost thou hear me, Hal ?

The Prince of Wales. — Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Sir John Falstaff. — Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram,
that I told thee of,

The Prince of Wales. — So, two more already.

Sir John Falstaff. — Their points being broken,

Mr. Poins. — Down fell their hose.

Sir John Falstaff. — Began to give me ground ; but I followed me close, came in foot
and hand ; and with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.

The Prince of Wales — O monstrous ! eleven buckram men grown out of two !

Sir John Falstaff. — But, as the devil would have it, three mis-begotten knaves, in
Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me ; — for it was so dark, Hal, that thou
couldst not see thy hand.

The Prince of Wales. — These lies are like the father that begets them ; gross as a
mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou
villahious, obscene, greasy tallow-kecch,

Sir John Falstaff. — What ! art thou mad ? art thou mad ? is not the truth, the
truth ?

The Prince of AVales. — Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green,
when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand ? come tell us yom- reason : what sayest
thou to this ?

Mr. Poins. — Come, your reason. Jack, your reason.

Sir John Falstaff. — What, upon compulsion ? No ; were I at the strappado, or all
the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compul-
sion ! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon com-
pulsion, I.

The Prince of Wales. — I'll be no longer guilty of this sin ; this sanguine coward,

this bed-presser, this horse-back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh ;

Sir John Falstaff. — Away, you starveling, you elf- skin, you dried neat's tongue, you
stock-fish, — 0, for breath to utter what is like thee! — you tailor's yard, you sheath,

you bow-case, you vile standing tuck ;

The Prince of Wales. — Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again : and when thou
hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me sjieak but this.

70 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Mr. Poins. — Mark, Jack.

The Prince of Wales. — We two saw you four set on four ; you bound them, and

were masters of their wealth. Mark now, how plain a tale shall put you down. — Then

did we two set on you four, and, with a word, out-faced you ft-om your prize, and have it ;
yea, and can show it you here in the house : ~ and Falstaff, you can-ied your guts away as
nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I
heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done ; and then say,
it was in fight ! What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst thou now find out, to
hide thee from this open and apparent shame ?

Mr. Poins. — Come, let's hear, Jack ; What trick hast thou now ?

Sir John Falstaff. — By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear
ye, my masters : Was it for me to kill the heir apparent ? Should I turn upon the true
prince ? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules : but beware instinct ; the lion
will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter ; I was a coward on instinct. I
shall think the better of myself and thee, during my life. I for a vahant lion, and thou for a

true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the

doors ; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. — Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of
good fellowship come to you ! What ! shall we be merry ? shall we have a play extempore ?

The Prince of Wales. — Content ; — and the argument shall be thy running away.

Sir John Falstaff. — Ah ! no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me.

Now, reader, do you know the opinion I have formed, after a careful study
of the above historic dialogue ? Perhaps you will not guess, as it is widely
remote from the common one. It is, that Sir John Falstaff did know it was
THE Prince. I don't mean to say in the heat of battle, when the outside of
the knight's head monopolised all his attention ; but I believe, on after
reflection, by calmly putting that and that together, he would have more than
a shrewd guess at the character of his assailants. Why, then, all the lies and
subterfuges ? Why the hacking of the FalstafRan sword with the Falstafiian
dagger ? Why the tickling of the noses with spear grass to draw blood ?
and the subsequent " beslubbering " of their garments therewith, under
pretence of its being the blood of true men (a stratagem somewhat unworthily
betrayed by Lieutenant Bardolph) ? Wherefore all these devices, with the
certainty of detection ?

The answer is very simple.

It was Sir John Falstaff 's object to make the Prince of Wales believe
himself a much cleverer felloiv than he realli/ was ; and I maintain that he
succeeded most triumphantly in the present instance.

Well, the money was safe. The Prince was satisfied — Falstaff perfectly
contented. Credit was unlimited — sack abundant. Nothing remained but to
make a night of it. A night was accordingly manufactured ; the principal
ingredient in its composition being the first specimen of a now popular class
of entertainment on record, — namely, an amateur play, in which Sir John
Falstaff, with much dignity, sustained the character of King Henry the
Fourth, the Prince of Wales being represented (on that occasion, and by

HISTORIC DISSERTATION. 71

particular desire), by His Royal Highness in person. The two leading
comedians subsequently exchanged parts. The performance was received
with thunders of applause by a select, if unfashionable, audience. For the
libretto of this highly successful production, the reader is referred to the
collected works of the able dramatist who has already met with such frequent
and encouraging notice in these pages.

mSTOEIC DISSERTATION UPOX THE GREAT CIVIL WAR WAGED BETWEEN THE
REVOLTED HOUSES OF PERCY ANT) M0RTI3IER, AKETTED EY THE WELSH
CHIEFTAIN, OWEN GLENDOWEP^ AND THE SCOTS, UNDER ARCinBALD EARL
OF DOUGLAS, ON THE ONE SIDE; AND KING HENDRY THE FOURTH AND SIR
JOHN FALSTAFF, WITH THEIR ALLIES AND FOLLO^VERS, ON THE OTHER :
AVITH THE AR3IING OF SIK JOHN FALSTAFF's TROOPS, AND THE 3L4JICH TO
CO\'ENTRY.

In order to appreciate fully the position of Sir John FalstafF amid the stirring
national events succeeding upon the action of Gadshill, it behoves us to quit,
for a while, the private park of Biography, and turn into the high road of
History ; that is to say, to leave Sir John to his fate for a page or so, and
give some passing attention to the doings of practitioners in his own line, but
in a more extensive way of business.

In the commencement of the fifteenth century, the Scotch, obeying the
hereditary instincts of their race, made repeated incursions into England —
not, it should be stated, with that invariable success which has attended
their more modern attempts in a similar direction. After various reverses,
the flower of Scottish chivalry, commanded by Hepburn of Hales, were
effectually routed by an English force, under the Earl of March, at Nesbit
Moor, in the spring of 1402.

Archibald, Earl of Douglas, " sore displeased in his mind for this overthrow,
procured a commission to invade England." So writes Hollinshed. It
appears singular to us, that a Scottish gentleman should, at any time, have
thought it necessary to apply to his government for permission to fulfil a
portion of his natural destiny ; but, of course, every age has its own manners.
The Douglas, with an army of ten thousand men, advanced as far as
Newcastle, but finding no army to oppose him, he retreated, loaded with

72 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

plunder, and satisfied with the devastation he had committed, and the terror
he had produced. The King, at this time, was vainly chasing Glendower up
and down his mountains ; but the Earl of Northumberland, and his son,
Hotspur, gathered a powerful army, and intercepted Douglas on his return to
Scotland. This army awaited the Scots near Milfield, in the north of North-
umberland, and Douglas, upon arriving in sight of his enemy, took up a
strong post upon Homildon Hill. The English weapon, the long bow,
decided the contest, for the Scots fell almost without fight. Douglas and the
survivors of his army were made prisoners.

Events immediately ensuing upon this engagement led to a rupture between
King Henry the Fourth and the family of the Percies. The origin of the
quarrel is thus described by Hollinshed : —

" Henry, Earl of Northumberland, with his brother Thomas, Earl of
Worcestei', and his son, the Lord Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, which
were to King Henry, in the beginning of his reign, both faithful friends and
earnest aiders, began now to envy his wealth and felicity ; and especially
were they grieved, because the king demanded of the earl and his son such
Scottish prisoners as were taken at Homildon and Nesbit, for, of all the
captives taken in the conflicts fought in those two places, there was delivered
to the king's possession only Mordake, Earl of Fife, the Duke of Albany's
son, though the king did at divers and sundry times require deliverance of
the residue, and that with great threatenings : wherewith the Percies, being
sore offended, for that they claimed them as their own proper prisoners and
peculiar prizes, * * * * came to the king unto Windsor (upon a purpose to
prove him), and then required of him, that, either by ransom or otherwise, he
would cause to be delivered out of prison Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March,
their cousin-german, whom (as they reported) Owen Glendower kept in
filthy prison, shackled with irons, only for that he took his part, and was to
him faithful and true.

* * * " The king, when he had studied on the matter, made answer, that
the Earl of March was not taken prisoner for his cause, nor in his service,
but willingly suffered himself to be taken, because he would not withstand
the attempts of Owen Glendower, and his complices; therefore he would
neither ransom him nor release him.

" The Percies, with this answer and fraudulent excuse, were not a little
fumed, insomuch that Henry Hotspur said openly : ' Behold, the heir of the
realm is robbed of his right, and yet the robber with his own will not redeem
him.' So in this fury the Percies departed, minding nothing more than to
depose King Henry from the high type of his roj^alty, and to place in his
seat their cousin Edmund, Earl of Mareli, whom they did not only deliver out

HISTORIC DISSERTATION. 73

of captivity, but also (to the high displeasure of King Henry) entered in
league with the foresaid Owen Glendower."

The rapidity with which I have dashed off the foregoing paragraphs
convinces me that I must have a vocation for what is called the higher
walk of history. It is true that this, my first attempt of the kind, has been
favoured by great facilities such as I might not always be so fortunate as to
meet with; seeing that the whole of the above — quotations from Hollinshed
included — has been copied out of a printed book now lying open before me
(the name of which I see no necessity for divulging), with but few interpo-
lations and excisions. Perhaps if I were to push on a little further in the
same path, I might be able to surmount greater difficulties than have yet
presented themselves. I say nothing. But time and the publishers say
something to me, — namely, that I have no business to trouble myself with
writing the History of England in these pages, at all events except so far as
it concerns Sir John Falstaff. Therefore, I must reserve myself for a future
occasion.

However, as Sir John Falstaff took a most active part in the civil dissen-
sions excited by the feud above alluded to, the Knight's biographer must be
permitted to dwell awhile upon the merits of that quarrel, ere resuming the
thread of his personal narrative.

The "merits" of the case, in one sense of the term, — namely, according
to the logic of the young naval officer who was ordered to report upon the
"manners" of a barbarous people, may be briefly summed up, in the words of
that marine authority, as " none whatever." It was simply a carboniferous
contest between the forces of King Pot on the one side, and those of the
revolted chieftain Kettle (aided and abetted by divers of his brother Smuts)
on the other. Do not suppose me capable of wilfully depreciating great
names and achievements below their legitimate value. Only, let us have
justice. My especial business is with the reputation of Sir John Falstaff.
If, in spite of my convincing arguments and unanswerable facts, certain
wrong-headed moralists will adhere to the ojiinion that my hero was a mere
thief, and as such to be reprehended, I, in defence of my own position, must
insist — upon the showing of my adversaries — that King Henry the Fourth,
Hotspur, Glendower, and Company, only differed from Sir John Falstaff as
pilchards do from herrings, "the pilchard being the greater."* Hold me my

* Vide the Clown in Twelfth Night, an Illyrian wit of the Middle Ages, who was indebted
for most of his bans mots to an acquaintance with Sir Toby Belch, an English emigrd of the
period, and, obviously, a personal friend of Sir John Falstaff. A companion work to
the present (in two volumes octavo, on thick paper, with plates), to be entitled Sir Toby
Belch ; his Life and Difficulties, with his Inducements to Foreign Travel, has not yet been
commanded by the publishers. The author bides his time.

74 LIFE OF FALSTAFF,

knight virtuous ; accept me the moonlit fickl of Gadshill as glorious ; and I
will honour Bolingbroke, glorify Shrewsbury, and weeji over Percy with the
most orthodox among you. But I will have no two laws, — one for the rich,
the other for the poor. If Sir John is to hang, he shall make a fat pair of
gallows. All the Harries of the period — old Harries and young Plarries —
shall hang with him !

Have the kindness, with all your dignity of History and what not, to show
me the difference between the Gadshill expedition and the war of the Percy
rebellion. What is it but one of magnitude ? The King and the Percies
had been in league to take advantage of certain Scotchmen — a people who,
at that barbarous period, (however incredible it may appear now-a-days,) were
not very well able to protect themselves — just as had been the King's son
and the Falstaif fraternity, quoad the helpless Kentish travellers. The
Percies took all they could lay their hands on, and wanted to keep it. The
King was jealous, and would'nt let them. History delights in these bizarre
coincidences. At the same time, it is remarkable that the chief bone of con-
tention should have been the right of proprietorship in a few Scotchmen, — a
commodity which must have been much more scarce, and proportionately
precious, in England at that period than in our own favoured time, when the
supply of the article may certainly be pronounced equal to the demand.

The story abounds in instructive morals. In the first place, the Earl of
Douglas ought not to have attempted to return to his own country. It was
an unnatural proceeding in a Scotchman ; and the Nemesis of his people
overtook him accordingly. It is but just to state that on his being made
prisoner he remained in England as long as was practicable, even on the
condition of fighting under the banner of his late conqueror ; and only
recrossed the Tweed upon compulsion. But the atonement came too late.

Enough of these wholesale dealers in the general FalstafF line for the
present. Sufiice it that the Percies were in the field at the head of a
powerful army ; and were known to all loyal subjects (i.e. cautious people
waiting to see the issue of hostilities) as " the rebels ;" an offensive epithet,
but they were used to it. They had been rebels more than a dozen years
before, when they had stolen a crown for Henry liolingbroke, who was then
a rebel with them. Henry was a king now, and had turned round on them ;
just as his son was foredoomed to turn round upon Falstaff, Bardolph, &c., a
few years later. It was in the blood, you Avill say ? Possibly. Still it is a
plague when princes and warriors cannot be true to one another.

The leaders on the Royalist side were the King himself, the Prince of Wales,
some more princes, dukes, and carls, whose names are of no importance, and

Sill John Falstaff !

MISTRESS QUICKLY's HUSBAND. 75

It will readily be believed that under these terrible circumstances the
rebels had their work cut out for them.

Sir John Falstaif stood in need of warlike excitement. In his own words,
" he had fallen off vilely since the last action." Many things had occurred to
sadden him. In the first place, the Prince of Wales, Avith characteristic
meanness, had refunded the spoils of Gadshill to its original owners ; and
Sir John " liked not that paying back," properly considering it " double
labour." He had grown hypochondriac, and took strange fancies. Amongst
others, he preposterously imagined that he was becoming thin. Mistress
Quickly, hostess of the Boar's Head Tavern, knew better than this, having
recently taken the knight's measure for a dozen holland shirts, at eight
shillings an ell, provided at her own expense, and supplied to Sir John on the
faith of his knightly promise to pay. These shirts were a sore subject Avith
Mistress Quickly. Let us respect the memory of her feelings, even at this
distance of centuries. None but a sailmaker, who has equipped, on credit, an
Indiaman, which has gone down with all the wealth of its owner on board,
could fully appreciate them. Altogether, Sir John was out of sorts : he
lacked society. The Prince of Wales — an amusing young man enough in
his better moments — was busily preparing his programme for the future
astonishment of the world. Mr. Poins was, of course, in close attendance
upon his highness, and rarely showed. Gadshill and Peto were uninteresting
plebeians, only to be used when wanted. Bardolph was very well in his way ;
but his way was not an enlivening one, at the best of times ; he so rarely
opened his mouth, except to put something into it. With regard to
Mrs. Quickly, she was becoming intolerable : she wanted her bill.

Also, with regard to Mrs. Quickly, at this juncture of our narrative (when
I say " our," reader, I mean yours and mine — I have no intention of adopting
the mysterious "we" of conventional literature) it behoves the writer to
digress and apologise. The latter let us consider done. The former process
I will get over as rapidly as possible.

I professed, a few pages back, to have done with Mistress Quickly's
husband for good and all. Justice to my vicAV of the lady's character —
which is one of high admiration — compels me to allude to that shadoAvy
person once more. I have stated that I believe him to haA'e been ailing,
giving the most probable cause of his indisposition. At this period, I believe
his malady was approaching the final crisis, and that he lay on his deathbed
— babbling, not like Sir John Falstaff, some years later (in the same chamber
— who knows ?) of green fields, but of black cats and other flitting shapes —
phenomena, I am informed, frequently witnessed by sufferers in the last
stages of a complaint caught in the dangerous atmosphere of a spirit cellar

76 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

too easy of access. I am sure there was some such domestic calamity ha-
rassing poor Mrs. Quickly at this time. There were heavy apothecaries'
bills to be met ; and, perhaps, tradesmen's accounts, (for which she had given
her husband the money months ago, believing it duly paid,) pressing upon her.
Otherwise she would never have troubled Sir John Falstaff as she did — for
pitiful dross. Poor lady ! it was not in her nature to give pain, and she
knew how distasteful such questions were to the sensitive organisation of
her illustrious guest. But that she had pressed him somewhat warmly is
evident. For had not Sir John been compelled, in self-defence, to ward off
her importunities by something in the shape of un-knightly fiction, as to
certain valuables abstracted from his pocket in her house ? There was no
way else. The woman would not be appeased save by money or plausible
excuses. If Sir John had possessed plenty of the former, and not had the
slightest occasion for its immediate use, he would doubtless have paid her, in
coin, and honourably commenced a fresh account. Having none, he could
only offer her the substitute alluded to. Tlie loss of " three or four bonds
of forty pound a piece, and a seal ring of my grandfather's," is sui*ely a fair
reason for a gentleman of moderate means being temporarily straitened.
After all, there was some truth in the matter. Sir John Falstaff's pocket had
been picked (by those miscreants, the Prince and Poins — vide Shakspeare),
and in Mrs. Quickly's house. The details of the robbery are of secondary
importance. Nothing can be justly called a lie save that which is utterly
divested of truth !

Worthy Dame Quickly ! I regret to find that it is the custom to consider
her a very ridiculous and improper personage. I think she was a very good
woman in her own foolish way. If Hero Worship be a true creed, she
deserves honour amongst the foremost ranks of the faithful. She believed,
rightly or wrongly, in one whom she considered a great man ; and clung to
him till the last, suffering for her faith in purse and credit, like a simple-
minded, illogical, immoral, ungrammatical martyr, as she was. I believe
myself that she was right. Her powers of perception were limited, but
correct, as far as they could range. She had just wit enough to see the good
that was in Sir John Falstaff — no more ; and obeyed him like a slave or a
soldier, pandering with unquestioning loyalty to his very vices, on the prin-
ciple that the king can do no wrong.

To dispose of Mrs. Quickly's husband at once and for ever. I liave
already said that nothing certain can be ascertained about him ; but a Avell-
supported theory on tlie subject may be some consolation to those restless
Shakspearian commentators Avho spend their lives in hunting after the
unpublished facetiae attributable to Juliet's nurse's husband — who write

THE QUICKLY FAMILY CONTINUED. 77

folios upon the probable birthplace of the undertaker's journeyman in Richard
the Third, who doesn't want the Duke of Glocester to interfere with his pro-
fessional duties, — and the like. It is, then, my confident opinion, that Mrs.
Quickly became a widow at about the time of the battle of Shrewsbury —
that is to say, if a lady can be said to become a widoAV who has never been
legally married. That Mrs. Quickly had believed herself married let us
hope. She was the most likely person in the world to be imposed upon, in
this, as in other matters. But, assuming a legal contract to have taken place,
how could she have preserved her maiden name ? That Quickly was her
maiden name is certain. For, in the Merry Wives of Windsor, Shakspeare
introduces us to a second Mistress Quickly, housekeeper to the celebrated Dr.
Caius, who wrote the well-known treatise on English dogs*, a spinster, and
most obviously the sister of our hostess — the family likeness being, indeed,
so strong between them, as to have led to a confusion of their identities by
the ignorant and unobserving. It is no doubt in search of sisterly consola-
tion from this second Mrs. Quickly, in a time of great tribulation, that the
heart-broken hostess of the Boar's Head, in the third scene of the second act
of the history of King Henry the Fifth, implores to be " carried to Staines,"
near Windsor.

Ha ! an unexpected solution to the moral difficulty ! one that may remove
the last taint of suspicion from the lady's reputation. May not our Mrs.
Quickly have been celebrated as the hostess of the Boar's Head in her spin-
sterhood ? May she not have taken to herself a husband, changing her
name, to the church and the law, but not to her customers, accordino- to
the practice of queens, opera singex's, poetesses, and other celebrated women ?
The conclusion is at least charitable ; and those who like, are at liberty to
adopt it. For my own part, I cling to the belief that her husband, " the
vintner" of the first part of Henry the Fourth, was a sponge and an
impostor, one who probably made a trade of marrying unprotected landladies
for their taps and cash-boxes, who most likely had half-a-dozen wives
living, whom he had fleeced and ill-treated, of which fact Mistress Quickly,
his latest victim, had full knowledge ; but was, nevertheless, kind to her
betrayer, in an upbraiding, petting, devoted, inconsistent, Avomanly fashion,
to the very last. I may be doing gross injustice to the memory of a most
harmless and respectable citizen ; but I am supporting my theory of Mrs.
Quickly's character admirably. Argument, like progress, accordin"- to
a modern imperial authority, cannot march without its martyrs and its

* First printed in the reign of Elizabeth — with interpolations : hence the eiToneous belief
that Dr. Caius was a physician of that later perioJ.

I

78 LIFE OF FALSTAPF.

victims. If the vintner, in his lifetime, were really a good man, he would
have forgiven me. So that upon the whole, we may consider the matter
settled.

Sir John Falstaff, at the suggestion of Prince Henry, was entrusted with a
charge of foot. It was all very fine to laugh at Sir John in time of security.
When danger made its appearance, they Avere only too glad to rush to him
for assistance. Prince Henry had staked his future reputation on the issue
of the coming struggle, and chose his officers accoi'dingly. Historians fix the
date of the battle of Shrewsbury on the 21st of July, 1403. I am inclined to
regard this as a proof that historians know nothing about it. At that period,
the Prince Henry (who, it must be admitted, distinguished himself honourably
in the action), could not have been more than fifteen years of age. Was this
the sort of person, likely, not only to inspire the renowned and terrible Hot-
spur with jealousy of his fame and valour, but, moreover, to have previously
obtained advantages, however temporary, over a man like Falstaff? I think
not. Besides, the liistorians betray their habitual looseness in making Hot-
spur himself thirty-five years of age at the same period. This is simply pre-
posterous. Would a weather-beaten warrior, whose spur had ne'er been cold
since his thirteenth year, at a time of life approaching that, when, in the
words of a chivalric bard, " grizzling hair the brain doth clear," express thus
passionately his eagerness for a personal encounter with an unfledged
stripling : —

" Come, let me take my horse,
Who is to beai* me, like a thimderbolt.
Against the bosom of the rrince of Wales ;
Han-y to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
Meet and ne'er part till one drop down a corse ..."

Who says the above speech is not historical ? I tell you, I find it in
Shakspeare, who is for me the most authentic of historians. He may be
wrong, occasionally, in a date or a name, and may, perhaps, at times allow his
imagination to run away with him. What then ? if in nine cases out of ten,
as I believe to be the case, his imagination, in two or three bounds, carries him
nearer to the truth than the plodding foot-passengers of history can ever
reach in their life's time, encumbered as they are with their thick-soled shoes,
clumsy staves, and ponderous knapsacks ? In matters of remote history, we
must take many things for granted, and can only sift the true from the false
by our own instinctive sense of probability. When I compare a history
of Shakspcare's Avith a more prosaic record of the same events, the odds
of verisimilitude are infinitely in favour of the former ; and — as the less
must be contained in the greater — when I find a man invariably right upon

GATHERING OF THE FALSTAFF FORCES 79

matters of real importance, why should I suppose him wrong upon trifles ?
Never tell me that a great mind will not stoop to the consideration of petty
details, however essential. That is a weak invention of the incapable, who
dread an invasion of the giants in their own little territory. The great mind
knows that the world is made up of atoms, and can see a fly as well as a dragon.
Virgil, in the present day, would have been a better authority upon steam
ploughs and liquid manure than Mr. Mechi, of Tiptree Farm ; Herodotus
could have written a better sixpenny catechism of geography than Pinnock ;
I warrant Raphael Sanzio knew how to sharpen a crayon in less time, bring-
ing it to a better point, and with less damage to his penknife, than any
iSchool of Design boy of the present century.

And so, upon the whole, I have decided to pin my historical faith — for
great and for small, for positive and for doubtful — upon the representations
of Shakspeare, as many wise men have not been ashamed to confess, in
solemn assemblies, they have done before me.

This decision leads me to fix the date of the battle of Shrewsbury at the
21st of July (I yield the day of the month to Hollinshed and Co.), in the
year 1408. At this time the Prince of Wales — history is generally pretty
correct as to the birth of princes— 7 was in his twenty-first year, and being a
handsome youth, well trained to warlike exei'cises, with of course a princely
command of ornamental outfit, would justify Sir Richard Vernon's glowing
description : —

" I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,
Kisc from the ground like feather'd Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into liis seat,
As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds,
To tm'n and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship."

Sir John Falstaff" at the same date Avould be (alas !) in his sixty-second year.
Hotspur, according to the new reading I am sanguine of establishing, could
not have been born earlier than the year 1382.

It must have been on or about the 10th of the same month (i.e. July, 1408)
that Sir John Falstaff", having got the nucleus of his troops in marching-
order, prepared to lead them against the enemy, proceeding from London in a
north-westerly direction.

The departure of the Falstaff" troops from the metropolis, though an event,
judged by its results, worthy of celebration by the historic pencil, was
not, perse, one of sufficient importance to call forth any such public demon-
strations as the closing of shops, the erection of triumphal arches, or of

80 LIFE OF PALSTAFF.

balconies for spectators, the turning out of municipal authorities, the reading
of addresses, &c. &c. The Lord Mayor of London on that day attended to
his business, cuffing his 'prentices and mixing his wines, stretching and
powdering his broadcloth, washing his stale ribs of beef with fresh blood,
or prematurely ripening his hides with marl and ash bark, — according to
the civic chair in that year happened to be filled by vintner, clothier, butcher,
or tanner, — just as though nothing were going forAvard. There was
not even so much as a procession of virgins to scatter flowers before the
warriors' footsteps ; not even a band of music to play before them ; not
so much as a wooden barrier to keep off the crowd that did not come to look
at them !

There were two good reasons for this apparently contemptuous indifference
on the part of the public. In the first place, it was not then customary
to celebrate great victories until after they had been obtained. Li the
second place, the FalstafF troops were not, at their setting forth, conspicuous
either by numbers or equipment. They amounted altogether to certainly not
more than fifteen warriors, for the most part indifferently armed and clad.
Of these, two were our friends Bardolph and Peto, the latter holding the rank
of Lieutenant, to Captain — or, as he would now be called, Lieutenant-Colonel
Sir John FalstafF. The exact grade of Bardolph in the expedition is not
easy of definition : it is to be presumed he officiated as a sort of aide-de-camp,
varying his titular distinction according to his audience.* The remainder of
the troop were, it is true, men of some considerable renown, but owing their
celebrity to achievements which made their gallant leader by no means over
anxious to be seen in their company ; so that the march from London was
commenced in an unobtrusive, not to say straggling manner, Sir John FalstafF
himself not taking horse till his forces had been some half-hour befoi'C him
on the road to gloiy.

And was this intrepid chieftain actually about to risk the chances of battle
against the armies of Percy, Douglas, and Glendower, with such feai'ful
disadvantages of number and discipline as these ? No, reader. Let us guard
against exaggeration. There are limits to everything — even the heroism of
Sir John Falstaffi We must not lose sight of the fact that our hero would
have a king, with several princes and noblemen, with their followers, to

* A distinguished member of the Shaksperian Society iias, I ain informed, a quarto in
preparation devoted to the solution of the following vital question : — " Was Gadshill killed at
the battle of Shrewsbury? and if not, how is it we hear no more of him after tlie date of
that action ? " I can answer the question in two lines. Gadshill was hanged at Dulwich,
ten days before the setting out of the expedition, for robbing an aged fanner of two geese,
and a \>iilr of leathern inexpressibles.

' ~yTy;,iii;iii.;in|ii|i::jii

.li ^' ^ *;j:

ilip

THE FALSTAFF TROOPS DESCRIBED. 81

support him in his expedition; — moreover, he was to recruit forces as he
went along.

The mode of raising soldiers in those days was very simple, and much more
efficacious than at present. There was, then, no occasion for foreign legions,
militia nurseries, and such tedious devices. The king, who could only do
one wrong — namely, that of allowing himself to be kicked off the throne by
the other king — when he was in want of soldiers, resorted to the simple
expedient of taking them. That is to say, he appointed his officers — who,
instead of having to ruin themselves in scarlet cloth, bullion lace, sabres,
feathers, and horseflesh, as in the present day — were merely expected to find
their own soldiers, a commodity as cheap as dirt, and treated accordingly.
This the king's commission enabled them to do with great facility. Armed
with the royal authority, the officer entered a parish or township, and said
he wanted a certain number of men. The local authorities were compelled
to furnish the number required, subject to the officer's approval ; and the men
selected were compelled to go, whether they liked it or not. This admirable
system of recruiting, subjected to slight modifications, is still in vogue on the
continent. Its discontinuance in our own country fully accounts for the fact
— -so often pointed out to us by our neighbours, who of course are more
qualified to judge of us than we are ourselves — that we have long ceased
to be a great military nation ; a fact which, though humiliating, is incon-
trovertible— witness the notorious incapacity of our Guards in the late
Crimean war !

Sir John Falstaff* was empowered to press into the service of King Henry
the Fourth a hundred and fifty men. Amongst them there may have been seve-
ral who looked upon that monarch as an usurper, and might object to fighting
against the partisans of Mortimer, Earl of March, who, if English law meant
anything, was certainly their lawful monarch. This was no business of Sir
John Falstaff"'s.

And how did Sir John speed with his recruiting ? Admirably, as he did
in most of his undertakings. His number was soon complete. Of the quality
of his troops and his manner of raising them let him speak for himself. No
description of mine could approach his own inimitable picture. (Let it be
premised, in justification of this great captain's occasional regard of his own
interest in the matter, that the commandex's of regiments in those days had
no such privileges as tailoring contracts, &c., and were fain to avail themselves
of such advantages as offered.)

" If I be not ashamed of my soldiers I am a soused gurnet. I have misused
" the king's press most damnably. I have got, in exchange for a hundred
" and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good

K

82 LIFE OP FALSTAFF.

" householders, yeomen's sons : inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as
" had been asked twice on the banns ; such a commodity of warm slaves as
'•' had as lief hear the devil as a drum ; such as fear the report of a caliver
" worse than a struck fowl or a hurt wild duck. I pressed me none but such
" toasts and butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins' heads,
" and they have bought out their services ; and now my whole charge
" consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies, slaves
" as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked
" his sores : and such indeed as were never soldiers ; but discarded unjust
" serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters and
" ostlers trade-fallen ; the cankers of a calm world and a long peace ; ten
" times more dishonourably ragged than an old-faced ancient : and such have I
" to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their services, that you
" would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals lately come
" from swine-keeping, from eating chaff and husks. A mad fellow met me
" on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets, and pressed the
" dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll not march through
" Coventry with them, that's flat : — Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt
" the legs, as if they had gyves on ; for, indeed, I had the most of them out
" of prison. There's but a shirt and a half in all my company ; and the half
" shirt is two napkins tacked together, and thrown over the shoulders like a
" herald's coat without sleeves ; and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from
" my host at St. Alban's, or the red-nosed innkeeper of Daintry ; but that's
" all one ; they'll find linen enough on every hedge."

The above profound reflections (which every ofiicer of irregular infantry
would do well to lay to his heart) were made by Sir John Falstaff, on the
occasion of a review of his troops near Coventry — at which the Prince of
Wales and the Earl of Westmoreland assisted. I am inclined to fix the date
of this important military display on the third day previous to the battle of
Shrewsbury. The Royalist forces were proceeding towards that city by
forced marches. Sir John Falstaff, as is well known, came upon the field in
ample time to give battle to the rebels ; and it is improbable that any system
of forcing could have got him over sixty miles of ground in less than
three days.

Whether or not the knight found the hedgerows of Warwick, Stafford, and
Salop of such fruitfuluess — in the matter of linen — as he had anticipated,
the historian has no means of ascertaining. The shirt in those days, it should
be stated, was a comparatively recent invention — nor had the art of the
laundress been brought to its present perfection.

83

HOW SIR JOHN FALSTAFF WON THE BATTLE OP SHREWSBURY.

Even had the Royalist side been deprived of the immense weight of Sir John
Falstaff's counsels and support, the issue of the struggle could not have been
doubtful. Fortune seemed to have declared against the rebels from the
outset. The Earl of Northumberland was taken ill at Berwick, and unable
to join his gallant son in the field. The Welsh under Glendower did not
come up in time for the battle. All the efibrts of their gallant and patriotic
chieftain to bring his troops past the neighbouring cheese districts of the
border county of Chester had proved ineffectual.

Nevertheless the rebels determined on giving battle, which was perhaps a
superfluous piece of generosity on their part, as the king, the princes, and
Sir John Falstaff had come determined to take it. Hotspur — the warmth of
whose heels would not seem to have produced in him any remarkable coolness
of head — sent, on the eve of the engagement, an epistle to the king, which
is strikingly illustrative of the knightly courtesy of the period. In this
document he accuses Henry of murder, perjury, illegal taxation, obtaining
money under false pretences, kidnapping, and bribery at elections.* The
crimes of garrotting and stealing drinking vessels from the railings of private
dwellings were not then known, or it is more than probable that these
too would have entered into the wholesale list of accusations. Such a
document, it will be admitted, was not calculated to dispose the king to
leniency or placability. He was a monarch of the bilious temperament, and
not at any time remarkable for excessive amiability or good humour. A
popular historian has informed us that " he was subject to fits, which
bereaved him for a time of reason." f The effect of such a communication
on a monarch so constituted may be imagined.

Whether it was that the insurgent chieftains had formed a mistaken
estimate of the king's nature, and imagined that he required a great deal of
provoking before he could be induced to give them the thrashing they seemed
so ardently to desire, it Avould be difiicult to say. At any rate, on the morning

* Hall, folio 21 — 22, &c.

t Pinnock on Goldsmith — • a work that has not come within the sphere of my observation
for many years. The passage quoted, however, and many others from the same, were
indelibly impressed on my memory at the time of perusal by a system of mnemonics now
unhappily falling into disuse. — Biogkapher.

K 2

84 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

of the battle, Sir Thomas Percy, the Earl of Worcester, thought it advisable
to look in on the royal camp, as he happened to be passing, with a flag of
truce, and favour his Majesty with a viva voce resume of some of the heads of
his nephew's spirited epistle of the preceding night, which might have slipped
the royal memory. To Percy's address — which has been put into excellent
blank verse by Shakspeare — the king replied with a proposal that the rebels
should lay down their arms and go home quietly, which he knew would not
be accepted. Percy departed, and the royal council of war at which he had
been heard — and at the deliberations of which the Princes Henry and John,
with Sir Walter Blunt and Sir John FalstaiF, had assisted — broke up to
prepare for action.

The rival armies were drawn up on a large plain near the town of Shrews-
bury overlooked by Haughmond Hill. The character of the ground is
indicated in the opening lines of the fifth act of the chronicle of " Henry the
Fourth " (Part I.) :—

" How bloodily the sun begins to peer
Above you bosky hill ! The day looks pale
At his distcmperatuf e."

Herein we have one of ten thousand proofs of Shakspeare's fidelity to historic
and natural truth on all occasions, Mr. Blakeway says that great author has
described the scene as accurately as if he had surveyed it. " It still merits
the appellation of a bosky hill." " Bosky" must be taken in its ancient and
poetical sense, signifying " wood-covered," and not in its more modern and
familiar acceptation, which the presence of Sir John Falstaff", Bardolph, and
other warriors of their way of living, might have rendei'ed applicable to the
aspect of the counti-y.

The opposing forces were about equal in number, each army consisting in
round numbers of twelve thousand men. In point of discipline and training
the advantages were also fairly balanced. The light infantry, under Sir
John Falstaff, consisted, as we have seen, of raw recruits, indifferently clad
and nourished. But, as an offset to this must be taken into consideration the
condition of the Scots under Douglas — large numbers of whom, being from
the northern highlands, were, according to English notions, of necessity more
imperfectly clothed than even the Falstaff troops themselves. For courage
on either side there could not have been much to choose ; Englishmen and
Scotchmen could hit as hard, and were quite as fond of doing it, then as in
the present day.

Hume, writing of this decisive engagement, says : —

" We shall scarcely find any battle in those ages where the shock was more

MASSACRE OF THE FALSTAFF TROOPS. 85

" terrible and more constant. Henry exposed his person in the thickest of
" the fight : his gallant son, whose military achievements were afterwards so
" renowned, and who here performed his novitiate in arms, signalised himself
" on his father's footsteps ; and even a wound, which he received in the face
" with an arrow, could not oblige him to quit the field. Percy supported that
" fame which he had acquired in many a bloody combat ; and Douglas, his
" ancient enemy, and now his friend, still appeared his rival amongst the
" horror and confusion of the day. This nobleman performed feats of valour
" which are almost incredible : he seemed determined that the King of England
*' should that day fall by his arm : he sought him all over the field of battle ;
" and as Henry, either to elude the attacks of the enemy on his person, or to
" encourage his own men by the belief of his presence everywhere, had
" accoutred several captains in the royal garb, the sword of Douglas rendered
" this honour fatal to many : but while the armies were contending in this
" furious manner, the death of Pei'cy, by an unknown hand, decided the victory,
" and the royalists prevailed. There are said to have fallen on that day, on
" both sides, near two thousand three hundred gentlemen ; but the persons
" of greatest distinction were on the king's : the Earl of Staiford, Sir Hugh
" Shirley, Sir Nicholas Ganoil, Sir Hugh Mortimer, Sir John Massey, Sir
" John Calonly. About six thousand private men perished, of whom two-
" thirds were of Percy's army. The Earls of Worcester and Douglas were
" taken prisoners : the former was beheaded at Shrewsbury ; the latter was
" treated with the courtesy due to his rank and merit."

The above account is substantially correct. To the list of killed and
wounded it is necessary to add the names of Sir Walter Blunt amongst the
two thousand three hundred gentlemen, and amongst the six thousand
private men, one hundred and forty-seven hapless warriors whose particular
fate will be presently mentioned. Sir Walter Blunt was one of the several
captains whom the king had " accoutred in the royal garb," with the
view "either to elude the attacks of the enemy on his person, or to
encourage his own men by the belief in his presence everywhere." The
reader may accept which theory he pleases. I myself incline to the former,
having the greatest confidence in Henry Bolingbroke's wisdom as a general
and sense of his own value as an individual.

Of the violence of the shock between the conflicting armies, one circum-
stance alone is sufficient con-oboration. Sir John Falstaif, emulating his
royal chieftain, also "exposed his person in the thickest of the fight" — nay,
may very reasonably be asserted to have been "the thickest of the fight
himself." We will not pause to dwell upon the magnitude of risk incurred by
Sir John — much greater in proportion to his bulk than that of the slender

k3

86 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

and dyspeptic monarch — in exposing so vast a target to the arrows of the
enemy. Our knight's heroic achievements are too numerous to need any stress
to be laid on one solitary instance. Suffice it, that Sir John, at an early
stage of the battle, conducted his troops to a position of the greatest danger,
where they perished almost to a man. In his own light-hearted words,
uttered amidst the most terrible carnage and peril, "he led his ragamutfins
where they were peppered ! "

"There's not three of my hundred and fifty left alive!" said Sir John,
wiping his brow, that Avas clotted with dust and blood, " and they are for the
town's end, to beg during life."

And with this historic fact staring them in the face, there are not wanting
people to pronounce Sir John Falstaff a coward ! Well, well ! Sir John
himself has told us what the world is given to !

The heroism of the Douglas and his gallant Scots has not been exagge-
rated by their compatriot historian, in whom exaggeration on the subject
might well be pardoned. Those intrepid warriors — their movements, for
the most part, unencumbered with nether garments — ^performed prodigies
of valour and ubiquity. It was said of the field of Shrewsbury in the
fifteenth, as of the four quarters of the globe in the nineteenth century,
" You found Scotchmen everywhere ! "

Amongst the Eoyalist gentlemen with whom the gallant Scotch leader had
the honour of crossing swords in the course of the day, but to whom the
reciprocal honour was not " fatal," as Hume has told us it had been to so
many, we must class Sir John Falstafi". The fact that the hero of these
pages was sought out for single combat by the " hot, termagant Scot," is a
proof of the high estimation in which our knight's valour was held even by
his enemies. The Douglas could not have mistaken him for the King, of
whom he was in such active pursuit. Sir John's costume and personal
appearance must have placed that out of the question. At any rate, they
met and fought. After a brief encounter — in which the training of poor
Wat Smith, the Maldyke cudgeller, was doubtless not forgotten — the
fortune of war decided against our hero. He fell wounded, — not dangerously,
or even severely, but wounded. The Douglas seeing his formidable enemy
hors de combat, and — let us assume — espying one of the King's counterfeits
in the distance, retreated without following up his advantage. I might revive
national jealousies, which had better be left at rest for ever, were I to hint
that the unquestionably brave Cahidonian had possibly had enough of it, and
had found his stalwart English adversary rather more than he had bargained
for. I will content myself with the statement that the Earl of Douglas
quitted the scene of action abruptly, leaving Sir John Falstart" alive, — not
seriously injured, but for Die nionuiil incapable of doing mischief.

SHAKSPEARE ON THE DEATH OF HOTSPUR. 87

And now I approach what I confess to be a most delicate question, and one
whereof the solution causes me much perplexity. The question is —

" Who killed Hotspur ? "

Hume, as we have seen, asserts that the young Northumbrian fell by an
unknown hand ; Shakspeare, as the world knows, represents him to have
been slain by the Prince of Wales, after a brief hand-to-hand combat.

Which is the truth ? Is either the truth ?

As I have professed to abide by the representations of Shakspeare on all
occasions, in preference to those of other historians, consistency bids me to
adopt his views on this momentous problem. But I hesitate. After all, even
Shakspeare was but a man. May not the wish to glorify a popular favourite
have lulled his conscience to sleep just for once, and induced him to crown
one hero with another's laurels ? He has been known to falsify history for
the gratification of popular feeling — in one instance most glaringly. Has he
not loaded the shoulders of Richard the Third with more hump and iniquity
than that monarch is historically licensed to carry ? And why ? Because he
happened to be writing in the time of Henry the Seventh's granddaughter,
and the name of the last Plantagenet was still execrated in the land; just as
was that of the now respected Cromwell in the fine old English reign of
the great and good King Charles the Second.

Let us, however, calmly consider Shakspeare's view of the case in point,
and sum up the probabilities before coming to any definite decision.

According to Shakspeare, at the moment when the Earl of Douglas was
running away from Sir John Falstaff — I repeat that I impute no unworthy
motives to that possibly intrepid act on the part of the noble Earl — while
the Earl of Douglas was running away, and Sir John Falstaif lay panting and
bleeding (the Pi'ince of Wales saw him bleed) on the field of battle, the two
young Henrys, Percy and Plantagenet, had met, at a short distance from the
scene of the last recorded struggle, and Avere exchanging formal civilities
previous to the laudable operation of cutting each other's throat, after the
chivalrous manner of our prize-ring gladiators, derived traditionally from the
practice of the Dacian Pet and the Herculaneum Slasher, as chronicled in the
writings of Tintinabulus.* The Game Chicken, from the wilds of Northum-
berland, complimented the Larky Boy — champion of the Westminster Light
Weights — with some irony rather implying a regret that the latter bantam
should be in a recently hatched and inadequately-fledged condition, and
scarcely entitled to the honours of immolation at the hands, or rather the
red-hot spurred heels of himself, the Northumberland Chicken, which he

* Vita in Roma . . . De Pugnatoribus. Cap. I.
K 4

88 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

declared the Larky One was nevertheless foredoomed to undergo ; to which
Larky replied by advising his adversary not to crow prematurely, nor too
loudly, nor yet to waste arithmetical calculation upon chickens whose
incubation was at least problematical. He admitted that he was not an old
bird, but at the same time implied that he was not to be caught by the
peculiar species of conversational bait of which his opponent was so over
liberal. Briefly, they flapped their wings, and, without further cackling,
flew to the attack.

" The pen of Homer" has been worn by myself and others into a rather
stumpy condition for the recital of warlike encounters. Let me borrow the
pen of Jones, the latest London successor of the graphic Tintinabulus, to
describe the event in question, which Shakspeare represents as having " come
ofi"" at Shrewsbury,

ROUND THE FIRST.

The two plucky ones were in admirable condition. At first it might have
been feared that the Westminster Boy, who had bolted from his training
a short time previously, would not be able to come to the scratch ; while it
was presumed that the Northern Customer, having been for some weeks out of
collar, and at grass, might have accumulated a troublesome superabundance
of pork ; whereas it proved

But no ! The penholder of Jones is too much for the grasp of my
attenuated fingers. I cannot manage it. I may not attempt to particularise
the various fibbings, sloggings, grassings, and chancery suits to which the
conflicting champions subjected one another. I will confine myself to a
statement in plain language, — that the gallant Percy, having more than once
drawn claret from the heroic Plantagenet, and the latter mountain of courage
having given birth to a ridiculous mouse under the left ogle of his opponent,
both champions having repeatedly kissed the old woman*, and risen from
that filial process in a piping condition, the future winner of the Agincourt
belt had it all his own way, until the terror of the Scottish borders was
eventually gone into and finished.

After all, there is nothing like plain, straightforward, intelligible, unadorned
English !

Then, says Shakspeare, the Prince of Wales, having wiped his ensanguined
sword, and, let us assume, briefly congratulated himself on being well out of
a serious difiiculty, delivered a funereal oration over the body of his late
adversary, which proved his Royal Highness to be gifted with the most

* Mother Earth, Vide " Tintinabulus." Loudon editiua, 1857.

SHAKSPE are's VIEW CONTINUED. 89

eminent qualifications for a popular lecturer. This burst of eloquence being
terminated to his own satisfaction, he looked round with the pardonable
vanity of a public speaker, to see if anybody had been listening to him. He
was disappointed to discover no one but Sir John Falstaff, apparently dead,
on the ground.

However, being in the oratorical vein, his Royal Highness was not to be
deterred from speaking, by so contemptible a reason as the absence of a living
auditory. He accordingly let off the following speech, addressed to what he
considered a dead gentleman. A foolish proceeding, if you will, but princes
are privileged : —

" What! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh
Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell !
; .. I could have better spar'd a better man.

^ O! I should have a heavy miss of thee,

If I were much in love with vanity.
Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day,
Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. —
Embowell'd will I see thee by and by;
Till then, in blood by noble Percy lie."

Having delivered himself of this laboured composition, the Prince of Wales
went away to tell his father what a clever thing he had done.

And then Sir John Falstaff — got up ! He had had ample breathing time,
and felt, upon the whole, much better. He had sufficiently recovered his
faculties to overhear and understand the concluding phrases of the Prince's
soliloquy.

" Embowelled ! " said Jack, rising slowly (the expression is Shakspeare's);
" if thou embowel me to-day, I'U give you leave to powder me, and eat me
" to-morrow. 'Sblood, 'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot, termagant Scot
" had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit ! I lie ; I am no counterfeit.
" To die is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath
" not the life of a man ; but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth,
" is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The
" better part of valour is — discretion ; in the which better part I have saved
" my life."

The unapproachable wisdom of these words, which have claimed the
discussion of the subtlest modern commentators, it is too late in the day
to dwell upon.

And then Sir John Falstaff looked .round and saw the dead body of poor
Harry Percy. He was frightened, and confessed himself so. But let it
be borne in mind he only confessed it to himself. The bravest are subject to
fear. The faculty of ajiprehension implies comprehension. Lord Nelson

90 LIFE or TALSTAFF.

had a dread of the sea to his dying day, because he knew it would be
sure to make him sick for the first few days of a voyage. "You were
frightened," said a bantering subaltern, after the Battle of Inkermann, to a
veteran whose cheeks had turned as white as his hair on entering the action.
" Quite true," said the brave old man, who had been nearly cut to pieces;
" if you had been half so fi'ightened as I was, you would have run away."

Let Sir John Falstaff speak for himself on the occasion : —

" Zounds ! I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How
if he should counterfeit too, and rise?"

Quite possible ! Sir John knew very little of the defunct Percy's character.
How was he to divine that Hotspur had but been distinguished by the worser
part of valour — brute courage ? For aught he knew, the young Northumbrian
might have been as sensible a man as himself. But let us not interrupt the
knight's soliloquy.

" I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I'll make
him sure ; yea, and swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as well as I ?
Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me."

(This episode of the civil war may be supposed to have taken place in a
sheltered ravine of the plain of Shrewsbury, then intersected by the numerous
branches of a stream, the source of which — on the hill of Haughmond — is
now dried up.)

" Therefore, sirrah, with a new wouml in your thigh, come you along
with me."

Saying these words. Sir John Falstaff inflicted a gash upon the still warm
body of Percy, which he proceeded to hoist on his shoulders. Not an easy
task, considering our knight's bulk ; but he was born to face and conquer
difiiculties !

The native impetuosity of the Prince of Wales's character cannot be better
illustrated than by his impatience to procure a witness of some kind or another
to his recent achievement. In the absence of a better, he pounced upon his
little brother John, Prince of Lancaster, and possibly the most uninteresting
character in English history. He dragged that mild prince to the scene of
action, which they reached just in time to meet Sir John Falstaff bearing off
the mortal remains of the illustrious Percy.

Bewilderment and utter confusion of the distinguished visitors — especially
Prince Henry.

" Now then, Hal," said Prince John (I translate the stilted versification of
Shakspeare into familiar prose) ; " I thought you told me this stout party had
gone to that thingamy from which no what-do-you-call-it returns?"

" Ahem ! so I did," replied the cider, stammering and blushing a little.

DOUBTS ON THE SHAKSPEAREAN TESTIMONY. 91

" I saw the individual in question in a positively door-nail condition, not ten
minutes ago ; and I can scarcely believe my senses "

"Mr. Paunch — are you dead?"

No reply.

"Because, if you are, be so kind as to say so — like a man. Seeing is by
no means believing in this exceptional case. I should be an ass, indeed, if I
were to say I am all ears ; but I listen attentively for your own testimony as
to whether you are what you appear to be, or not."

"No, that's certain," replied Sir John, throwing down his body (I now
quote the chronicler textually). "I am not a double man. There is Percy:
if your father will do me any honour, so ; if not, let him kill the next Percy
himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you."

•The Prince of Wales scratched his ear, and looked very uncomfortable.
The Prince of Lancaster eyed his brother with an unmistakeable expression
of opinion that the latter was the greatest humbug in the family — which
was saying a good deal.

"Why, — " Prince Henry stammered awkwardly, addressing himself to Sir
John Falstaff, — " Percy I killed myself, and saw thee dead."

Prince John of Lancaster whistled a popular melody in a low key.

Sir John Falstaif lifted up his hands, and exclaimed —

" Didst thou ? Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying ! I grant
you I was down, and out of breath ; and so was he : but we rose both at an
instant, and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believed,
so ; if not, let them that should reward valour take the sin upon their own
heads. I'll take it upon my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh: if
the man were alive and would deny it, I would make him eat a piece of my
sword."

Prince John of Lancaster continued to whistle, and implied that the story
was, to say the least, — singular. It was evident he was inclined to attach
more credit to the representations of Sir John Falstaff than to those of his
elder brother. You see, they had been at school together. No man is a
hero in the eyes of the valet who takes off his boots when he is not in a
condition to remove them himself ; or in those of the little brother whom he
has fleeced, fagged, and bullied at a public college.

Appearances were certainly against the Prince of Wales, and he was, at
any rate, philosopher enough to make the best of the difficulty. For once,
the conqueror of Agincourt — Englishman and warrior as he was — knew
and confessed himself beaten. He felt that in this particular contest Sir
John Falstaff had got decidedly the best of him, and morally yielded his
sword with princely grace.

92 LIFE or FALSTAFF.

He contented himself with remarking to the Prince of Lancaster,

" This is the strangest fellow, brother John."

And then, addressing FalstafF,

" Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back.
For my part, if a lie may do thee grace,
I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have."

At this juncture a retre.at was sounded, proving that the fortune of war
had decided in favour of the Royalist faction. The two princes hastened to
their father's tent, Sir John FalstafF following, Avith the body of Hotspur on
his back, soliloquising as follows :

" I'll follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me. Heaven reward
him ! If I do grow great, I'll grow less ; for I'll purge, and leave sack, and
live cleanly as a nobleman should do."

The above is the Shakspearian account, and — as I have already stated —
in consistency I am bound to adopt it. But what I want to know is this, —
why, if the Prince of Wales really killed Hotspui-, the paid chroniclers of the
period have not reported it ? I admit I can come to no definite conclusion
upon the subject, and will confine myself to the expression of an opinion that
the death of Hotspur is still an open question, — with the supplementary
reminder that Sir John Falstafi", being only a private gentleman of limited
means, could not hope for the histoi'ic recognition of an honour disputed with
him by the heir-apparent of England. And — to come to the point at once
— I really believe that Sir John Falstafi" did kill Hotspur, and that his royal
patron bore him a grudge on that account to his dying day. It is the
only logical explanation of Henry the Fifth's notorious ingratitude to his
former boon companion, whom it would have been so easy and natural for
him to load with honours.

The Earl of Douglas, as we have seen, was punished by being sent back to
Scotland. Sir John Falstaflf, contrary to his reasonable expectations, was not
made either Duke or Earl, in recompense of an achievement for which,
whether really performed by him or no, he at least obtained credit in the
opinion of many impartial persons. Herein we find not merely an illustration
of the proverbial ingratitude of monarchs, but also one, by implication, of the
personal jealousy of Prince Henry towards Sir Joint FalstafF, whom, as the
sequel will show, the Pi'ince of Wales treated with the most pointed malignity
from the date of the Shrewsbury action to that of the knight's death.

I will merely remark that Henry Plantagenet — fifth English king of that
name — ivas not a man to do anything without a motive.

What Sir John Falstaff really gained by his glorious victory of Shrewsbury
shall be seen in future chapters. It will be found that he was not a loser

SIR JOHN FALSTAFF ON HONOUR. 93

by the transaction. I will conclude the present chapter by a quotation from
our knight's expressed opinions before entering the field of battle : —

" Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour pricks me off when I
" come on ? How then ? Can honour set to a leg ? No. Or an arm ? No.
" Or take away the grief of a wound ? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery
" then ? No. What is honour ? A word. What is that word honour ?
" Air ; a trim reckoning ! Who hath it ? He that died o' Wednesday ?
"Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible, then?
" Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living ? No. Wliy ?
" Detraction will not suffer it ; — therefore, I'll none of it. Honour is a
" mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism."

I think the above observations prove that Sir John Falstaff knew rather
more about honour than most people of his time, and therefore deserves a
prominent position amongst the honourable men of ihe age he lived in.

94

BOOK THE FOUKTPl.

1410—1413.

OP THE SIGNAL VICTORY GAINED BY SIK JOHN FALSTAFP OVER THE LORD

CHIEF JUSTICE OP ENGLAND.

There is reason to believe that Sir John FalstafF remained for some months
in the north-west of England, doubtless employed in pursuit of the scattered
remnants of the rebel forces. Some considerable time must have elapsed
from the date of the battle of Shrewsbury to that of his next appearance in
London of which we have any positive record. Sir John was most favour-
ably received on his return to the metropolis, where he was more than
compensated for the ingratitude of the-court by the hospitable treatment of
the citizens, at whose expense he and his retainers feasted in great profusion
for many Aveeks, solely on the strength of the glowing accounts received
(never mind from what source) of our knight's achievements in Shropshire.

But a warrior like Sir John may not long rest on his laurels. A new
enemy had to be faced, arising in an unexpected quarter.

One of the most eminent men of the reign of Henry the Fourth (after Sir
John Falstaff) was William Gascoigne, Knight and Chief Justice of England.
Tlie biography of this wise and excellent judge will be found in Master
Fuller's work upon English Worthies ; a book which would be irreproachable
but for the culpable and glaring omission of a personage so eminently
entitled to prominence in such a collection as the hero of these pages. The
anecdote of Sir William's courageous committal of the Prince of Wales for
contempt of court — in the celebrated criminal action of the King versus
Bardolph — is too well known to need recapitulation here. It is true that,
bearing as it does on two of the most conspicuous characters in this narrative,
some slight discussion might be opportunely employed on the occurrence ; for
instance, as to the nature of the offence which originally got our rubicund friend
" into trouble," and what was the real extent of the magnanimity displayed
by the Prince, on the one hand, and the Lord Chief Justice, on the other. It

CHARACTER OF CHIEF JUSTICE GASCOIGNE. 95

would be valuable to the cause of historic truth to make quite certain whether
the whole affair was, or was not, what, in the parlance of modern criminal
jurisprudence, is called a "put up concern" between the two distinguished
actors, having for its object a harvest of mutual popularity. The fact that
Bardolph tons at liberty in an incredibly short space of time after the event,
lends a slight colour of such suspicion as I have hinted at to the transaction ;
but the rights of the matter are involved in such hopeless obscurity as to
render all investigation on the subject worse than idle.

Though in the enjoyment of much and well-merited court favour, and
public approbation, and being a man of modest integrity, it is still not un-
natural or inexcusable that Sir William Gascoigne should feel some little
jealousy of the more brilliant attainments and more enviable renown of a
warrior, statesman, wit, and scholar like Sir John Falstaff.

The weakness of envy is perhaps the most difficult of all Adam's legacy
for the best of us to rid ourselves of. History, ancient and modern,
abounds in illustrations of the tenacity of this vice, even in the noblest
natures. Dionysius the elder, and the great Cardinal Richelieu, though the
one an absolute monarch of the fairest island in Greek colonised Europe, and
the other the virtual master of the most warlike and polished realm of the
seventeenth century, were both jealous of the pettiest scribblers of their
respective days. The author of " The Vicar of Wakefield," and " The Citizen
of the World," could not see a mountebank throw a summerset but he must
risk the scattering of his valuable brains in an attempt to do the same thing
better. To seek an illustration nearer our own time, have we not the cele-
brated little boy of the United States of America, who, though he had
carried away the prizes for writing and arithmetic, committed suicide because
an inferior mathematician of his own class defeated him in the correct
spelling of " phthisic I " ?

Is it then a great wonder that the Lord Chief Justice of England (an office
which, after all, was then of little more importance than that of a police
magistrate of the present day) should have felt envious of a man so vastly
his superior in every way (except in the trifling matters of solvency and con-
ventional honesty), as Sir John Falstaff, and should have sought to annoy his
brilliant rival by every means in his power ; of which, considering the official
position of the one man, and the habits of the other, there could have been
no scarcity ?

Amongst other illustrations of what must be called pettf/ persecutio}i — (for,
in a work of this serious description, things should receive their right names
without respect to persons) — on the part of Sir William Gascoigne towards
Sir John Falstaff, it may be mentioned that the former chose to consider

96 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

the Gadshill expedition as a grave offence, punishable by the defective
criminal code of the period. He summoned Sir John to appear before
him to answer the charge. Sir John treated the invitation with the con-
tempt it deserved, and Avent off to kill Percy — stay, that is a slip of
the pen — I should say, to distinguish himself in the glorious field of
Shrewsbury.

It will hardly be supposed that the tidings of Sir John Falstaff's safe
return from action under a perfect forest of fresh-grown laurels were particu-
larly agreeable to Sir William Gascoigne. Gall and wormwood, on the con-
trary, may be assumed to have been the flavour imparted by them to the chief
judicial mind. At any rate, it is indisputable that his lordship had not
many days heard of our hero's safe arrival and honoured treatment in London
when he took a walk, attended only by a single follower, for the express
purpose of taking Sir John Falstaff into custody. There is but one con-
sideration which makes such a proceeding xohoUy inexcusable — namely, that
the Justice should have nursed his vindictiveness for a period of so many
months. This, it must be admitted, argues a relentless and unforgiving
nature.

The Chief Justice was an artful man, as will be believed from his having
risen to high rank in the legal profession. He thought it jirudent to veil
his malignant design even from his attendant.

" What's he that goes there ?" He enquired, breaking off a general
conversation to point towards a stout gentleman whom he saw walking
leisurely down the street followed by a diminutive page.

" Falstaff, an 't please your Lordship."

His Lordship affected absence of mind.

" He that was in question for the robbery ?"

The robbery ! You observe, reader ? There was but one robbery present
to his Lordship's mind, and that one committed possibly more than a twelve-
month back.

" He, my Lord : but he hath since done good service at Shrewsbury ;
and, as I hear, is now going with some charge to the Lord John of
Lancaster."

"What, to York?"

The countenance of his worship fell considerably. These tidings were
baffling to his hopes of vengeance. Sir John Falstaff was once more in
the king's commission, and consequently not liable to arrest. Still Sir
William was loth to let his prey slip wholly away from him.

" Call him back," he said to his servant.

There was some difficulty in getting the knight to arrest his course.

DEFEAT OF THE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE. 97

In the first place, he was afflicted with a sudden deafness. This temporary
obstacle overcome, he showed an obtuseness of understanding as to what
was said to him that was really surprising in a man of his intellectual ante-
cedents. At length the Justice attacked him personally, with —

" Sir John Falstaif, a word with you."

The Chief Justice had his wish — rather more than his wish, in fact. Sir
John FalstafF's manner of gratifying it shall be given in the exact words of
the chronicler * : —

Sir John Falstaff. — My good lord ! God give your lordship good time of day. I am glad
to sec your lordship abroad ; I heard say your lordship was sick : I hope your lordship goe
abroad by advice. Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, hath yet some smack o.
age in you, some relish of the saltness of time ; and I most humbly beseech your lordship, to
have a reverend care of your health.

Chief Justice. — Sir John, I sent for you before your expedition to Shrewsbury.

Sir John Falstaff. — An 't please your lordship, I hear his majesty is returned with
some discomfort from Wales.

Chief Justice. — I talk not of his majesty:— You would not come when I sent for you.

Sir John Falstaff. — And I hear, moreover, his highness is fallen into this same villainous
apojjlcxy.

Chief Justice. — "Well, heaven mend him ! I pray you, let me speak with you.

Sir John Falstaff. — This apoplexy is, as I take it, a kind of lethargy, an't please
your lordship ; a kind of sleeping in the blood, a rascally tingling.

Chief Justice. — What tell you me of it ? be it as it is.

Sir John Falstaff. — It hath its original from much grief ; from study, and perturbation
of the brain : I have read the cause of his effects in Galen : it is a kind of deafness.

Chief Justice. — I think you are fallen into the disease ; for you hear not what I say
to you.

Sir John Falstaff. — Very well, my lord, very well: rather, an't please you, it is the
disease of not listening, the malady of not mai-king, that I am troubled withal.

Chief Justice. — To punish you by the heels would amend the attention of your ears ;
and I care not, if I do become your physician.

Sir John Falstaff. — I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient ; your lord-
ship may minister the potion of imprisonment to me, in respect of poverty ; but how I should
be your patient to follow your prescriptions, the wise may make some dram of a scruple, or,
indeed, a scruple itself.

Chief Justice. — I sent for you, when there were matters against you for j'^our life, to
come speak with mc.

Sir John Falstaff. — As I was then advised by my learned counsel in the laws of this
land-service, I did not come.

Chief Justice. — Well, the truth is. Sir John, you live in great infamy.
■ Sir John Falstaff. — He that buckles him in my belt cannot live in less.

Chief Justice. — Your means are very slender, and your waste great.

Sir John Falstaff. — I would it were otherwise ; I would my means were greater,
and my waist slenderer.

Chief Justice. — You have misled the youthful prince.

Sir John Falstaff. — The young prince hath misled me : I am the fellow with the
great belly, and he my dog.

» " Henry IV '" (Part II.) Act I. Sc. 2.
L

98 LIFE or FALSTAFF.

Chief Justice. — Well, I am loath to gall a new-healed wound ; your day's service at
Sln-ewsbury hath a little gilded over your night's exploit on Gads-hill : you may thank the
unquiet time for your quiet o'er-posting that action.

Sir Joun Falstaff. — My lord ?

Chief Justice. — But since all is well, keep it so : wake not a sleeping wolf.

Sir John Falstaff. — To wake a wolf is as bad as to smell a fox.

Chief Justice. — "What ! you are as a candle, the better part burnt out.

Sir John Falstaff. — A wassel candle, my lord: all tallow: if I did say of wax, my
growth would approve the truth.

Chief Justice. — There is not a white hair on your face, but should have his effect of
gravity.

Sir John Falstaff. — His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy.

Chief Justice. — You follow the young prince up and down, like his ill angel.

Sir John Falstaff. — Not so, my lord ; your ill angel is light ; but, I hope, he that
looks upon me will take me without weighing: and yet, in some respects, I grant, I cannot
go, I cannot tell. Virtue is of so little regard in these coster-monger times, that true valour is
turned beai-herd. Pregnancy is made a tapster, and hath his quick wit wasted in giving
reckonings : all the other gifts appertincnt to man, as the malice of this age shapes them, are
not worth a goosebeiry. You, that are old, consider not the capacities of us that are young:
you measure the heat of our livers with the bitterness of your galls ; and we that are in the
vaward of our youth, I must confess, are wags too.

Chief Justice. — Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written
down old with all the characters of age ? Have you not a moist eye ? a dry hand ? a yellow
cheek ? a white beard ? a decreasing leg ? an increasing belly ? Is not your A'oice broken ?
your wind short ? your chin double ? your wit single ? and every part about you blasted with
antiquity ? and will you yet call yourself young ? Fie, fie, fie. Sir John !

Sir John Falstaff. — My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the afternoon, with
a white head, and something a round belly. For my voice, — I have lost it with hollaing, and
singing of anthems. To approve my youth farther, I will not : the truth is, I am only old in
judgment and understanding; and he that will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him
lend me the money, and have at him. For the box o' the ear that the Prince gave you, he
gave it like a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord. I have checked him for it,
and the young lion repents; marry, not in ashes and sackcloth, but in new silk, and old sack.

Chief Justice. — Well, God send the Prince a better companion!

Sir John Falstaff. — God send the companion a better prince! I cannot rid my hands
of him.

Chief Justice.— Well, the King hath severed you and Prince Harry. I hear you are
going with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop and the Earl of Northumberland.

Sir John Falstaff. — Yea; 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; foi', by the Lord,
I take but two shirts out with me, and I mean not to sweat extraordinarily: if it be a hot day,
an I brandish any thing but my bottle, I 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 ever.
[But it was always yet 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 rust, than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.]

Chief Justice. — Well, be honest, be honest; and God bless your expedition !

Sir John Falstaff. — Will your lordshijj lend me a thousand pound to furnish me forth?

Chief Justice. — Not a penny, not a penny: you are too impatient to bear crosses. Fare
you well: commend me to my cousin Westmoreland.

I consider this utter defeat of my Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne one of
the most brilliant triumphs of Sir John FalstafF's victorious life.

DEFENCE OF CHIEF JUSTICE GASCOIGNE. 99

" If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle," said Jack, looking after the
retreating form of his defeated adversary Avith ineffable contempt. "Boy !"

" Sir ? " said the small page.

" What money is in my purse ? "

" Seven groats and twopence."

" I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse : borrowing
" only lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. Go, bear this letter to my
" Lord of Lancaster ; this to the Prince ; this to the Earl of Westmoreland ;
" and this to old Mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to marry since
" I perceived the first white hair on my chin. About it ; you know where
" to find me.' "

And pray, who was old Mistress Ui'sula ? We may chance to hear of her
by and bye.

II.

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED : DEFENCE OF THE CHARACTER OF THE LORD
CHIEF JUSTICE GASCOIGNE : CHARITABLE CONSTRUCTION OF HIS CONDUCT
IN THE CELEBRATED ACTION OF QUICKLY V. FALSTAFF.

I WOULD that full justice to the greatness, wisdom, and magnanimity of my
much calumniated hero could be accomplished without the painful task of
censuring and exposing the conduct of those enemies to whose machinations
he owed penury, neglect, and persecution in his lifetime — obloquy and
misrepresentation after death. To censure at any time is a disagreeable task ;
more especially when the object of your strictures is a personage whose
memory successive generations have held in reverential esteem. It is a
thankless office to be the first to call attention to a stain on a reputation
hitherto deemed spotless — as it is to be the first to tell your sleeping neigh-
bour that his roof is burning. The raven is an honest bird and croaks the
approach of bad weather with unerring truthfulness ; but the raven is uni-
versally hated. I am aware that there are certain writers who have a taste
for this kind of discovery, whose minds' eyes may be compared to a solar
telescope, finding out an unsightly mass of blots, blurs, and creases, when the
world at large can see nothing but uniform, cheering light. These gentlemen
— who, supposing the mind to have a nose as well as an eye, may be called
the carrion crows of literary judgment — so keen is their scent for a decom-

L 2

loo LIFE or TALSTAFF.

posing reputation, and so intense their enjoyment of dead excellence that has
turned bad — are not desirable models for imitation. Neither ai-e their
antipodes — the couleur de rose critics, who deaden their mental nostrils to
any " fly-blown " indications in a character they are compelled to digest ;
pi'eferring to swallow the whole with hopeful self-persuasion that all has
been good, wholesome, and nutritious. The conscientious and impartial
writer will endeavour to observe a medium course between these two. But
that course, how difficult to discover and observe ! The soundest human
judgment, like the sti'ongest eyesight, is fallible. What we think are spots on
tlie sun may but be the dazzling effect of more pure light than our imperfect
optic nerves can sustain. We may think we ai'e about to strip a masquerading
daw, and at our first rude grip a heartrending cry will tell us that we have
ruined the jewelled train of a majestic peacock !

Tlie above I admit to be a specimen of that logical process known as
" beating about the bush," a proof that I am staggering, like the pencil-leg of a
knock-kneed compass, round a point which I have much hesitation in coming
to. The case of the obscure youth who acquired immortality by burning
Diana's temple, is a stale illustration, but I am fain to use it for want of
better. It might be thought that I am aspiring to a renown like that of
Erostratus, if the arguments of this chapter should result — as I hope and
trust they will not — in a balance of probability to the effect that the venerated
name of Sir William Gascoigne was really that of one of the most contemptible
scoundrels that ever occupied his wrong place in a court of justice. I repeat
that I hope my patient pursuit of truth in this very trying matter will not
bring me to a standstill at so awkward a point. Nay, so terrified am I at the
bare possibility of doing irreparable injustice to a great man's memory, that
I will lose no time in admitting that very probably Sir William Gascoigne
was a ten times greater, wiser, and more immaculate being than even his
eulogists have represented him, and that, in a still greater likelihood, I myself
am an obtuse purblind personage, with no soul to appreciate the more exalted
virtues, and with a deplorable squint in my critical vision. Having admitted
this as a possibility — without asserting it as a fact — of myself, I may be
surely allowed the same speculative margin quoad the hypothesis of the Lord
Chief Justice now under discussion, not having been, to use the mildest
expression, the man he has been taken for. At the same time the reader will
understand that I do not wish him to attach to my opinion (should I succeed
in forming one on this most trying subject) more weight than is due to the
honest expression of a private individual's most impartial judgment, the
result of patient, untiring investigation of tlie most copious and incontro-
vertible facts, aided by a paramount thirst for truth and an intellect
habituated to moral analysis.

DEFENCE OF THE CHARACTER OF GASCOIGNE. 101

I trust that it will now be felt I am prepared to do Sir William Gascoigne
the amplest justice; and will lose no more time in enumerating the moral
enormities whereof I am so anxious to prove he could not possibly have been
guilty. The decision I have already been reluctantly brought to — explained
in the last chapter — that his Lordship's character was not free from a strong
taint of envy, which only induces me to be the more careful. Let us shun pre-
judice above all things. Envy, as we all know, if not kept in check by the
worthier attributes of our nature, will lead to the commission of every earthly
crime, especially of offences such as those which I think — yes, I think — I
am about to show you Sir William Gascoigne was incapable of meditating,
or, at any rate, of putting into execution.

And now I have worked myself up into a perfectly sanguine condition. I
am sure I shall be able to clear the Justice's reputation from the last lingering
blemish of suspicion. If I do not succeed I shall be very much disappointed.

In the first place it is improbable that any close degree of intimacy should
have existed between a man of Sir William's exalted position and an obscure
person like Mistress Helen Quickly, widow and licensed victualler, proprie-
tress of the Old Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap.

It is true that the great legal functionaries of that period — as of many
much later — were usually men of obscure birth, raised, in most cases
(unquestionably in that of Gascoigne), to poAver and distinction by the exercise
of their own talents and virtues ; allowing for this, it is not unlikely that Sir
William, in early life, may have been acquainted with, and even befriended
by, Mrs. Quickly. There is even reason to believe that they were blood rela-
tions. A statement from Sir John Falstaff that the lady was in the habit
of going about London asserting — with pardonable arrogance — that her
eldest son bore a striking physical resemblance to the Chief Justice would lend
some probability to this theory. A suspicion on Sir John's part that this
boast might have originated in mental hallucination may, or may not, be
considered to weaken the evidence. We will pass this over, and confine our-
selves to the supposition that Sir William Gascoigne, when a struggling law-
student, was possibly greatly indebted to the maternal or sisterly hospitality of
Mrs. Quickly. There would be no harm in his accepting gratuitous board —
nay, even in his borrowing money — at her hands. Well ! as a just man and a
grateful, he would, of course, not forget his old benefactress in the days of his
prosperity. Duty to his high position would not enable him to avow the ac-
quaintance publicly (more especially if the by no means disproved relationship
really existed). Still, it is not unreasonable to suppose that Sir William may
have occasionally looked in at the Boar's Head, for a quiet flagon and a confi-
dential chat with his friend the hostess, to whom as a lone woman and a

M

102 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

confiding innkeeper, his sage counsels — more especially on questions connected
with the debtor and creditor laws of the period — would be in the higliest
degree serviceable. The fact of an illustrious legal dignitary having a marked
predilection for tap-rooms and bar-parlours is by no means without parallel
in English history. The great Judge JeiFries was given to that species of
amusement. So was a celebrated Speaker of the House of Commons, in the
reign of George the Second, whose name I read the other day in a penny
morning newspaper, but which I am quite sure I have now forgotten.

Mind, I am very far from asserting that Sir William Gascoigne ever saw the
inside of a tavern. The only positive record of a personal meeting between
him and Mrs. Quickly represents them as utter strangers to each other. But
to assume this attitude — supposing the idle suggestions I have propounded
(with a view to their ultimate refutation) to have the slightest foundation in
probability — Avould be their most obvious policy. Let that pass : I merely
think it remarkable that on the very day after the conversation recorded in
the last chapter, good, kind-hearted Mrs. Quickly, who had known Sir John
FalstafF " twenty-nine years come peascod time," who, as we have seen, was
one of our knight's most devoted admirers, and to whose nature an act of
voluntary severity was a moral impossibility, should, at the moment when
Sir John was husbanding all his resources for his second campaign against
the northern rebels (a position indicated in the conversation just alluded to),
from which he might never come back alive, suddenly belie the purport
of her whole existence by arresting her ever-honoured guest for a pitiful
sum of a hundred marks. Mrs. Quickly did this ; and the act would be
incomprehensible, but for a light thrown on its motives by the uneri-ing
luminary of Sir John FalstafF's intellect. He explained it in eight syllables :

" I know thou wast set on to this."

I do not state that Mrs. Quickly was " set on " by Sir William Gascoigne.
But I should very much like to know who else could possibly have been her
instigator in the transaction ? I do not suppose Mrs. Quickly would have
known where to find Messrs. Fang and Snare — representatives of the Sheriif
of London — without some legal advice on the subject. And allow me to
ask, without prejudice. What was Sir PFilliam Gascoigne doing, hanging
about the neighbourhood tvifh a strong posse of retainers at the moment of Sir
John Falstaff's attempted arrest, unless to promote, and exult in, the discom-
fiture of his victor of the preceding day? Perhaps the learned judge's per-
sonal biographers can clear up this matter on honourable grounds. Nothing
would give me greater satisfaction. But, till something of the kind be really
done, the thing certainly wears an unfavourable aspect.

Leaving the motives of the case an open question, and wishing to give them

QUESTIONABLE BEHAVIOUR OF THE CHIEF JUSTICE. 103

the most charitable construction, I will confine myself to the facts. Sir John
Falstaff, returning from the city, where he had been making purchases for
the coming campaign, was waylaid by Messrs. Fang and Snare aforesaid, who
attempted to ari-est him at the suit of Quickly, that lady being present in
person. The terror of Sir John's name had been almost enough to keep the
myrmidons of an oppressive law from entering upon their dangerous mission.
That of the knight's presence spread a panic amongst their craven forces.
Sir John Falstaff was not alone. He was accompanied by the formidable
Bardolph — more than a match for any bailiff, as countless well-contested
actions had proved — and the less terrible personality of little Robin, the
page, before whom Master Fang's boy quailed abjectly. After a brief engage-
ment, the troops of the Sheriff were routed. Victoiy, as usual, declared
herself on the side of Sir John Falstaff — when, also as usual, invidious destiny
interfered to deprive him of the fruits of conquest in the shape of the Lord
Chief Justice, who suddenly made his appearance, " attended," (observe the
precaution) from round the corner — quite by accident, of course !

The Lord Chief Justice, after a brief show of wishing to keep the peace
(I wonder if Lord Chief Justices then, any more than now, were in the habit
of doing duty as common policemen, unless for some private purpose), enquired
the grounds of dispute. He certainly said or did nothing to prove that he
had any previous knowledge of them ; but he fell to abusing Sir John Falstaff,
for being then detained in London instead of being on his way to York
with his troops, with something like indelicate precipitancy — displaying a
predisposition to quarrel unpleasantly suggestive to the modern reader of the
fable of the wolf and the lamb.

It may have been a fault of the defective judicial science of the period,
and no proof of personal bias, that Sir William conducted himself throughout
the hearing of this case more as an advocate than as a judge. At any rate
he sided with Mrs. Quickly from the outset, and "summed up" dead against
Sir John Falstaff before he had heard a word of the evidence.

Mrs, Quickly stated her complaint in a rambling, disconnected speech, in
which I do not say she was absolutely prompted by her learned friend (there
is no offence in the designation ; if Gascoigne were really what he pretended
to be, to call him the friend of the poor, the widowed and the oppressed, is
surely a compliment), but which — from the looseness of the speaker's diction
— was clearly a got-by-rote affair, and in no instance an expression of the
heart's feelings. The first count in the verbal indictment was a matter of
money lent, and debt incurred for board and lodging. The second was one of
breach of promise of marriage.

M 2

104 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Falstaff appealed to the Justice, in words, the purport of which I have
already quoted.

" My lord, this is a poor mad soul : and she says up and down the town
" that her eldest son is like you : she hath been in good case, and the truth is
" poverty hath distracted her."

I have said that I decline giving an opinion as to the foundation of this
report. I will only say, now, that the Lord Chief Justice had no better
reply to make to it than a quibble. He did not cordradict it. Moreover,
he suddenly became civil to Sir John Falstaff, and recommended a friendly
compromise. Curious, was it not ?

Sir John Falstaff took Mrs. Quickly aside. The result of their tete-a-tete
was an almost momentary reconciliation, proving the shallowness of the
artificial soil on which the exotic plant of the hostess's animosity had been
forced by the subtle devices of her legal adviser, whoever that may have been.
Scarcely fifty seconds had elapsed, and ere the same number of words could
have passed between them, the following colloquial fragment was audible : —

Sir John Falstaff. — As I am a gentleman.

Mistress Helen Quickly. — Nay, you said so before —

Sir John Falstaff. — As I am a gentleman ; come, no more words of it.

Mistress Helen Quickly. — By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be fain to pawn
both my plate and the tapestry of my dining chambers.

The IvNiGiiT. — Glasses, glasses is the only drinking ; and for thy walls, — a pretty slight
drollery, or the story of the Prodigal, or the German hunting in water-work is worth a
thousand of those bed-hangings and those fly-bitten tapestries. Let it be ten pound if thou
canst. Come, an it were not for thy humours, there is not a better wench in England. Go,
wash thy face, and draw thy action. Come, thou must not be in this humour with me ; dost
not know me ? Come, come, I know thou wast set on to this.

The Lady. — Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles ; i' faith I am loath to pawn
my plate in good earnest, la !

The Brave. — Let it alone ; I'll make other shift ; you'll be a fool still.

The Fair. — Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown. I hope you'll come to
supper. You'll pay me altogether ?

The Invincible. — Will I live ?

And what was the upshot of this colloquy? Simply that Mrs. Quickly
■•returned placidly to her home, under the friendly convoy of Bardolph
and Robin, the foi*mer commissioned by his master to look well after the poor
lady, and to see that no designing persons should a second time wean her from
obeying the dictates of her better nature. It is worthy of remark that Mrs.
Quickly did not say so much as " good morning " to the Lord Chief Justice.
I suppose there was some motive for this, as for every other impulse of human
action. For my part, I will maintain that course of dispassionate reserve I

FINAL EULOGY OF GASCOIGNE. 105

have so scrupulously adhered to throughout this trying inquiry, and offer no
opinion whatever on the subject.

Mind, there is one thing I cannot, and will not, and do not intend to, allow
anybody else to believe. I will not have it supposed, for a moment even, that
Sir William Gascoigne could have been interested in the issue of this action
on any grounds so contemptible as pecuniary commission in the event of
recovery. Emphatically — No ! If personal feeling had anything to do
with his interference, it must have been a feeling far nobler than that of mere
avarice — to wit, revenge ! He had been baffled, discomfited, eclipsed by
Falstaff, and he was human. That he may have wished to blight the
prospects of Falstaff, is, alas ! for our fallen nature, but too possible ! But I
cannot believe that he would even have accepted so much as a clerk's fee
from Mrs. Quickly, — in spite of the notorious corruptibility of judges in the
Middle Ages, and the absence of any proof of such greatness of character in
the subject of these remarks as should have placed him above the besetting
weaknesses of his race and order.

And now I trust I have performed the difficult task I proposed to myself
of doing the fullest justice to Sir William Gascoigne's character. More ; 1
flatter myself that when mere barren justice has failed to reestablish the
jnemory of that great man in a sufficiently favourable light, I have at times
even soared into chivalry. As his champion defender I have fearlessly
grappled with all the accusations that could be brought against him in
connection with this critical portion of his career. If I have failed in refuting
them, the fault is mine.

It may be asked why I have taken all these pains in clearing up the
character of a man who forms but a passing accessory to my main subject?
In the first place, reader, let justice be done though the heavens fall. In the
second place, if I had not satisfactorily proved — (for I have proved it, have
I not ?) — Sir William Gascoigne's innocence of those charges, of which he
might otherwise have been believed guilty, there are certain matters connected
with the close of my hero's public career which it would have been impossible
for me to explain away, except on grounds which I will here say nothing
about, and which I hope it will not be my painful duty to allude to on a
future occasion.

M n

106 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

ni.

SIR JOHN FALSTAFF AN AUTHOR. — FRAGMENTS OF HIS CORRESPONDENCE. —
EPISODE OF THE FAIR DOROTHEA AND ANCIENT PISTOL.

Let us turn awhile from the sickening horrors of war, and the scarcely less
revolting machinations of statecraft, faction, and personal rivalry, to contem-
plate Sir John Falstaff under the soothing influences of the arts and the
affections.

With the valour and generalship of Hundwulf Falstaff, the necessities of
Roger, the thirst of Hengist, the humour and, alas ! the ill-luck of Uffa, — our
hero inherited the literary tastes of his celebrated ancestor, Peter. A defi-
ciency in that poet's praiseworthy attribute of industry may have been one
reason for his not having enriched the literature of his country by any legacy
of first-class importance. Moreover, it must be borne in mind that the prin-
ciple of encouraging authors to composition by adequate pecuniary rewards

— defectively understood even in the present day — was, at that time, not
even recognised ; and the bare idea of aimless labour to a logical intellect
like that of Sir John Falstaff would be naturally revolting.

Nevertheless, high rank may be claimed for Sir John as a British author

— not so much from his actual achievements in the field of letters, as
from the fact of his having been one of the earliest pioneers in the cause.
Viewed by this light, he is entitled to classification in the same category with
Chaucer, Lydgate, and others. He lacks the learning and polish of the first-
mentioned writer, and is deficient in the patient observation of the second ;
while both surpass him in fecundity. On the other hand, he is vastly superior
to the Monk of Bury in richness of imagination and daring boldness of inven-
tion ; while the charges of gross plagiarism and corruption of the English
language by the adoption of foreign idiom, from which the fondest partiality
has been unable to clear the memory of the author of the Canterbury PiU
grimage, have never been • brought against Sir John Falstattj that I am
aware of.

The Falstaff papers — such fragments of the author's composition as have
been saved from the wreck of ages (of which a perfect Spanish Armada has
gone down, under the heavy fire of Kear-Admiral Time, since Sir John Fal-
staff trod the deck of earthly existence) — are not voluminous. Cause has
been already shown to suppose that they could never, in any case, have

FALSTAFF AS AN AUTHOR. 107

attained to any considerable bulk. But on this head we have no accurate
means of deciding. It has already been seen that Sir John Falstaff had
powerful enemies. It would be to the interest of such people to destroy, or
cause to be desti'oyed, any relics of our knight's greatness that naight lead to
the perpetuation of his glories and their own infamy. But I am getting upon
dangerous ground again.

The favourite form of composition adopted by Sir John Falstaff was the
epistolary ; and he may be confidently set forth as the first English writer
who brought that delightful branch of literature to anything like perfection.
I would not have it supposed that Sir John was a mere idle gossip, like
Horace Walpole, Cowper, and such latter-day dilettanti. He was essentially
a practical man — literature was with him a means, not an end. His pen to
him was like his sword — a weapon only to be used upon pressing occasion ;
but which, once assumed, was seldom laid aside till it had done good service.
When he wrote, it was with the view to remedy some glaring want of the age
he lived in. Being essentially the man of his age, he always knew, from the
unerring test of his own necessities, what the age wanted, and wrote for it
accordingly. There were no journals or magazines in those days. When
our knight felt that any crying hardship or calamity inflicted upon suffering
humanity — typified in the personality of Sir John Falstaff — might be
removed by the exercise of a little eloquence, persuasion, or even casuistry,
he had no alternative but to address his arguments, prayers, or remonstrances,
to private individuals. And trust me, Sir John Falstaff was not the man to
write letters for nothing.

The earliest specimen of Sir John Falstaff's correspondence extant (and of
any such, I can fearlessly assert, there exists not one in a single antiquarian
collection in Europe which the diligent researches of myself and emissaries
have failed to discover) is a little schoolboy letter written in a viUanous,
sprawling attempt at the Gothic character, scarcely legible, owing to the
ravages of time and the defective education of a lad of foui'teen, at a period
when English had barely begun to be a written language. How boys learnt
to write at all under a caligraphic regime which made it almost as diflicult to
pen a syllable as to design a cathedral, is to me a marvel, only explained by
the unwelcome theory that our ancestors were much cleverer and more perse-
vering fellows than ourselves. However, that young Jack Falstaff, soon after
he found himself put in the way of making his fortune, as a reward for stealing
poor Sir Simon Ballard's venison (mythical foreshadow of its owner's doom,
whom we have seen so cruelly hung and roasted !), was able to build up his
groined " m's," " v's," and " n's," to erect the transepts on his " t's," and orna-
ment the fa(,'ades of his capitals generally, so as to leave them intelligible at

.M 4

108 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

this distance of centuries, is to me a proof that that good, kind, blue-eyed
Lady Alice Falstaff, — of whom I regret to have so long lost sight, — was,
amongst her other social recommendations, an excellent schoolmistress. For
Jack's sake, I am inclined to regret that he did not stop at home to finish his
education. But in that case, what would have become of this instructive
biography — not to mention one or two amusing works on the same subject
by a previous writer encouragingly alluded to in these pages ? Here is the
letter — at least, such fragments of it as can be interpreted into modern
English with any degree of certainty : —

" My good sweet mother, I am very well ; London is a rare place, nothing but houses. I
have seen I\ing Edward, he is an old man, ill-favoured, and ever groaning. He laughs
pleasant though, and tweaked me by the ear, giving me a gold florence, saying it was to
keep me from hurting his deer. I live in a fine rare house, but there are finer houses here,
and Sir Thomas not near so fine as the princes are. You never told me there was a Queen.
She is the same name as you, and very fair. The princes call her Mistress Ferrers — why, I know
not, except it be for sport. I saw the Princess of Wales that we call the fair maid of Kent.
She is not so fair as the queen. She passed by the queen tossing her head quite disdainful.
I asked why that was, and the queen said she had unruly sons who set their wives
against her — whereat the king laughed, and the princes. The queen is not so old as you,
and Prince John looks nearly as old as my good father. The queen is a merry lady, kissed
me, and said I should be Mercury in her next pageant. She gave me a gold florence too,
but my good father had it of me, Thursday last, saying * * *

*******

Master Jehan says he will give me as many skins to write on as I will, so it be to write to

you. Which he says is good for me. He calls you that sweet, noble gentlewoman, my mother,

and ever lifts his cap at your name. He makes sport for the princes with his sayings. I find

no mirth in him, save his bad way of speaking English. He is sad enough with me. He

lays his hand on my brow, looks at me, and sighs. I would fain please him, for, with all his

tristeness, he is kind to me." [Here three lines are carefully effaced ; the words " saved "

and " -whipping" being alone decipherable.] " When I ply him with questions, he says ever,

' write to my mother, boy, and love her.' Why, see, now I do write, and * * *
* * » * * • *

*******

says he is struck by the falling sickness, — and truly he fell thrice up the pantler's stairs,
coming to see me secretly, for Sir Thomas will not have him about the house * ♦ * i^s
chamber so sony it would make you weep. The sanctuary is hard by the abbey. I
found him much restored, and had got him canary with the gold florence I sent him — for
medicine, he said ; but other distressed gentlemen were drinking it with him that seemed
not much in need of medicine. He is nigh ragged, and takes it to heart that I should go in
brocaded satin. I pray you send me the six shilhngs — for I would not have Sir Thomas
know of the torn doublet. He comes home Wednesday. The Prince of Wales is yet sick
in Gascony. My good father would have me borrow him a suit of Sir Thomas's — for one day
— that he might visit a nobleman, owes him money, as ho says. I was taking it from the
house, no one seeing me but Master Jehan, who is ever prying. I was fain to tell him what I
was carrying, and where. To sec the rage he flew into, shedding tears, and chattering French,
and yet not angry with me, for he said French for poor boy, poor child, many times. He
bade me take the things back, and said he would go speak to my good father in sanctuary.
I learn that he did so, and said bitter words to my good father — who hath not since named
dress to me or bringing him aught of Sir Thomas's. Master Jehau is going again into

EARLY SPECIMEN OP CORRESPONDENCE. 109

Hainault, in Flanders, and in truth I grieve not much. ***** jvjy lady. Sir
Thomas's mother, gave me a shilling, saying I did well to defend our badge against the
Ferrers's — their's is the ' Six Horse-shoes,' — but tliis will not pay the doublet. I said not I
beat him for that he said my good father ran from Cre9y ; and taunted me with my uncle keep-
ing the sign of the ' Fleece,' in Watling Street. I warrant you I shall hear no more of it.
Master Pollen, the pantler, tells me it is true my father had the tablecloth cut cross-ways in
front of him, in sign of disgrace to his knighthood, which is a sore shame to us. I would
thou and he were friends, that I might not hear him say such bitter things of thee— which
I know thou dost not merit. I pray thee forget not the six shillings (easterling). Master
Pollen knows a skilful tailor, his brother, will repair it for that money, and Sir Thomas never
know. I am bound to an archery play on the moor — whereat Prince John says there is none
to match me. I would Wat Smith knew of this. I would fain see him and Hob, and you
and Mistress Adlyn and Peter. I pray you send me the six shillings.

" Your loving dutiful Son,

"John Falstatf."

The above letter * is not dated ; but was obviously written towards the
autumn of 1365. From this date — to that of our hero's ripest maturity —
there is a deplorable gap in the Falstaff correspondence. Indeed, with the
exception of the above specimen, the earliest relic or mention of any manu-
script in Sir John's handwriting may be traced to the conversation recorded
in the first chapter of the present book.

Of the four letters entrusted by Falstaff to his page for delivery — the
contents of two only can be known with any degree of certainty. The
missing epistles are those addressed respectively to Prince John of Lancaster,
and Ralph Nevil, Earl of Westmoreland — nominal leaders of the second
Royalist expedition which Sir John Falstaff had pledged himself to conduct
(it will be seen how the pledge was redeemed) against the northern rebels.
The loss of these letters is scarcely to be regretted. Being written on the
eve of the setting forth of the expedition, they were doubtless mere official
despatches — containing reasons for the writer's not having taken the field
as early as he was expected to — or some other device in warlike stratagem,
and therefore of no interest to any but the student of military science. The
two remaining epistles — which have been fortunately handed down to us —
are of far higher importance, as throwing light upon the author's condition
in mind, body, and finances, at this critical period of his career ; when, as
has been shown, he was about to raise his mailed heel, a second time, to crush
the serpent of Rebellion — which reptile had most unaccountably managed
to wriggle away from him alive on the field of Shrewsbury.

* Preserved in the Strongate collection, to which valuable depository of antiquarian lore
(and the facilities afforded by its enlightened owner for its inspection) the writer cannot
sufficiently express his obligations. He has much pleasure in being the first to announce
that it is the intention of the fortunate possessor, Mr. Koderick Bolton, F. S. A., of Kemys-
Commander, Monmouthshire, to bequeath this priceless collection to the British Museum at
his decease. Long may the melancholy event be delayed which shall establish the nation in
possession of so inestimable a legacy !

110 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

The first of these documents is a brief, playful note addressed to the Prince
of Wales — on the return of that Royal Leader from the successful assertion
of his claims to the Principality by the destruction of the bulk of its inha-
bitants. The manuscript has not been preserved ; but the loss is immaterial.
It existed as late as the time of Shakspeare, by whose care a verbatim copy
of it has been transmitted to us. It is worded as follows : —

" Sir John FalstafF, Knight, to the son of the ffing nearest his father, greeting.
" I will imitate the honorable Romans in brevity. I commend me to thee ; I commend
thee, and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins, for he misuses thy favours so much,
that he swears thou art to many his sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou may'st, and so
farewell I

Thine by yea and no (which is as much as to say as thou noest him) ; Jack
Falstaff with my familiars ; John with my brothers and sisters ; and
SIR JOHN with all Europe."

This epistle (meant as a mere reminder to the Prince, that his old com-
panion is in London and anxious to see him) is conceived and written in a
spirit of the purest pleasantry. This is evidenced in the mock stateliness of
the exordium and signature, as well as in the allusion to imaginary brothers
and sisters (Sir John, as the family annals and this history satisfactorily
prove, being an only son). The caution against Poins is, of course, a joke ;
but, as will ever happen in the most playful badinage of a true satirist,
founded on a subtle perception of the truth. It is more than probable that
Mr. Poins — not having wit to perceive the drift of the Prince's assumed
easiness of disposition — may have contemplated the advancement of his
family by some such device as the matrimonial device alluded to. At any
rate, one thing is certain, Mr. Poins did not relish the joke.

However, this trifle serves to display Sir John FalstafF, on the eve of a
vast military undertaking, light of heart and dauntless of spirit. The second
letter is of a very different character and satisfactorily disproves the short-
sighted, shallow theory, that our knight was incapable, on fitting occasions,
of the loftiest sentiments as well as the most serious reflection. This letter
exists in manuscript, carefully preserved in the collection to which I have
so frequently expressed my obligations. I have been favoured with a
photographic copy — which I hasten to transcribe with the idiomatic and
orthographic modifications I have thought fit to observe in all such cases, for
the greater ease of the general reader. Here and there a hiatus in the text
occurs, due to the ravages of time. These I might easily have supplied
from imagination ; but have rigorously abstained from yielding to any such
temptation : knowing well that the most imperfect ruin is more valuable to
the antiquarian student than the most elaborate restoration.

LETTER TO "OLD MISTRESS URSULA." Ill

TO DAME URSULA SWINSTEAD, AT THE TRENCHER, COOK's HOUSE, BY THAMES STREET.*

" Madam, — You doubtless never thought to hear of me again. Myself never thought to
trouble you more with knowledge of my existence. I speak not of paltry money debts. You
will do me the kindness (I may not say justice) to believe that I have not injured only to
affront you.

"lam an old man, madam — fifty-three in birthdays, and I may not say how much in
suffering and wickedness. Nay, I must put wickedness first. You, madam, — I am in no
mood for flattery, — are not young. You were a widow with three prattling children — Robin,
Davy, and Maudlin (they have ne'er a thought for old Uncle Jack now, I warrant me) —
when I first knew you eighteen years ago. Would for your sake that time had never been !
No matter! I would say you have approached that calm, sober lifetime — and there is so
little left to love or sorrow for in me — that you may hear what I have to say without heart-
rending.

" I write, madam, to bid you a last farewell. I am for the wars, from which my chance to
return alive is one to a thousand ; and that one I will cast from me. You will think at my age, —
having so well proved my courage, — I might be let to sleep on my laurels. They will not
have it so. They will have courage hke charity ; wherefore a man, to keep his good name,
shall not give his groat to one or two beggars and rest niggard ever after. He must be giving
to his death. All's one for that. Duty to honour and my sovereign apart, I must to the
wars, having naught left to live for save the earning a soldier's grave.

" I will speak the truth as a dying man speaks it, though it be to own himself villain. I
have wi'onged you, but you know not how deeply. For eighteen years have I paid court
to you — ever putting off our marriage upon some pretext, or earning your displeasure by
some offence — but ever renewing the tie by fresh oaths and blandishments. All this time,
madam, I was a married man. You knew it not — the world knew it not — but it was so.
Blame me as you will, but pity me. As a headstrong youth, I contracted a fooHsh marriage
with one who — well, she is no more ; let her faults perish with her. * *

This woman has made me what I am : she has been my blight and ruin. I concealed
her, like an ugly wound, down on my father's old estate ; and like a wound in the flesh did
she prey upon my heart and purse ; for Lollard, witch, worse, as I knew her to be, was she
not my wife ? Happily, we had no children. * * * *

Can you wonder then that without hope or aim in hfe — without a being to love me in the
world — debarred from forming domestic ties, that the very hopelessness of my state should

* The " Cooks' Quarter," or assemblage of public eating-houses by the River Thames,
existed in flourishing vigour as early as the reign of Henry the Second, and is affectionately
described by Fitzstephen. A good idea of the barbarity of the times, and the utter ignorance
of the first principles of commercial reciprocity, may be gleaned from a fact mentioned by
that old writer, namely, that " the public cooks sold no wine, while the taverners dressed no
meat." This unnatural state of things existed for more than three centuries, during which
time it was impossible to obtain a glass of ale with your ham sandwich, or a chop with your
pint of claret. It was not till the reign of Richard the Second that a reform was effected.
Then, the great discovery was made, that it was possible to supply all the component parts of
a meal, solid as well as fluid, in one establishment. In the simple words of Stowe, " since
then the cooks have sold wine, and the taverners dressed meat." Surely this triumph over
the habits and prejudices of ages must have originated in a master mind. 'Who so likely to
feel the evil, so powerful to remedy it, as Sir John Falstaff ? Assuming him to have been the
Man of the Hour (that is, the dinner hour), in addition to his other claims to immortality, the
hero of these pages must be ever revered as the inventor of the noble Art and custom of
Dining in the City !— Vide Fitzstephen and Stowe ; Annals and Survey.

112 LIFE OP FALSTAFF.

m:\\c mc roparfl you with your beauty (it is sore faded now ; I flatter not, you see), your
loviuj; heart and your tranquil home, as the fallen s])irits must regard i>arailise? What coidd
I do but hover round the celestial pates? And yet bitterly have I striven to be more than my-
self— more than mortal man. And here, suspect mc not of the vanity of lioi)ins to exculpate
myself in your eyes, if 1 tell you things that may make you set down some of my offences to
a cause less gross than you have done. Many a time, even when I have felt raised and
purified by your love, have I sought to degrade myself in your esteem: that you might cast
mc from your heart. It has been at such times I have brought my riotous comrades to your
house — have atVrunled your sober guests — have robbed you of your savings, and shown
myself to you a sot, a glutton, a swash-buckler, and a cheat. Had you known the pangs it
caused me ! Well, well ! I have omitted duties enough in my life, to bo allowed the solace of
remembering this one performed at— oh! how great a cost ! ♦ ♦ ♦

This I must say, that when I first wooed you the woman was ailing, and I had hopes of her
death. It has now come too late ; for, even if I should escape the rebels' swords, I cannot
hoi)e that you would forgive me so many years' duplicity and frequent ill-treatment, which,
after all, I have no right to believe you will set down to its real motives. Moreover, com-
pared to me, you are still young. To my eyes, you would be ever fair ; but that is nothing.
You are wealtliy, and wliat should I have to offer you but an old man's love, backed only by
a noble name and a soldier's renown ? * » * ♦

HI*******

Even were it a gift, I would ask it fearlessly for our old friendship's sake. She must have a
tomb becoming my rank, and I am penniless. A careless soldier, who is no courtier, cannot
force kings to gratitude, or even to justice. The ring, I warn you, is of no great money value
— as a jewel it would fetch little — let mc say nothing. But to me it is priceless as an heirloom
(you sec it bears the letters of my ancestor, Keingcit FalstafT, witli the hand grasping a staff),
and should death fly me, as he will those who willingly pursue him, I would redeem it with
— but this is idle. Only one thing could make mc forego my resolution, which is a forgive-
ness I will not even ask for. I make but one stipulation ; that if I fall (as I shall do) you will
say you received the ring as a gift in token of our betrothal. The story of my secret mar-
riage will be then pul)licly known, and it will be no shame for you to own that you once
thought to be a poor knight's lady.

" I have said enough. Farewell ! That pardon which I do not beg for alive I know will
be freely given after my death. I have but one merit to set against my faults — I love thee.

It is said. Farewell !

" JouN Falstaff."

" The boy may be trusted with the money, and will call for it any time in the morning not
later than eleven of the o'clock, when we stai-t westwai-d."

The story of Sir John's unfortunate marriage, alluded to in the above, is too
apocryphal to be entitled to a moment's discussion. It may, indeed, bo un-
hesitatingly set down as a pure fiction, invented from combined motives of
policy and humanity — the former requiring no explanation ; the latter origi-
nating in a good-natured desire that Mistress Ursula should at least have the
comfort of believing that she had bestowed her heart's affections and sub-
stantial friendship for a period of so many years upon a deserving object.

It is well known that Sir John Falstaff never married. " A soldier," as
the sago Bardolph once observed in answer to an inquiry upon this very
subject, "is better accommodiited than with a wife." Sir John appears also

EPISODE OF THE FAIR DOROTHEA. 113

to have considerately felt that a wife might be better accomraotlated than with
a soldier ; and though, doubtless, in his desire to please the fair sex, he
frequently gave rise to dreams of happiness in numerous sensitive imagina-
tions by promising the honour of his matrimonial alliance, ho was never so
cruel as to dispel such visions by the harsh realities that must have ensued
upon performance. There is no happiness like that of anticipation. Sir
John delighted in making people happy — ladies especially — and the more at
a time the better.

It would betray an ignorance of the times to suppose that our knight be-
longed to any of those chivalric orders who were bound to celibacy. Such
institutions — as far as concerns England at any rate — had been long obso-
lete at his birth. Nevertheless, a lingering trace of their spirit may be found
in the contemplation of Sir John Falstaff viewed as a man of gallantry.
The knights of old, instead of seeking to advance themselves by matrimonial
alliance or to sink their renown in the peaceful joys of domesticity, were accus-
tomed to give vent to their superabundant aifections in Platonic attachments.
This would seem to have been the case with our hero ; who, at the period of
his history now under consideration, entertained a chaste regard for a gentle-
woman of good family, named Mistress Dorothea Tearshcet, between whom
and Sir John no engagement of any kind appears to have existed. I regret
that this lady's reputation should have been the subject of much calumny
and misunderstanding, chiefly owing to some ribald expressions on the part
of those ill-regulated young men, the Prince of Wales and his friend Poins.
It is also brought forward in evidence against her, that she committed the
impropriety of accepting an invitation to supper with Sir John, at the Old
Boar's Head, on the night of the day on which the letter just quoted was
written, and llien and there indulged in certain conduct and expressions by
no means compatible with the bearing of a reproachless damsel. To these
charges I can only answer : that, in the first place, it has been asserted* that
Mistress Dorothea was connected with Sir John Falstaff by the ties of re-
lationship— an assertion which has never been refuted except by a sneer
from the Prince of Wales, of whose veracity we know sufficient by this
time — and there could be surely nothing wrong in a lady partaking of a
farewell repast with a respected kinsman about to depart on a perilous enter-
prise, and who must have been more than double her age. Besides, it must

* Prince Henut. — Sup any women with him ?

Page. — None, my lord, but old Mistress Quickly and Mistress Doll Tcarsheet.
Prince IIenuy. — What pagan may that be ?

Page. — A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kinswoman of my master's. Henry IV. Part
II. Act ii. So. 2.

114 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

not be forgotten that any suspicion of impropriety on the occasion was more
than guarded against by the matronly presence of Mrs. Quickly. With
regard to the freedom of Mistress Tearsheet's conduct and language, I need
merely appeal to the manners of the age. The chaste Queen Elizabeth
herself, more than two centuries later, is known to have taken part in the
discussion of topics which would not be considered admissible within the
circle of a modern drawing-room. That the lady was entitled to the highest
respect is proved by the jealous care taken by Sir John Falstaff that she
should be treated with such by all comers, manifested in the fact, that when,
on the night of the supper alluded to, Ancient Pistol, having entered the
room in a state of intoxication, applied some injurious epithets to the lady,
Sir John was so far roused from his habitual forbearance — and from the
comfortable process of digestion — as to administer to the tipsy officer one of
the soundest drubbings he ever received in the course of his well-pummelled
existence. Which incident you may read in the Second Part of King Henry
the Fourth, or view depicted in Mr. Cruikshank's engraving.

Other specimens of the Falstaff correspondence will be introduced, and
duly commented on, in chronological order.

IV.

WABLIKE STRATEGY OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF : HOW THE KNIGHT ASSISTED

THE YORKSHIRE REBELS AGAINST THE KING'S FORCES. REAPPEARANCE

OF MASTER ROBERT SHALLOW.

Comparisons have already been made between the hero of these pages and
Julius Caesar, Henry Percy, the great Earl of Warwick, the First Napoleon,
and other heroes of ancient, mediaeval, and modern history. The resem-
blance to all or any of them would" be incomplete could we not prove that on
some one occasion, at least, our hero suffered a sense of personal wrong or
interest to withdraw him from a cause whereunto he had sworn allegiance,
andinduce him to throw the vast weight of his valour and influence into the
opposite scale. This is as common and natural a proceeding with the rulers
of Kingdoms and armies, as it is with vulgar persons to withdraw their custom
from a shop, when they have been offended or ill-served — in fiivour of
another where they expect greater civility or better bargains. It is true
that the lives of thousands, and the welfare of entire comnumities, may be

FALSTAFF SIDES AVITH THE REBELS. 115

eacrificcd by such conduct on the part of great leaders. But these com-
modities, to such people, are merely what shilli gs and pence are to the
retail purchasers — the base counters by which the value of their connection
is to be estimated.

Sir John Falstaff, as I have shown, had been slighted by the King,
outraged by the King's Chief Justiciary, and trifled with by the King's son,
(I have not thought fit to call attention to His Highness's last practical joke
attempted on our hero, on the occasion of the supper alluded to at the close
of the last chapter ; in which, by consulting the chronicle, it will be seen the
Prince came off no better than usual in such matches). And in the face of
this treatment, it was expected that Sir John would, at a moment's notice
and without a word of apology, come forward with his original loyalty
unshaken to annihilate the King's enemies — now assembled in large numbers
in Yorkshire under the leadership of the Earl of Northumberland, the Arch-
bishop of York, and Thomas Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham and Lord
Marshal of England — (son and successor to Sir John's old lord and tutor —
many years since exiled and cut to pieces by Saracen scimitars, in deftiult
of the privilege of having his ribs poked, his skull cleft, or his neck severed,
comfortably, in his native land — the natural destiny and laudable ambition
of every English nobleman of the period !) Briefly, Sir John resolved that
he would do nothing of the kind.

It might be urged that Sir John — being in the main a good fellow, with a
sense of justice lying somewhere or other at the bottom of his heart, and only
a bit of a rogue upon expediency — in coming to such a resolution might have
been actuated by other motives than such as we have suggested ; that he
might have thought the demands of the rebels were rather reasonable than
otherwise (which they were), and that it might have gone against his con-
science to aid and abet an intolerable crowned ruffian like Henry the Fourth
— an assassin, an usurper, a kidnapper, a widow and orphan spoiler; and, to
crown all, the man who enjoyed the distinguished honour of having intro-
duced the practice of burning religious reformers (to which order he himself
had once professed to belong) in this country — in his designs against better
men and truer patriots than himself. To accept this theory would be a con-
fession of weakness on Sir John Falstaff's part, classing him among mere con-
temptible well-meaning persons — wholly destructive to those claims to the
GREAT souLED or HEROIC CHARACTER which it has been my aim to establish
for him from the very commencement of these pages. So I will follow the
invariable custom of gentlemen of my calling, and adopt the view that best
suits itx<3

It must not be supposed that Sir John Falstaff went, at once, over with all

116 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

his forces to the enemy's ranks. This woukl have been difficult, because,
in the first place (which may forestal all further considerations), he had
no forces. His general orders from head-quarters were that " he was to
take up soldiers in the counties as he went." Upon this Sir John built a
most effective stratagem.

The reader who has not been lately at school (the remark will apply
equally to the reader who has not yet gone there) is requested to cast his eye
over a work, not so well-known in this country as it might be, — the map of
England. Let him there study the relative positions of London and York-
shire. If gifted with an intellect never so little logical, he will divine from
his observations that the shortest way from the metropolis to the great
northern county would not lie through Gloucestershire ; and that the journey
performed via that part of England would necessitate some considerable loss
of time. Yorkshire being the centre of warlike operations, and the necessity
for giving immediate battle to the rebels being imminent, it will be credited
that reinforcements arriving via Gloucestershire would not be of material
service to the Royalist cause — which, through having been relied on, their
non-appearance, in time, might indeed be calculated to injure. Accordingly
Sir John Falstaff, to whom a carte blanche of counties for his recruiting had
been somewhat rashly given, decided that he would go round by Glouces-
tershire.

And Sir John did go round by Gloucestershii'e. That is certain. Also
is it that he lost considerable time by so doing. This is proved by the fact
that he did not come up with the King's troops in Yorkshire till just at the
close of the battle of Gualtree Foi'est (in which the rebels had been un-
accountably routed without his assistance), and that in a " travel-tainted"
condition. As we can only judge of men's motives by their acts, we have a
right to assume (as I have done) that Sir John Falstaff delayed his arrival
purposely — to give advantage to the enemy, with whom he secretly sympa-
thised— by withholding his terrible presence.

And yet there may have been another motive. Let us look at all possible
sides of the question. Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that Sir John's
feelings towards the cause of Henry were not those of hostility but of mere
indifference ; and that he felt a not uncharacteristic preference for indulging
in the gratification of his own pleasure and advantage, to swelling the victo-
ries of an ungrateful monarch. Let us suppose that he bent his northern
course a little westward, for the purpose of touching at his favourite
Coventry. Why his favourite Coventry ? Because he once marched
through that city with a disgraceful retinue ? Reader, I am surj^rised at
your ignorance. Do you n.ot know that near to the city o^ (.'oventry stood

SECOND MAECn THROUGH COVENTRY. 117

the manor of Cheylesforcl, the private residence of Prince Hal, appertaining
(Heaven knows Avhy) to the Duchy of Cornwall, where the Prince and his
comrades performed the wildest of their mad pranks ; that it was " thither,"
according to the chronicler "VYalsingham, " resorted all the young nobility as
to a king's court, while that of Henry the Fourth was deserted ; that it was
here the Prince and some of his comrades (of course, FalstafF among them)
were laid by the heels by John Hornesby, the Mayor of Coventry, for raising
a riot ?" If you do not know all this, reader, let me tell you that / do ; and
it is of no consequence to you when I came by the information — whether
years before I commenced this elaborate historical study, or only the day
before yesterday.

Who then so likely to be a popular man in Coventry as Sir John
Falstaff — the master, par excellence, of the Princely Revels ? What town
in the kingdom so likely to be endeared to Sir John's affections as Coventry ?
Why, the knight's repugnance to run the gauntlet of the gibes of his
familiars, admirers, and butts, when at the head of his ragged regiment,
is at once explained ! What a joke for the pages and courtiers hanging
about the inn-doors ! What giggling from the tavern wenches ! What grim
chuckling and rubbing of hands from the long-account-keeping tradesmen !
Above all, what triumph for the malignant soul of John Hornesby, Mayor of
Coventry !

As I reflect on this view of the case, I find myself imperceptil:)ly framing
a new theory which tempts me to reject my former one. Yes, I have
decided. I will assert an Englishman's privilege of doing what he likes with
his own, and throw it over altogether.

I am disposed, then, to maintain that, on this occasion. Sir John Falstaff
entered Coventry more scantily, but more creditably attended than on the last ;
and took up his quarters at his favoui'ite inn (the one where his bill was the
shortest) with no intention of moving until the urgencies of war should abso-
lutely compel him. Here he would be surrounded by old Cheylesford cronies
— hangers-on to the palace — with their hangers-on and their hangers-on — ■
with the hangers-on of the latter — and so on dwindling into indefinite per-
spective. I can fancy Sir John, the true master of the situation — dispensing
the last court scandal — retailing the last town jests — disposing of the rebel-
lion, the King's state of health, the Queen's avarice and last rumoured act of
sorcery, the Prince's designs ; in a word, laying down the law generally.

I can conceive him fighting the battle of Shrewsbury over again, — killing
Percy by the cruellest of deaths, after the most protracted of sanguinary
encounters, — and inflicting upon the absent Earl of Douglas what that
gallant warrior, throughout his life, had never been accustomed to receive —

N

118 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

wounds aimed at him from behind his back. The rare honours Sir John
found awaiting him on his return to London — the feasts prepared for him —
and the precious gifts of gold, jewels, and costly raiment, showered upon him
— all these would doubtless be displayed to the minds' eyes of an admiring
audience ; their original value multiplied an hundredfold by the compound-
interest afforded by the exhaustless bank of Sir John Falstaff 's golden imagi-
nation— in the mint attached to which establishment most of them had,
indeed, been fabricated. How he would strike envy to the souls of exiles
from the court — palace intendants, stewards, gentlemen-at-arms, and the
like, sent to Coventi-y, and kept there, by duty or difficulties, — men stag-
nating for lack of news, and fain to follow the fashions " afar oiF like spies, "
— how would he overwhelm them with glowing accounts of the last Venetian
sleeve, the newest Saracenic hood, (for our Crusading fathers robbed the
Paynims not merely of their heads but also of their turbans !) and the last
Ferrarese device in armour — many costly specimens of which ho would care-
lessly allude to as following him at leisure, witli the bulk of his baggage, to
be worn when the wars should be concluded — rough homespun, tough
leather, and British ii-on being good enough for blood-stains and battle-smoke !
How would he silence Detraction — wishing to know whereby Sir John
Falstaff, after all his brilliant achievements, had escaped court preferment —
by frowns and sighs, and mysterious inuendoes ! Who knows but that the
name of Queen Joanna of Brittany — a comely dame, scarce past her middle
age, still capable of inspiring the tender passion — may have been covertly
mentioned in connection with this delicate subject? Was not the king old,
ailing, and jealous ? Had not Duke Edward of York been already consigned,
a hopeless captive, to the dungeons of Pevensey, for no greater offence than
the inditing a not very brilliant copy of verses to her Breton and Britannic
Majesty ? Had not the bilious monarch, moreover, shown his mistrust of all
persons favoured by his attractive (but supposed demon-leagued) consoi't —
by the wholesale exile of " all French persons, Bretons, Lombards, Italians
and Navarrese, whatsoever"* attached to the Queen's establishment, with
the exception of a cook, a few chambermaids, two knights, and their esquires
(doubtless elderly and ill-favoured), and a strong body of Breton washer-
women ? Is it improbable that the presence, about the court, of a personable
and renowned warrior like Sir John Falstaff, — one who, even to the limits of
maturity, retained so many of the graces of his youth, — should have been
looked upon by the suspicious king as perilous to his conjugal felicity? At
any rate, is it improbable that Sir John Falstaff should have thought so — or,

Piviliamentarj Rolls, 5 Henry IV., p. 572,

MASTER THOMAS DOIT. 119

whether he thought so or not, that he should have striven to impress his
Coventry audience with a conviction that such was the case ? Sir John may
or may not have submitted such probabilities as these to the consideration of
his hearers. Be this as it may, there is one topic he could not possibly, being
situated as I have imagined him, have failed to enlarge upon. Depend upon
it, the recent conduct of the Lord Chief Justice would be held up to such
public scorn and indignation as to render that official's next assize-visit to
Warwickshire a somewhat perilous excursion !

Let me consider what kind of an adventure would have been likely to
happen to Sir John FalstafF at such a time. I have one.

I can imagine a quiet, cheery-looking old man, in a long, sober-coloured
gown, of comfortable well-to-do aspect, with a shrewd wrinkled face,
elbowing his way imperceptibly to a place at the table near Sir John (the
guests making room for him with some respect), and taking advantage of a
lull in the conversation to say, with a twinkling eye and a somewhat
admiring smile, —

" We should know each other, Sir John — we have been friends ere now."

" Aye, aye, sir ? 'Tis possible. There are more men see Paul's church
than the Beadle wots of. But you have the best of me."

"Will you share my tankard while I make myself known. Nay! — 'tis a
choice Rochelle that mine host broaches only for me on my monthly visits to
Coventry. You will not match it in the town vintry.

" Now you speak, sir, I should know your voice. Save you, sir. Nectar,
by all the Pagans ! "

" It is long since we met, Sir John."

" Do you tell me that, sir ? Twenty years at the least ; if not nigher
thirty. Li Brittany, was it not ? "

"Not so — not so."

" Li Flanders then, or Spain ? * I have seen both countries."

" Nay, sir — no further oiF than Clements' Inn. I was reading the law
when you were page to Sir Thomas Mowbray — father to "

" Him whose father's son I now march against. The chances of war have
so willed it. By our Lady, I know the trick of your face — well. — Nay, if
you will an' it be another of the same. — 'Tis excellent, i' faith. And you
have thriven well in your calling. Master ?"

"Doit — Thomas Doit, to serve you. Sir John."

* Observe that I merely imagine Sir John Falstaflf to have said he had visited Spain. The
annals of that country afford no trace of his presence at any period of history.

120 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

" The name was at my tongue's end. Of Oxford, as I think ?"

« Of Stafford, sir."

" Stafford, I would have said. A new health to you, Master Doit. Why
we are boys again. I would I needed a lawyer for your sake. But a trusty
knave (no offence to the calling, sir) cares well for my estate — and to dis-
place an old servant "

"Nay, sir. I have enough — enough, sir. The world has dealt kindly
by me. I have a snug home, with a crust and flagon for a friend. My boys
and maidens are well cared for. I labour now but for pastime."

" Say you so, Master — Joit. We must be better acquainted. And yet
that can hardly be with old friends like us."

" You have grown great since then, Sir John."

" An old man, sir, and still plain Sir John ! Those were brave times.
Master Quoit."

" Will you recall them with me, Sir John, over a supper ? I have a more
potent voice in the kitchen here than many of the Prince's gentlemen."

"I would have asked you, Master — ahem? — Thomas. But, be it as you
will, sir, so that we part not company. We have seen nights together, sir ! "

" And days, Sir John ! It is a boast of mine that I witnessed your first
great feat of arms."

" Aye, indeed ? Which call you that ?"

" Have you forgotten cudgelling Skogan, the rhymer, at the Court Gate ?"

" Skogan ! To be sure. Why now I have it all ! You were the brave
fellow that fought the fishmonger on the same day ! or a tanner's man —
which was it ? Talk not of my deeds after that, Master Thomas. I think
I see him now with his skull cleft. Why John of Gaunt, Gloucester, and
the old King himself, all lauded your prowess, sir. I rose in court esteem
through knowing you."

At this, I can conjecture Master Thomas Doit would throw himself back
in his chair and laugh till the tears streamed down his merry, wrinkled
cheeks.

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! Why this is most excellent ! See how well you know
me, Sir John, with all your friendship and remembrance. I thought not to
live sixty -nine years to be taken for such a gull as lean Bob Shallow !"

" Shallow ! "

Having made this exclamation, we may suppose that Sir John Falstaff
would repair his not very flattering mistake by a plausible apology, or turn

it off with a timely jest either being always at his command at a

moment's notice. Having pacified the by no means implacable Doit, he would
muse upon old times — old forms and deeds growing into shape and colour

MASTER THOMAS DOIT. 121

through the fog of yocars on the dead level of an old man's memory — like
cows and windmills through the morning mist on a Flemish landscape.

" Shallow ! to be sure !" — this to himself — sighing and putting his hand
to his pocket. " He was the man to know ! He paid all ! He was a very
oyster that would grow fat on the shell again, with a string of pearls round
his neck directly you had swallowed him." Then, aloud, with a deeper sigh
— " I would he were living now, Master Lawyer ! "

" Why he lives. Sir John."

" Say you so ? — where ?"

" Hard by, in Gloucestershire, scarce a day's ride from hence."

" In good health and case, I trust ? "

" The best. For his bodily health, he is of those men whose backs will
never break under the weight of their brains. It is long ere the dock
withers or the ass dies. For his outward case, Heaven, in its mercy to helpless
creatures, hath sent two kinds of crawling things into the world with good
houses to cover them — the snails and the fools, Sir John. Master Shallow
is in the Peace : he hath his father's broad lands and some twenty thousand
marks in money."

" You rejoice me ! Master Shallow alive and prospering ! Well ! Master
David Shallow was it not ?"

" Robert."

" True. You called him Bob a while ago. From that you have let fall,
it would seem he hath not grown in wisdom as in years and possessions ?"

" He ! Can you make silk purse out of swine's ear, Sir John ; or wash
blackamoors white ? A greater gull than ever ! "

" Bardolph."

" Sir John."

"Leave tippling, sirrah, and see to the horses. We'll ride into Glouces-
tershire befoi'e daybreak. 'Tis the county of lusty soldiers — and the rebels
chafe for their beating. Another health, Master Doit."

I am convinced that it was some such accident as this that induced Sir
John Falstafi' to turn aside, temporarily, from his designs against the northern
rebels in the King's interest, and direct his forces to the immediate subjugation
of Mr. Justice Shallow on his own account. And, indeed, in deciding upon
this course, he can scarcely be said to have exceeded or departed from his
duty. For in those times of primitive warfare, (especially in the reign of
Henry the Fourth, who, in spite of his numerous successful robberies, was
not always able to pay his bootmaker, let alone his generals,) the right
of private plunder and forage formed in a manner a portion of the soldier's
payment. And it was surely excusable that Sir John FalstaiF should have

o

122 . LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

been drawn a little from the track of the public game he was pursuing by
so tempting a cross scent as that of his former acquaintance Shallow.

Sir John did not at once march on the Shallow stronghold, on the prin-
ciple of the "hook-nosed fellow of Eome," as he pleasantly described his
illustrious prototype of antiquity, merely "to come, to see, and to conquer."
No. His first visit was one of mere reconnoitre, rather founded on the policy
of another great man whom he resembled — William Duke of Normandy —
who, it will be remembered, having made up his mind to conquer England,
if he should find it worth his while, paid a friendly visit to the monarch of
this country, by whom he was most hospitably received, in order to form his
opinions on the subject; parted on the most amicable terms with his enter-
tainer ; and promised to look in again the next time he happened to be
passing — which he did, taking the liberty of bringing a few friends with
him. The parallel will be found striking.

The Shallows were a very ancient county family, tracing their descent
almost as far back as the FalstafFs themselves. Common politeness to a great
name suggests, at this stage of our researches, the pi'opriety of a retrospective
glance at the origin, achievements, social position, and distinguishing traits
of a line so illustrious. In order to induce a perfect appreciation of the
subject, the historian must (for once in a way, and contrary to his habit)
avail himself of one of the most sacred privileges of his order — the right of
digression. We of this age and country are too apt to ridicule the stringent
and, as it seems on the surface, unnatural regulation of the Egyptians, Peru-
vians, and other nations of antiquity, and observed by certain Asiatic peoples
even to the present day, which forbade a man to engage in any other pursuit,
occupation, or calling, than that of his fathers. This was only recognising
and enforcing by law the observance of an inherent principle in human
society which we see voluntarily obeyed in all communities. Thus, we all
acknowledge the claims of certain families who are obviously sent into the
world for the purpose of ruling their fellow creatures, and living com-
fortably on the emoluments arising from that lucrative occupation. In
proof of the definite and exclusive mission of such people, it need only be
observed, that when, through some exceptional hitch or convulsion in the
natural course of things, any one of their order happens to be thrown out of
his legitimate employment, he can by no effort reconcile himself to becoming'
a useful or pacific member of society in a humbler sphere. On the contrary
he will move heaven and earth to regain his foi-feited position, which he
will feel to be so indisputably his right, as to consider no sacrifice of the
lives and treasures of other people too great for its recovery; and there will
always be found a large portion of the population to abet and justify him by

SHORT TREATISE ON SOCIAL CASTES. 123

clioerfully making for him the sacrifices he requires. These he will accept
without thanks or emotion, just as a spider accepts flies, or a pike tittlebats.
They are his right — that is sufficient. Leave such beings in the quiet pos-
session of their birthright, and you may hardly be aware of their existence —
so little noise or exertion they care to make while all goes on smoothly — and
you may be apt to underrate their importance to the social machine. But
once dislodge the most insignificant of them from his proper place, and a
terrific crash, explosion, loss of life, and utter suspension of progress, will
convince you that you had much better have left him where he was, and
had better lose no time in putting him back again. We are told that
a sacred Brahmin, though permitted, in cases of emergency, to engage in
warlike or mercantile pursuits, must, on no account, descend to manual labour.
For the Brahmin so descending, and for the inferior castes permitting or
necessitating him to do so, it is pronounced by the sacred Vedas perdition in
this wox'ld and the next. Therefore is the rule never infringed. The
inferior castes, no matter what the scarcity of seasons or the extortions of
their rulers, are careful for their own sakes that the sacred Brahmin shall not
be tempted by necessity to the commission of the unpardonable crime of
woi'k. In civilisations of more modern ftibric this principle of caste is equally
recognised — none the less thoroughly that its recognition is the result of
spontaneous obedience to a great natural law, rather than abject submission
to the terrorism of a degrading superstition. We Europeans need no sacred
Vedas to threaten us with torments if, in the event of a Kaiser or King
having more sons than he can provide with kingdoms or principalities (their
common necessaries of life), we decline to shed our blood in quarrels, the
object of which is to supply the deficiency. We meet such claims upon us
with the same matter of course cheerfulness as that with which the hunter
scales the perilous cliff", or the fisherman launches his frail boat in stormy
weather, to provide food for a helj^less family. We recognise the principle
in its widest ramifications — to its remotest edges. In Peru (anterior to the
intrusion of that highly objectionable Reform Association of which Pizarro
was the President) every descendant of an Inca, in the remotest degree,
was as much an Inca as his greatest ancestor ; and every Inca was entitled
to a certain share of command, and gold and silver, of which luxuries it need
scarcely be hinted their order enjoyed an exclusive monopoly of possession.
Let not the irreverent simile of the sow with a litter of too many pigs
to correspond with her number of teats, be incautiously hazarded. The
inci'ease of Incas caused no difficulty whatever. The people knew the
favoured class must be provided for, and in what manner. All they-hvi^ to
do was to acquire more territory — that new vice-realms and governor-

o 2

124 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

ships might be established — and to find out fresh mines of gold and silver.
We in Europe do much the same thing. When there is a little unwonted
increase in the castes of Princeps, Dux, Comes, Markgraf, Landgraf, Law-
ward, Armiger or Hidalgo, what do we do ? Do we insist that such valu-
able materials shall be utilised for base purposes ? Do we tell Meinherr
Herzog, Monsieur le Marquis, or the noble Earl, that we have already as
many of their progeny as we can provide for in the regular way, and that the
residue must be absorbed into the community as philosophers, artists, writers,
traders, handicraftsmen, and husbandmen ? As readily would we think of
cutting up armorial banners and brocaded tapestries for door-mats and
ploughboys' inexpressibles, merely because we had happened to accumulate a
greater stock of those dignifying treasures than our ancestral walls would
accommodate. In such an emergency, all our thoughts and energies would
be directed to the one mighty object of extending our premises, that we might
have a sufficiency of rooms for the display of our priceless hangings. Such
an enlargement might subject us to some inconvenience at the time — neces-
sitating much straitening, a little chicanery perhaps, and a trifling matter
of bankruptcy. But we would not be deterred by such ignoble considera-
tions. We would extend our premises — honestly if we could — but we
would extend them. I suppose it was a rule in ancient Egypt, that since
certain men came into the world expi'essly and exclusively to be shoemakers
and feather-dressers, the community to which they belonged was bound to
wear out a sufficiency of shoes, and spoil a sufficiency of feathers, to keep
them in profitable employment. It would have been very unfair otherwise.
Just so when, by common consent, we declare that a certain branch of
the community shall do nothing but govern empires, kingdoms, princi-
palities, provinces, or departments, we are bound, at whatever cost, to pro-
vide them with a sufiiciency of empii'es, kingdoms, principalities, &c., to
govern. It may be expensive ; but it is only commonly just. If we have
decided that our pet spaniel shall eat nothing but nightingales' tongues, why,
in justice to the poor dog, we must go out and shoot enough nightingales to
keep him in condition — even though we neglect our business, and live
ourselves, while hunting, upon pig-nuts.

As there are families born to command, so are there families born to serve.
I know the representatives of one or two highly respectable lines (they are
not very fond of me by the way, and never invite me unless some better-bred
person lias disappointed them — which I also generally manage to do in my
turn, one way or another)^ who can point to splendid galleries of ancestral
portraits, each one the counterfeit presentment of an individual who has dis-
tinguished himself as the faithful and devoted servant of some I'oyal or other-

ESSAY ON CASTES CONTINUED. 125

wise illustrious personage. One will have been Gold Shaving Pot in
Waiting to such a monarch — another Groom of the Dirty Clothes Bag to
such another — and so forth. All have worn liverv of some kind or another,
with pride to themselves and satisfaction to their employers. I honour these
men, not as the unthinking do, for the reflected glories cast upon them by
the great names with which theirs have been associated, but for their
own merits as honest flunkies, who accepted their earthly mission and fulfilled
it with diligence and civility ; and who, having completed their time of ser-
vitude in this down-stairs world, have gone to better themselves elsewhere,
provided with the best of characters. There have been great men in these
lines — warriors who have won difficult battles as the subservient aides-de-
camp to incapable princes ; statesmen who have saved or ruined empires,
as part of their professional duties, for the immortalization of their honoured
employers ; gifted authors who have lived to see statues erected to their
patrons, due to the fame of books which they themselves had written un-
grudgingly for a secretary's wages or a toady's perquisites. The offshoots
and collaterals of these illustrious houses have doubtless included, in their
number, artists of the highest ability, who have passed their lives cheerfully
on small salaries, painting backgrounds and draperies, for such of the
governing castes as may have drifted into the field of fashionable portraiture
and are naturally fitted for command there as elsewhere ; mute inglorious
Mozarts and Beethovens who have retired contentedly to workhouses, when
they have completed their life-labour of preparing some operatic automaton
for opulence and fame ; and so on, down through grades innumerable, to
poor old Figaro, who weeps tears of joy when he hears that the wig his
skill has prepared has been mistaken for the natural growth of the Count
Almaviva's bald and wrinkled pate, and Betty, who is reconciled to short
commons and irregular wages, when she listens stealthily at the half-
opened ball-room door to hear Belinda praised and envied for taste that was
Betty's own. My Lord Gold Stick in Waiting, the Grand Duke's hereditary
Bootjack, Mr. Boswell the biographer, Mr. Wagg the dining-room jester,
Mr. Wenham the confidential secretary, faithful Caleb Balderston, and super-
cilious John Thomas — they are all of the same race. The prosjoerous may
repudiate the unsuccessful members — as Jocelyn Fitzmyth of Belgravia
ignores John Smith of Deptford, or as Sir Morris Leveson the city mil-
lionaire cuts the acquaintance of poor Moses Levi of Petticoat Lane, — a
kind of meanness which, en passant, would be effectually prevented by the
adoption of the old Egyptian principle — whereby the cobbler was bound, as
with the stoutest of thongs and waxed-ends, to stick to his last. Under that
dispensation Fitzmyth Avould be kept to his cabbage garden, and Sir Morris

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126 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

would liaA^e to wear a Jewish gaberdine — just as Mr. Wagg would be sen-
tenced to perpetual cap and bells, and my Lord Goldstick, Bootjack, Wenhara,
and all the rest of them, to wear plush and powder, whether they liked it or
not. But the sumptuary distinction is unnecessary. They are all born foot-
men, let them disguise themselves as they will. You have only to ring a bell
within their hearing — seeing that it be of gold, silver, or baser metal, ac-
cording to their relative grades of servitude — and they will speedily jump
up to answer it ; betraying their natural propensities like the cat in the fairy
tale, who had been changed into a beautiful princess, when she caught sight
of a stray mouse on the palace floor. So much for the caste of servants.

I have shown early in this work that the Falstaff family were a race of
courtiers, with a tendency to one or two other callings not necessary here to
particularise. My hero was — alas ! that I should have to say it — the last of
his line. Did any descendant of Sir John's happen to be living in the present
day, no doubt he would be found hanging about the aristocratic clubs, in
debt to the very waiters, "tabooed" by strait-laced members for his
frequent scrapes, chronic dissipation, and irreverent jests, never respectable
and never prosperous, given dreadfully to low life, but always sure of some
countenance and protection as the boon companion of some influential per-
sonage, and careful to keep within the pale of good repute, so far as to retain
his entree to St. James's Palace — preserving through all difficulties a hand-
some court suit and stock of court behaviour for state occasions. Sup-
posing any descendants of our old acquaintance Wat Smith, the Maldyke
demagogue, to be living (and the prevalence of the f\imily name renders the
supposition moi'e than probable), they are, doubtless, to be found among the
radical iron-workers of the Midland Counties, or those turbulent Sheffield
knife-grinders, whom nothing short of a Royal Duke's presence can awe
into loyalty and respect. There are families of actors, who have been
histrios from a date earlier than Gammer Gurton's Needle, and who stick
to the family calling, whether on the stage, in the cabinet, the senate, the
mart, or the pulpit. There are born farmers, born authors, born warriors,
born sailors, born jewellers, born publicans, and born hangmen. I have
known even hereditary grocers and undertakers. But f»erhaps there is no
instance in which we so thoroughly recognise the sacredness of caste as in
the case of the born labourer. The contentment with which people of that
class will submit to the most incredible hardships rather than make an effort
to emancipate themselves from their normal sphere, added to the indignant
opposition with which any rare effort of the kind on their part is invariably
met by the classes above them, is surely a convincing proof that they were
brought into the world for the purpose of remaining exactly where they arc.

ANCESTORS OF MASTER ROBERT SHALLOW. 127

We have also born beggars — in various stages of society — who pursue their

traditional calling —

" Some in rags
And some in bags,

And some in velvet gowns,"

but who are all beggars alike, and could under no circumstances exist, except
by the charity of the industrious and productive portions of the com-
munity. We have also hereditary thieves, who are protected in their various
guilds and corporations, and enjoy innumerable legal privileges.

I have now traced the various defined strata of our social geology almost
to the lowest formation. My philosophical excavations have occupied some
time, but not a stroke of the moral pickaxe has been unnecessary. It was
absolutely indispensable that I should get to the very bottom of the pit. . I
have now all but reached it. Having cut my way through the beggars and
thieves, there is but one step lower I can take. I will accordingly proceed
to the consideration of country justices.

The family of the Shallows had been in the commission of the peace from time
immemorial. I have not such authorities at my elbow as can inform me under
what honorary title the earlier Shallows — at the time whenKeingelt Felstaf
was getting into squabbles with Ceorles and Welshmen, and pecuniary difii-
\;ulties with his Sodalitium — exercised their judicial functions. It is of little
consequence whether a judicial assembly be called a Wittenagemote or a Petty
Sessions — so that the spirit of its justice be the same. Suffice it that the
hereditary vocation of the family, in all ages, has been to supply the ranks
of that inestimable and truly British body — the unpaid magistracy. Of
the advantages to the community of such a class of public oflicials it would
be idle to speak; so obvious is it that a judge whose services are gratuitously
rendered, and are therefore protected by the common rules of politeness from
impertinent investigation as to their quality and value, must be enabled to
administer justice in a far more independent and manly fashion than the
hireling who is amenable to public criticism, and bound to interpret the law
according to the opinions of others ; whereas, the unfettered volunteer need
only consult his own conscience and enforce such a construction of the
statutes AS he may deterjuine to be the right one. One great result
of this system is the preservation, in a state of vital activity, of many fine
old laws, which the apathy or sycophancy to the public approval of less dis-
interested but more immediately responsible magistrates might sufier to fall
into disuse. The Shallows, from the remotest period, have distinguished
themselves as conservators of the law in this respect. In the time of the
Anglo-Saxons, members of the race had been remarkable for their diligence

o 4

128 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

in the conviction of malcfiictors by tlie process of red-hot ploughshares, the
ordeals of hot and cold water, and similar unerring and time-honoured tests
of criminality. Long after these cherished features in the national juris-
prudence had been formally abolished, through the vexatious meddling of
effeminate Norman legislators, and nominally superseded by moveable Courts
of Assize, the Shallows of Gloucestershire had the hardihood and
patriotism to adhere to their practice in the teeth of all Royal Commissions
of Inquiry and threats of suspension whatsoever. It was one Simon Shallow
who, early in the reign of Edward the First, had the honour of executing
the last assassin ever convicted in an English Court of Justice, by the flowing
of blood from the body after death on its being touched by human fingers.
The event was long remembered in the county, and its records are still
preserved with excusable pride by the descendants of the Shallow family.
It was, indeed, a masterly expression of the great English spirit of resistance.
A murder had been committed — at least a dead body had been found at the
foot of a precipice with the skull shattered. The I'eigning Shallow proceeded
to try the case according to the immemorial custom of his ancestors. He at
once caused all suspicious characters in the neighbourhood to be arrested.
This he effected by ordering his own keepers to seize upon all persons
suspected of poaching and other practices dangerous to the stability of the
community, and by soliciting all adjacent landowners in the commission to*
come to the rescue of law and order, by causing to be arrested all similarly
disaffected persons within their jurisdiction. Master Shallow's keepers did
their duty, and the neighbouring justices responded to the appeal. A goodly
array of prisoners were brought into the presence of the body, which was
laid on a table, tilted at a proper angle. The county justices assembled
in strong force, in order to witness the vindication of the majesty of Old
English law, threatened with undermining by divers royal messages. Two
or three of the suspected criminals (against whom there was nothing particular
beyond a pheasant's nest or so, and who had been considerately warned not
to lay too violent a hand on the body, lest they should cause a movement of
the head Avhich might be fatal) had passed triumphantly through the ordeal.
A hardened malefactor was about to be tried, upon whom the gravest
suspicion rested. He was the most accomplished deer-stealer in the neighbour^
hood. There was not a justice present through whose preserves the cause
of law and order had not suffered by his depredations. It was in vain that
this fellow pleaded with tears in his eyes that he had loved the deceased as a
brother, and called witnesses to prove that he had parted with him amicably
at the dour of an alehouse ; that tliey had taken different directions, and
liial the prisoner had spoken to divers persons at a distance of five miles

THE JUDGMENT OF SIMON SHALLOW. 129

from the scene of the supposed murder at the very moment when, if at all,
it must have been committed. He was smartly reprimanded, with a counsel
to remember what presence he stood in, and bidden to " lay on firm, and not
touch the clothes * instead of the flesh, as their worships wotted well of that
device." The man raised his hand fearlessly, and was about to lay it on the
body Avhen a breathless messenger rushed into the justice hall, announcing
that a troop of King's ofiicers were riding fast from Oxford with a view of
putting a stop to the proceedings, tidings of which had reached that city, where
His Majesty then held his court ; and threatening the terrors of the law to any
magistrate who should be convicted of participation in the illegal course of
procedure now in progress. The justices rose in mingled wrath and fear, and
in so doing managed to shake the table. Simultaneously with their move-
ment the hand of the accused fell mechanically upon the body, the head of
which rolled from its supports, causing an effusion of blood. " Lo, he is guilty! "
cried the justices, triumphant in the moment of their apparent defeat. " Men
of England I " said one of them (whose park had suffered dreadfully within
the past month), "will ye see the laws of your fathers trampled on by a set
of evil advisers — chiefly Frenchmen — who have falsely obtained the ear of
His Majesty, whom heaven preserve ! Will ye have your sons and brothers
murdered in cold blood ? Ten minutes more and the murderer will be
rescued from justice by a set of French lawyers, who will set him free by
quirks and quibbles. Now or never is your time to assert your rights. To
the nearest oak with him, ere yet the blood is dry, according to the custom of
your fathers ! " The mob murmured approval : a superstition a thousand
years old was dear to them. The keepers and constables clamoured — not one
of them but had known the taste of the prisoner's cudgel. The prisoner him-
self protested, appealed to the King's justice, finally lost his temper and called
the justices a pack of murderous noodles. The prisoner had his friends ; but
they were a disreputable minority of poachers and sheep-stealers. The bulk
of the auditory were tenants or retainers of the justices. The approach of
horsemen galloping at top speed was announced from a neighbouring hill.
K ever a blow could be struck in defence of the old English laws, now was
the time. Then, as now, it was a recognised principle that Britons never,
never would be slaves, and where is the personal freedom in a country where
you cannot hang a man in your own most approved fashion ? Briefly, the
prisoner was hanged on the nearest oak ; and the Royal Commission

* A common expedient resorted to by the consciously guilty in the Trial of Ordeal by
Touch ; similar to that practised by the ignorant of the present day, who think that by
" kissing the thumb " instead of the book in a court of justice they evade the legal and
sacred responsibilities of an oath.

130 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

appointed to investigate the matter, arrived just in time to cut him down and
bury him with his lamented friend. Master Shallow was a timorous but by
no means an inhuman or an unjust man. He had proposed sparing the
culprit — whose guilt could scarcely be considered established, seeing that the
body had been shaken by the rising of the court, and the flow of blood
might have been accidental — provided he (the culprit) would make an
ample confession of his crime and express his obligation to the magistrates
who had tried him, before the King's Commissioners. But this suggestion
was overruled by the majority, who declared that there was no timg for the
consideration of trifling personal interests when they had a great principle
to establish. So the convicted murderer was hanged with Master Shallow's
full warrant and approval.

It turned out — on the evidence of two cowboys, who had witnessed the
event, but appai'ently not thought worth alluding to it until questioned — that
the supposed murdered man, being under the obvious influence of malt
liquor, had himself staggered over the precipice at the foot of which he
had found his death. Master Shallow as chief of the sitting justices (what
we should call Chairman of Sessions) was tried by the Eoyal Commission,
and found guilty of murder for putting a man to death by a process long
since declared illegal by royal edict. Master Shallow was himself sentenced
to suffer the extreme penalty of the law, but King Edward happening to be
in one of his periodical money diihculties. the sentence was commuted to a
heavy fine — which, to the honour of magisterial loyalty and good-fellowship,
be it stated, the Gloucestershire justices nobly subscribed to meet. Master
Shallow retained his judicial appointment, with a caution to abstain from the
trial of criminals by exploded Saxon ordeals for the future, which he care-
fully observed. Nevertheless he earned lasting renown in the county, as
the man who at the imminent risk of his own life had stood up for the
maintenance of a great national institution. The Shallows, on the establish-
ment of coat armour by Edward the Third, assumed in honour of this event
the device of a man pendant on an oak branch, salient, in a field of green,
proper. But some misconception arising in the public mind as to this being
meant to represent an episode in the personal history of one of the family,
the design was abandoned, and the traditional " dozen white luces," (the origin
of which is enveloped in mystei'y,) by which the house is still identified at the
Heralds' College, adopted in its place. It may not be irrelevant to state that
the two over-ofl5cious cowboys were speedily selected, on the press-warrant
of Master Shallow, to supply a deficiency in King Edward's army — and
perished nobly, fighting their country's battles, in one of that monarch's
numerous expeditions against tlie disaffected Scots.

THE SHALLOWS, PAST AND PRESENT. 131

The Shallows continued to merit renown by their resistance on all possible
occasions to anything like innovation in the administration of justice. Our
own Robert Shallow, at an advanced period of life, was only induced by
serious remonstrances from King Henry the Fifth (for whom he was wont to
express the strongest regard, having been very intimate with his grandfather)
to desist from the ancient practice of trying aged women for the crime of
witchcraft by launching them in deep water upon sieves, — when, if they went
to the bottom and proved their earthly nature by remaining there for five
or ten minutes, they were pronounced innocent and permitted to come to the
surface and return to their homes at their earliest convenience : on the
other hand, if they did not immediately sink, they were considered to be in
league with the powers of darkness and taken out to be burnt. Throughout
subsequent reigns the Shallows were remarkable for their indefatigable
enforcement of the Game Laws, and of the measures enacted for the punish-
ment of "masterless men," that is, of persons wandering in search of employ-
ment— an offence which even in the present day is treated by their descendants
with greater rigour than any other.

Representatives of the house of Shallow — with the name variously
modified — abound in our own time. They are to a man somehow connected
with the amateur administration of justice. They are to be found in the
country digging up obsolete enactments for the committal to imprisonment
and hard labour of agricultural journeymen who may be disposed to treat
themselves to a day's holiday. They are the terror of itinerant showmen,
unemployed mechanics and poachers, by whom they are hated. On the other
hand they have the enthusiastic support of the genuine criminal population,
to whose professional exertions they are by no means obstructive. They
are learned in the rights of rabbits — and know a greater variety of legal
torture for avenging the unlicensed death of one of that favoured species
than a French cook could invent receipts for disguising its carcase. You will
find them trying strange experiments with pet convicts in model prisons, and
actively tin-owing impediments in the way of government inquiries into the
conduct of brutal governors of those institutions — too often the hot plough-
shares and ordeals by touch of modern criminal jurisprudence. Little
o])portunities of serving a friend like this are of course due to the country
Shallows as an offset to their gratuitous services. As one of the earliest
of the family counsellors has expressed it, " Heaven save but a knave should
have some countenance at his friend's request ; an honest man, Sir, is able
to speak for himself, when a knave cannot." Their Avorships are further
privileged to carry out this principle by limiting, within their jurisdiction,
the knavery of keeping open houses for the sale of injurious tipples at

132 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

exorbitant prices, to such knaves, only, as they may consider " entitled to
some countenance at their friends' request." In London — where some of
the fraternity are permitted to exercise their functions within certain limits
— their most conspicuous public achievements are an annual out-door mas-
querade of obsolete meaning, strongly reminding us of their ancestor Robert's
appearance as " Sir Dagonet in Arthur's Show " — and certain frantic but
hitherto unsuccessful attempts to put down pitch-and-toss, polkas, and
suicide — practices which still continue prevalent in the British metropolis.

Of the personal character of Master Robert Shallow, the worthy repre-
sentative of this race and order in Sir John Falstaff's time, some glimpse
has possibly been obtained from an early chapter of this work. Sir John at
the advanced period of life to which I have now brought him, remembered
the justice "at Clement's Inn, like a man made after supper of a cheese
paring ; when he was naked he was, for all the world, like a forked radish,
with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife : he was so forlorn "
(I am quoting Sir John's own words) " that his dimensions to any thick sight
were invisible ; he was the very genius of famine ; he came ever in the
rearward of the fashion, and sung those tunes to the over-scutched huswives
that he had heard the carmen whistle, and sware they were his fancies
or his good-nights. And now is this Vice's dagger become a squire ; and
talks as familiarly of John of Gaunt as if he had been sworn brother to
him ; and I'll be sworn he never saw him but once in the Tilt-yard ; and
then he burst his head for crowding amongst the marshal's men. I saw it,
and told John of Gaunt he beat his own name ; for you might have
trussed him and all his apparel into an eel skin ; the case of a treble haut-
boy was a mansion for him, a court, and now he hath land and beeves ! "

Considering that, when Sir John Falstaff made these reflections upon the past
and present of Master Robert Shallow, nearly fifty years had elapsed since the
events alluded to, it will be admitted that our knight's recollection of the
passage in the Tilt-yard (with which my readers are familiar) and the substance
of the witticism it evoked from him at the time, prove his memory to have
been at least unimpaired. It is strange that Sir John should marvel at
Master Shallow's possession of land and beeves. It will be found through
all ages that the Shallows have had an eye to the main-chance, which it is
very rax-ely indeed you find a fool neglecting. A mole may have very small
eyes, but he is not quite blind. He is dazzled by pure daylight, it is true,
and may never see a flower. But he is an excellent judge of dirt, which is
to him the great necessary of life, and he will never lose sight of the import-
ance of keeping a sufficient heap of it about him.

UALT AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 133

VISIT TO JUSTICE SHALLOw's.

My supposition that Sir John FalstafF was indebted for his knowledge of
Mr. Shallow's existence, whereabouts, and prosperous condition, to some such
accidental renewal of his acquaintance with Mr, Doit, of Staffordshire, as I
have imagined, is strengthened in probability by the certainty that our
knight really did meet with the latter-named gentleman, and at Coventry,
within a few days anterior to the date which my historical calculations have
decided me in assigning to the battle of Gualtree Forest. This is proved by a
letter from Mr. Doit, discovered among the Falstaff papers on the knight's
decease, apparently one of a numerous series, in which the writer somewhat
sharply requests payment of a certain " obligacion " which he has held for
some time in acknowledgment of monies advanced by him to Sir John on
the occasion of their happy " reknitting of their old fellowship " at Coventry,
" which honour," Master Doit sarcastically observes, " albeit of great price, is
one I had not been so prodigal as to purchase with fore-knowledge that it
would cost me the sum it is like to," to wit, fifteen pounds eight shillings, the
amount of the said " obligacion," Avhich is mentioned as bearing the date of
the 7th of June, 1410.

Be the origin of the event as it may, Sir John's visit to the domain of
Justice Shallow is matter of public history. The Falstaff troops marched
from Coventry to Stratford-on-Avon, between which town and Evesham the
justiciary seat of the Shallows was situate, — and there halted.

It may be thought that an event so suggestive as a visit from Sir John Fal-
staff to Stratford-on-Avon — the future birthplace of his greatest historian, but
for whose genius it is possible that the name and achievements of our knight
would have lapsed into an oblivion from which not even these affectionate
pages (which, of course, would have been written under any circumstances)
could have rescued them — might be made the text for much instructive and
entertaining reflection. But cul bono ? It is to be hoped that the character
and objects of this work are now sufficiently understood to acquit the writer
of any suspicion of a tendency to digress from the iron road of facts into the
flowery groves of fanciful speculation. The fact, that Sir John Falstaff passed
through Stratford-on-Avon, more than a hundred years before the birth of
William Shakspeare, can scarcely have had any influence upon the dramatist's
after labours in connection with the wari'ior's history. It is true, that Sir

134 LIFE OF PALSTAFF.

John Falstaff was in the habit of leaving his mark wherever he went ; and
in any town where he may have sojourned, if only for the space of a day or
two, there would be no likelihood of his being speedily forgotten. But a
century is a long time. And I am disposed to think that any interest or
value attached to such Inn Memoriams of Sir John's progress through
Stratford as that city might be expected to possess at the date of his
departure, would cease with the announcement of the knight's death without
heirs or estate. On the whole, I have decided to dismiss the question and
resume my narrative.

It was no part of our hero's plan to take Mr. Shallow by surprise. His
designs upon that rural potentate were not of a nature to be carried by a coup
de main. He prepared for his appearance in Gloucestershire by sending on
an avant courier, with the following dispatch.*

^^ Unto the right loorshipful my good friend Master Hohcrt Shallow he this

delivered in haste.

" Right trusty and well-beloved Master Shallow, I commend me to you by our ancient
friendship ; and please you to wetc that being armed with the King's press for the raising
of soldiei's in the counties, I shall require at your hands the pick of half-a-dozen good and
sufficient men. Thus much for business. Being sore pressed for time, and our General, the
Prince of Lancaster, crying out for me, I would Mn depute the choosing of the men to one
of my lieutenants or ancients, — had it not reached me that the justice with whom I have
to deal is no other than mine old friend Master Shallow. Knowing this, I cannot but play
traitor to my duty and forfeit a day of the King's service, to ride over in my own person,
that I may once more say I have taken Master Shallow by the hand.

"I pray you detain me not, and betray me not — that I give up to friendship that time
which is the King's. But I have no fear, as we have stood by each other ere now. Disturb
not your household to make us welcome, as v/e may not unsaddle, and I bring none with me
but a simple following befitting my rank as the King's poor officer. The main force of my
army I leave here, in camp, hard by Stratford, and I must back iu haste lest the knaves run
riot, and embroil me with the townsfolk.

" Pick me good men, I pray, for the rebels wax insolent. Have them of the better class of

* The preservation of this important document is probably due to the hereditary vanity of
the race of Shallows — who from the time of John of Gaunt down to the last presentation of
the Freedom of the City of London to a foreign prince, — have never been known to lose an
opportunity of claiming acquaintance with persons of rank and celebrity. The letter was
preserved for many years in the family. The original Gloucestershire branch becoming
extinct, it passed into the hands of some collateral descendants (through the Slenders and
Aguechecks, both nearly allied by blood and marriage to the Shallows), domiciled in the
vicinity of Chepstow, in whose possession it remained perdu until the early part of the present
century, when the head of the family having providentially taken to drinking, and his
goods being sold by auction, the treasure was discovered by his county noigliltour, Mr.
Roderick Bolton, F. S. A., and by him purchased for incorporation with tiie Strongate Col-
lection.

EXCITEMENT OF MASTER SHALLOW. 135

yeomen if it may be — men whose lives are worth fighting for the care of. Your starveling
hinds and villains are rank naught for march or battle-field,

"Written at Stratford-on-the-Avon, the 8th day of June, in the year of Grace 1410.

"John Falstaff (Knight)."*

The receipt of this letter threw Master Shallow into an ecstasy of excite-
ment.

Here was the renowned courtier, Sir John Falstaff, the " friend of the mad
prince and Poins," the conqueror of Shrewsbury, the great wit, traveller, and
leader of the fashion, writing to him, plain Robert Shallow, Esquire, in terms
of familiarity, and promising a speedy visit. There was only one drawback to
the justice's delight. There was no time to make adequate preparations for
so important an event, or to ensure such an attendance of influential neigh-
bours as Master Shallow would have wished to overwhelm with the sight
of his distinguished guest. The worthy justice would have liked triumphal
arches, rustic festivities, and bands of music. He would have gladly kept open
house to all the gentry of the county for the occasion. Not that he was in
the least degree a liberal man, or that he cared two pins for Sir John Fal-
staff personally. He was rather niggardly than otherwise ; and fifty inter-
vening years had not one whit blunted his recollection of one or two sound
drubbings and many slights and sarcasms inflicted on him in youth by our
knight. But, to compare lesser things with gi'eat, it is not to be supposed that
noblemen and gentlemen who impoverish their exchequers and turn their

* The biographer — or, as he perhaps ought to be styled in connection with this depart-
ment of his labours, the editor, is again called on to defend the course he has adopted with
reference to such ancient manuscripts as he has found necessary to transfer to his pages.
Objections have been made — which the periodical form of publication adopted in this work
affords an opportunity of meeting — to the plan of modernising the orthography, and in some
cases the phraseology, of these compositions, whereby it is asserted their interest is materially
weakened. There can be no defence so adequate to the emergency as the plea of an illus-
trious example. Sir John Fenn, the learned and ingenious editor of the Paston letters,
vindicates a similar line of conduct with regard to his treatment of that inestimable collection,
in the following language ; —

" Tlie thouglit of transcribing (or rather translating) each letter according to the rules of
modern orthography and punctuation arose from a hint which the editor received from an
antiquary, respectable for his knowledge and publications ; whose opinion was, that many
would be induced to read these letters for the sake of the various matters they contain,
for their style, and for their curiosity, M'ho not having paid attention to ancient modes of
writing and abbreviations, would be deterred from attempting such a task by their uncouth
appearance in their original garb."

The present editor has not, like Sir John Fenn, enjoyed the advantage of a special hint from
any antiquary, " respectable for his knowledge and publications " or otherwise. But he trusts
that the learned baronet's own valuable precedent will be sufficient excuse for his conduct
under similar circumstances. If not, he can only say that if the letters relating to the history
of Sir John Falstaff, quoted in the course of this biography, had not appeared in their
present form, it would have been a matter of downright impossibility for the British public to have
read them at all.

136 LIFE OF PALSTAFF.

country seats topsy-turvy for the reception of royal and princely visitors, on
their triumphal progresses through a land, arc actuated by a mere spirit
of loyalty. A year's rent-roll of the Carabas estates is not consumed in de-
corating the state chamber that His gracious Majesty or Her Serene Highness
may enjoy a comfortable night's rest ; but that the satin hangings, the golden
cornices, the encrusted bed-posts and the jewelled coal-scuttles, may be enu-
merated in the fashionable journals, and engraved in the Illustrated News ;
and remain in their integrity, to prove, to the envy of contemporaries and the
admiration of posterity, that king or prince once honoured Carabas Castle
by going to bed in it. The great Baron Reginald de Boeuf does not marshal
his eight hundred retainers in new scarlet surcoats with enormous badges
displaying the ancestral device of the calf's head richly embroidered in gold
on the left arm, merely that King Richard Cceur de Lion (who happens
to be passing Torquilstone Castle on his way to York to negotiate a national
loan with the great commercial house of Isaacs Brothers) shall be flattered
by a delicate attention from a faithful subject. This consideration may
have entered into the baron's calculations ; his lordship having
daughters growing up whom he would like to place in posts of distinction
about the person of Queen Berengaria, and a son in the church who
can hardly aspire to a mitred abbacy without his majesty's countenance.
But the real and paramount motive is that Cedric the wealthy thane
of Rotherwood, the haughty Templar Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert, (that
conceited eastern traveller who is stopping at the Castle, and turns up his nose
at all its primitive arrangements), Sir Philip de Malvoisin, the very reverend
Prior Aymer, and indeed all the baron's acquaintances and neighbours, down
to the very woodland ragamuffins of Barnsdale and Sherwood, shall be
impressed with the fact that the Torquilstone estates can muster an array of
eight hundred men, and aiford to clothe them in new scarlet and gold lace. If
a man were to propose to present me with a piece of plate in consideration of
my distinguished services to literature, I should accept the plate of course, and
immediately turn it to some useful purpose. But my gratitude, — which I would
be careful to express in the most glowing terms at my command, — would never
blind me to the fact that my friend had been actuated less by a sense of my
great merits as poet, historian and moral philosopher, than by a wish to see
his name at the head of a subscription list, and to take the chair at a public
dinner, ostensibly in my honour. Much as I hate digression, I will illustrate
my meaning by a personal anecdote. I once found myself — Heaven knows
how I got there ! — in a little out-of-the-way Flemish village, which had
been thrown into a state of commotion by the prospective opening of a
partially completed line of railway, the first train of which was expected

EPISODE OP CONTINENTAL TRAVEL. 137

to stop at a little toy station in the vicinity. A peer of the realm, one of
the directors of the company, and representative of a noble line of great
antiquity, dating, in fact, from the very foundation of the Belgian monarchy,
had signified his intention of assisting at the inaugural ceremony. The
inhabitants of Tiddliwinckx resolved to greet him with an appropriate ad-
dress. This was prepared by the Vicaire (with the kind permission of the
Cure, who was himself, nevertheless, opposed to railways in the abstract as
somewhat smacking of Protestantism), and carefully studied for delivery by
the Bourgmestre. The station was tastefully decorated with flags, and the
inhabitants mustered in large numbers in the stifFest of dark blue blouses and
the snowiest of caps. The thrilling moment approached. The Bourgmestre
paper in hand, was all trepidation, where indeed he was not trousers and shirt
collar. The train signal was awaited with breathless anxiety. It Avas
not given. A quarter of an hour — a second — another elapsed, and no train
made its appearance. At length a pedestrian messenger arrived at an
easy pace up the line, with the unwelcome tidings that an accident
to the rails, some six miles distant, had brought the engine to a stand-
still, and the distinguished visitors had been compelled to retrace their way to
Brussels, The Bourgmestre and his colleagues were in despair. The suspen-
sion of railway traffic was a matter of utter indifference to them : but
they had missed the pleasure of talking to a count, and an eloquent address
had been composed, and the difficulties of its orthography mastered, for
nothing. The friends of the heartbroken Bourgmestre attempted to lead him
away from the scene of his disappointment. But he refused to be moved or
comforted. He had come there to read the address, and read it to somebody
he would. I think rather than have gone home without delivering it he would
have read it to the gend'arme on duty, or to the one Flemish railway porter
who did not understand a word of the French language, in which the oration
was supposed to be written. In a fortunate moment his eye fell upon me. A
ray of hope illumined the previously sad bourgmestral countenance. After a
brief conference with his colleagues, he approached me politely and inquired
if " Monsieur was connected with the Railway Interest ? " I replied that I
had not that advantage. He expressed his regret that I should have been im-
plicated in the common disappointment, and suggested, as some compensation,
that I would perhaps like to hear the address which it had been his intention
to deliver, had not unforeseen circumstances prevented. I declared that
nothing would give me greater pleasure. The address was accordingly read
to me. I replied in a neat speech, setting forth the advantages of railway
communication, and the high position which, through its means, the en-
lightened community of Tiddliwinckx was destined to occupy in the civilised

p

138 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Avorld ; concluding by a compliment to the magistrate on his eloquence,
aud expressing my high sense of the honour he had done me in selecting me
for its recipient. The Bourgmestre was perfectly satisfied, and invited me
to dinner.

To return to Master Shallow. Immediately on the receipt of Sir John
FalstafF's letter, he sent messengers to his most influential neighbours,
praying them on various pretexts to visit him in the morning. But he
was singularly unfortunate. Justice Aguecheek (related to the Shallows
through the Slender family) was gone to London on law business. Jus-
tice Greedye was invited to a great dinner on the following day, and was
preparing for the event in the hands of his apothecary. Justice TruUiber
was gone to attend the hog market at Taunton, and would be three days
absent. Masters Woodcock and Westerne were on ill terms with each other,
and with Master Shallow, on some business of litigation. It would be useless
to invite either, especially the latter, who would be certain to receive any
civil message with foul language and possible ill treatment of the bearer.
It seemed likely that Sir John FalstaflT's visit would be wasted, like a rare
dish prepared for an honoured guest who does not arrive, and which the
family are fain to consume in dudgeon. Utter disappointment was prevented
by the arrival of one Justice Silence — Master Shallow's own cousin by
marriage, who made his appearance punctually, at the hour appointed on the
eventful morning. Master »Silence was a dull man, and not given to converse or
tale-bearing. But he would serve as a witness to his kinsman's familiarity with
the coming man. And while he would be able to confirm the heads of any
narrative Master Shallow might choose to frame on the subject, his natural
taciturnity would prevent him from contradicting any superadded details
which his imaginative relation might choose to furnish for its embellishment.

Sir John Falstafi" arrived attended by that " simple following " he had
spoken of ; which, it is needless to say, consisted of his entire army — pro-
perly bribed and instructed to declare that they were backed by countless
legions in camp at Stratford. Master Shallow received our knight with
the joy with which an ambitious spider of small dimensions may be supposed
to regard the approach to his web of a gigantic blue-bottle. Master Shallow
— simple man — imagined that he was going to turn Sir John Falstaif
to his advantage. " Friend at court " was the justice's maxim, " is better
than penny in purse." Sir John's own feelings, on entering the cosy, well-
stocked domain of the ancient race of Shallow, may be compared to those of
a majestic fox entering an unprotected poultry yard.

As I have stated that this preliminary visit of the Falstatf forces to the
stronghold of Shallow was only one of reconnoitre, to enable the general to

A WAY THEY HAD IN THE AE3IY. 139

plan his great assault for a future occasion, and as circumstances rendered
it necessarily of short duration, I will pass over it briefly. Sir John's treat-
ment of his host was affable, but dignified. He suffered Master Shallow to
refer to their past intimacy, and lie to his heart's content on the score of
his youthful achievements. Sir John selected such men as he considered
desirable for the King's service from the levies provided for him ; accepted
a brief repast, and departed, having promised Master Shallow to renew
their acquaintance on the termination of the wars, in a second visit to that
gentleman's hospitable mansion, extracting in return a half-promise from
its owner to accompany him to court. It is strange that Justice Shallow,
gifted, as we have seen him, with a remarkably retentive memory, should
have forgotten how costly a luxury he had found the honour of Sir John
Falstaff's patronage in early youth. But it is the constant failing of very
foolish old gentlemen to imagine they have grown wiser with age.

In the present day, when so much of the public attention is directed to the
question of raising recruits for the British army, a glance at the way in
which such matters were regulated in the fifteenth century may not prove
uninstructive. It will be seen that the modes of actual levying differed mate-
rially from those at present in vogue. But it may silence cavillers to learn
that our ancestors — whose wisdom may not be disputed — were fully in accord
with the opinion of modern rulers as to the class of men to whom the fighting
of their country's battles might be with the greatest propriety entrusted.

I will show you how Sir John Falstaff, with the assistance of Justice
Shallow, recruited the diminished armies of King Henry the Fourth.

Sir John on his arrival at the justice's mansion, having exchanged a
few hasty civilities and remarks on the weather with his host and the
scarcely audible, visible, or tangible Master Silence, proceeded to business.

" Gentlemen," he inquired, " have you provided me here half a dozen of
sufficient men ? "

Master Shallow replied in the affirmative and requested his guest to be
seated.

Sir John took a chair, and begged that the recruits might be brought before
him.

Five miserable-looking individuals Avere mai'shalled into the courtyard,
officered by the valiant Bardolph. Whether Master Shallow's arithmetic had
been at fault, and he had calculated erroneously as to the addition of two and
three ; whether there was a scarcity of men in the neighbourhood ; or whether
one of the original number had deserted, is doubtful. However, it is certain
that of the half-dozen recruits asserted to be in readiness only five made
their appearance.

140 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Master Shallow proceeded to call over the muster roll — not appearing to
notice the deficiency.

" Ralph Mouldy — let me see. Where is Ralph Mouldy ? "

" Here, if it please you."

Mr. Mouldy's voice and expression of countenance declared plainly that it
didn't please him.

Mouldy was in all probability a dangerous poacher, so anxious was the
worthy magistrate to recommend him for military service.

" What think you, Sir John ? A good limbed fellow ; young, strong, and
of good friends ."

The last recommendation decided Sir John at once. Mouldy would do.

"Is thy name Mouldy ?"

" Yea, if it please you."

" 'Tis the more time thou wert used."

Master Shallow was in ecstacies. The practical joke of sending a man to
the wars against his will had already tickled the excellent justice's sense of
humour. But to make a verbal jest on his calamity to his very face, and on
his own name, was irresistible.

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! most excellent i' faith ! Things that are mouldy lack use.
Very singular, good. Well said, Sir John. Very well said."

" Prick him," said Sir John.

And down went a mark against Mouldy's name, making him as much the
King's property as though he had been honestly bought by a sergeant's shilling.

Mouldy grumbled like a malcontent as he was. He thought that he might
have been let alone.

" My old dame will be undone now for one to do her husbandry and
her drudgery. You need not to have pricked me : there are other men fitter
to go than I."

As if that were a reason for your not going ! For shame, Mouldy !

Simon Shadow was the next called.

" Aye, mai-ry, let me have him to sit under," said Sir John, " he's like to
be a cold soldier."

Shadow was approved and pricked.

" Thomas Wart ! "

" Where's he ? "

" Here, sir ! "

" Is thy name Wart." (Sir John Falstafi" was the questioner.)

" Yes, Sir ? "

" Thou art a very ragged Wart."

" Shall I prick him down. Sir John ? "

A WAY TUEY HAD IN THE ARMY. 141

" It were superfluous ; for his apparel is built upon his back, and the Avhole
frame stands upon pins. Prick him no more."

Renewed ecstacies of Mr. Justice Shallow. His worship had always con-
sidered a ragged man a most laughable object. But the matter had never been
represented to him in such a truly ridiculous light as by his facetious guest.

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! You can do it, Sir, you can do it. I commend jou well.
Francis Feeble."

"Here, Sir."

*' What trade art thou, Feeble ? " Sir John asked.

" A woman's tailor, Sir."

" Shall I prick him, Sir ? "

" You may ; but if he had been a man's tailor, he would have pricked
you."

Feeble was approved and pricked. He was the only one who appeared to
submit to the operation without wincing. Feeble proved the most valiant
ninth part of a recruit on record. He appeared delighted with his prospects.
The only drawback to his military ardour and satisfaction was a regret that
Wart could not be permitted to accompany him. This makes it difficult to
decide whether Wart was his bosom friend or his mortal enemy.

" I would Wart might have gone. Sir," quoth Feeble.

*' I would thou wert a man's tailor," replied the Captain, " that thou
might'st mend him and make him fit to go. I cannot put him to a private
soldier that is the leader of so many thousands. Let that suffice, most forcible
Feeble."

Feeble was satisfied. So, no doubt, was Wart.

" Peter Bullcalf of the Green," was the next called.

" Trust me, a likely fellow," said the Knight : " prick me Bullcalf till he
roar again."

" Oh good my lord Captain " Bullcalf roared without waiting for

the operation.

" What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked ? "

"Oh! Sir, I am a diseased man." Bullcalf bellowed, proving that his
lungs were at all events not yet affected.

" What disease hast thou ? "

" A villainous cold, Sir — a cough. Sir — which I caught with ringing in
the King's afiairs on his coronation day. Sir."

" Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown ; we will have away thy cold ;
and I will take such order that thy friends shall ring for thee."

It was fortunate that with this sally Sir John Falstaff desisted for tlie
present, or he would in all probability have been the death of Master

Q

142 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Robert Shallow. That gentleman repeated the words, " And I will take such
order that thy friends shall ring for thee," to himself, many times over, that
he might be able to retail the jest to his admiring friends. He circulated it
at first as one of the many brilliant things Sir John Falstaff had said on the
occasion of his first visit to Shallow Hall. But in the course of time the
worthy magistrate appropriated it to his own service, and never missed an
opportunity of bringing it forward (with the point carefully omitted) as an
original witticism from the inexhaustible repertoire of himself, Master Robert
Shallow.

Bullcalf was pricked. The justices and their military friend withdi'ew to
luncheon.

" Good Master Corporate Bardolph," said Bullcalf when the troops were
left alone with that warlike personage, " stand my friend, and here is four
Harry ten shillings in French crowns for you."

Bullcalf urged his plea by further arguments. They were unnecessary.
The first was moi'e than sufficient.

" Go to : stand aside," said Bardolph, pocketing the money.

Mouldy quitted the ranks and motioned his superior to grant him also a
private conference.

" And good Master Corporal Captain, for my old dame's sake, stand my
friend : she has nobody to do anything about her, when I am gone : and she
is old and cannot help herself. You shall have forty, Sir."

Chink ! Chink !

" Go to : stand aside."

" Sir, a word with you," said Bardolph when his Captain reappeared with
the two justices. " I have three pound to free Mouldy and Bullcalf."

It should be observed that four ten shilling pieces added to forty shillings
at that period, as now, made a total oifour pounds sterling. Bardolph's edu-
cation had been neglected — and let us hope that his misciilculation was
merely the result of a total ignorance of the rules of compound addition.

A word to the wise is sufficient for them. Sir John Falstaff" at once
decided that Mouldy should stay at home until past service, and Bullcalf be
left to grow till he should be fit for it. Sir John would have none of tliem.

" Sir John, Sir John," urged Master Shallow. " Do not yourself wrong :
they are your likeliest men, and I would have you served with the best."

It is not improbable that Bullcalf was a poacher too.

Sir John Falstaif was indignant.

-' Will you tell me. Master Shallow, how to choose a man ? Care I for the
limb, the thewes, the stature, bulk and big assemblance of a man ? Give me
the spirit, Master Shallow. Here's Wart, You see what a ragged appear-

PHILOSOrniCAL REFLECTIONS ON RECRUITING. 143

ancc it is. lie shall charge jou and discharge you with the motion of a
pewterer's hammer : come off and on swifter than he that gibbets on the
brewer's bucket. And this same half-faced fellow Shadow, give me this man
— ^he presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman may with as great aim level
at the edge of a penknife. And for a retreat — how swiftly wiU this Feeble,
the woman's tailor, run off ? "

Briefly, Feeble, Wart, and Shadow were enrolled among the king's soldiers
serving under Sir John Falstaff. Bullcalf and Mouldy were allowed to go
about their business.

It will be seen from the above that the ancient manner of choosing soldiers
differed not materially from the modern one. The better class of men were
I'cy'ected, and the ranks supplied from the dregs of the population. Any
charge of venality against Sir John Falstaff and his lieutenant for suffering
Mouldy and Bullcalf to buy off their services, I hope I can meet, by calling
attention to the fact that there are even now certain favoured persons —
whole regiments in fact — ostensibly in her Majesty's service, who are inva-
riably privileged to stop at home in times of danger. Or I can dispose of
the matter more simply by stating that Sir John Falstaff merely gave per-
mission to the two warriors elect, Mouldy and Bullcalf — to return to their
homes on urgent private affairs.

It may be objected that Sir John Falstaff observed an unjustifiable tone of
levity in transacting a business of such gravity as the forcible abduction of
poor men from their homes — to risk their lives in a quarrel, the issue of
which could not personally interest them. But Sir John's jests on the
names, wardrobes, and personal appearance of his recruits, were at all events
harmless. I have heard of much more practical jokes being passed on the
British soldier by the authorities engaging him in my time ; such as promis-
ing him certain sums of money for his services, and deducting nearly the
whole amount for the expenses of his outfit ; sending him to fight under a
broiling sun, weighted with half a horse load of useless accoutrements ;
supplying him with firelocks that burst in his hands ; shipping him on board
crazy old vessels that go to pieces in still water ; and a thousand others.

qS

144 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

VI.

ON THE MAGNANimTY OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF IN ABSTAINING FROM PARTI-
CIPATION IN A DISGRACEFUL ACTION. — EPISODE OF COLEVILE OP THE
GRANGE.

In estimating the characters of great men, it is recognised as a principle that
we should give them almost the same credit for the mischief they abstain from
doing as for the positive good they effect. Abstention from evil, under
circumstances of great temptation to its performance, is unquestionably a
virtue of the highest order. In proof of the high esteem habitually awarded
by mankind to this rare although negative excellence, I will refer merely to
the celebrated letting-alone case of the Roman Scipio, and the well-known
parallel to it afforded by the conduct of Sir John Falstaff himself, who (at
a later period of his career than the one at present under notice), having
occasion, for professional reasons, to break open a gentleman's lodge, kill the
gentleman's deer, and maltreat the gentleman's servants, was yet, in the very
height and impetuosity of action, enabled to put a sufficient curb on his
impulses to resist the temptation of kissing a keeper's daughter !

The little incident of self-denial just alluded to, though in every way deserv-
ing of the highest eulogy, has, as it seems to me, been dwelt on by the commen-
tators with undue stress, rather implying a suspicion that it might have been an
exceptional case in the character and conduct of our knight, and remarkable
only on that account. So far from this being the truth, I could establish prece-
dents for the occurrence by a thousand proofs of glaring offences which Sir John
Falstaff did not commit, while otherwise occupied in the way of his business.
I will content myself, however, with a single example, couched in an incident,
which here falls naturally into its place, by which it will be seen that the
hero of these pages could, on occasion, abstain from taking part in even the
greatest acts of rascality of his time ; moreover, when the greatest facilities,
and even inducements, existed for his participating in such means of glory.

The following passage from Hollinshed will facilitate comprehension of
the incident.

" Raufe Nevill, Earl of Westmoreland, that was not far off, together with
" the Lord John of Lancaster, the King's son, being informed of this
" rebellious attempt*, assembled together such powers as they might make,

* i.e. That of NortlmtnbcrlaiKl, Hastings, Mowbray and Archbishop Scroop — with a view
to the suppression of which Falstaff and others were now marching into Yorkshire.

EXCELLENT KEMARKS OF HOLLINSHED. 145

" and coming into a plain within the forest of Galtree, caused their standards
" to be pight down in the like sort as the Archbishop had pight his, over
" against them, being far stronger of people than the other ; for (as some
" write) there were of the rebels, at the least, eleven thousand men. When the
" Earl of Westmoreland perceived the force of adversaries, and that they lay
" still and attempted not to come forward upon him, he subtilely devised how
" to quail their purpose, and forthwith despatched messengers unto the Arcli-
" bishop to undei'stand the cause, as it were, of that great assemble, and for what
" cause, contrary to the King's peace, they came so in armour. The Archbishop
" answered that he took nothing in hand against the King's peace ; but that
" whatever he did, tended rather to advance the peace and quiet of the Com-
" monwealth than otherwise ; and when he and his company were in arms, it
" was for fear of the King, to whom he could have no free access by reason
" of such a multitude of flatterers as were about him ; and therefore he main-
" tained that his purpose was good and profitable, as well for the King himself
" as for the realm, if men were willing to understand a truth; and herewith
" he showed forth a scroll, in which the articles were written whereof before
" ye have heard. The Messengers returning unto the Earl of Westmoreland,
" showed him what they had heard and brought from the Archbishop. When
" he had read the articles, he showed in word and countenance, outwardly, that
" he liked of the Archbishop's holy and virtuous intent and purpose ; that he
" and his would prosecute the same in assisting the Archbishop, who,
" rejoicing at that, gave credit to the Earl, and persuaded the Earl Marshall
" against his will, as it were, to go with him to a place appointed for them
" to commune together. Then, when they were met with like number on either
" part, the articles were read over ; and, without any more ado, the Earl of
" Westmoreland and those that were with him agreed to do their best to see
" that a reformation might be had according to the same. The Earl of West-
" moruland using more policy than the rest: 'Well (said he), then our travail is
" come to the wished end ; and whereas our people have been long in armour,
" let them depart home to their wonted trades and occupations : in the mean
" time let us drink together in sign of agreement, that the people on both
" sides may see it, and know that it is true that we be light at a point.
" They had no sooner shaked hands together, but a knight was sent straight-
" ways from the Archbishop to bring word to the people that there was a
" Peace concluded, commanding each man to lay aside arms, and resort home
" to their homes. The people beholding such tokens of peace as shaking of
" hands, and drinking together of the Lords in loving manner, brake up their
" field and returned homewards : but in the mean time, while the people of
" the Archbishop's side drew away, the number of the contrary part increased,

Q 3

146 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

" according to order given by the Earl of Westmoreland. And yet the
" Ai-chbishop perceived not he was deceived till the Earl of Westmoreland
" arrested him and the Earl Marshall, with divers other. Their troops being
" pursued, many were taken, many slain, and many spoiled of that they had
" about them, and so permitted to go their ways."

Now, I am happy to say, that with all his faults, Sir John Falstaff was
guiltless of participation in this infamous transaction. From the Shak-
spearian account of the occurrence (which does not materially differ from that
of the elder and more prosaic chronicles), it is clear that Falstaif and his troops
were not among those who treacherously " increased," according to orders
from the Earl of Westmoreland, while the people of the Archbishop's side
" drew away." Sir John did not make his appearance on the shameful field
till the heat of action was past and the disgraceful pursuit abandoned.

It is true that the fact is on record, that on our hero's reaching the
skirts of Gaultree Forest, he met with a runaway rebel, by name Colevile
of the Dale, whom he immediately challenged, and who, as quickly sur-
rendered himself prisoner, on the mere suspicion that his challenger was
no other than the redoubted Sir John Falstaff. This circumstance, whilst
adding another to the thousand existing proofs that our knight was a man of
acknowledged braveiy and martial renown — at the same time, seems a little
to weaken my theory, that Sir John is entitled to credit for having withheld
his countenance and assistance from the treacherous " subtiltie " of Westmore-
land and Lancaster. It looks rather as though he had come a little late for
the scramble, and was anxious to make up for lost time in the pursuit and
plunder of stragglers. Colevile, however, seems to have fallen in his way
most temptingly, and from the alacrity with which he gave himself into cus-
tody, he would seem to have been an individual ambitious for the distinction
of being led captive at the wheels of Sir John FalstafF's car of triumph.

The following conversation explains the circumstances of the capture* : —

Sir John Falstaff. What is your name, sir ? Of what condition are you ; ami of
what place, I pray ?

Colevile. I am a knight, sir, and my name is, Colevile of the Dale.

Falstaff. Well then. Colevile, is your name ; a knight, is your degree ; and your plaee,
the dale. Colevile, shall still be your name ; a traitor, your degree ; and the dungeon, your
j)lace — a place deep enough. So shall you be still Colevile of the Dale.

Colevile. Are you not Sir John Falstaff ?

FALSTiU;'F. As good a man as he, sir, whoe'er I am.

Colevile. I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and I yield mc.

* lieury IV. Part 11., act iv. scene 2.

CUARACTEU OF BOLINGBEOKE. 147

This capture of Colcvilc (wliich, considering Colevile's alacrity to be
caught, I don't well see how Sir John could have avoided), is, I am happy
to say, the only evidence on record, of our knight's having been in the
slightest degree mixed up with this most rascally transaction in the most
rascally age of English history : perpetrated in the name, and by the son and
officers, of a distinguished rascal, who, by his own vast demerits, had raised
himself to the exalted position of the King of all the Rascals in England. Sir
John's remarkable abnegation of self in this affiiir, almost induces me to recon-
sider my by no means hastily formed estimate of his entire character. I begin
to doubt seriously that Sir John FalstafF was one bit of a courtier after all.
Had he been a person of that description, he would certainly have toadied
King Henry the Fourth much better than he did, by aping (as is the fashion
with people of a courtly turn) the most salient points of that lugubrious, and
especially infamous, monarch's character and conduct. This is a new light
on the mystery of our knight's repeated failures in the attempt to rise in
court favour. He was not half a rogue — that is the long and short of the
matter. And King Henry the Fourth, of unblessed memory, who had mur-
dered his first cousin, who had stolen his first cousin's wife's jewels and em-
broidered petticoats, — who was capable of every crime, from pitch and toss
with loaded farthings to manslaughter with arsenicated preparations, — felt
for him much of that contempt which a six-bottle squire of the old school
cannot bnt feel for a modern milksop, detected in the elFeminate act of putting
water in his tumbler of sherry.

vn.

DOUBTS ON THE GENIUS AND TESTIMONY OP SHAKSPEAEE. — LETTER FROM
MASTER RICHARD WHITTINGTON. AND OTHER MATTERS. ^

Whether or not it is that I have been taking an overdose of that familiarity
which is said to produce contempt, I will not pretend to say, but one thing
is very certain — namely, that I by no means feel that exalted respect for
the late William Shakspeare as an historical authority, which on my setting
forth on the present biographical pilgrimage formed so prominent an ingre-
dient in my wallet of provisions for the journey. Candidly, Shakspeare turns
out to be, by no means, the man I had taken him for. An able dramatist,
undoubtedly — endowed with considerable power of insight into the secret
springs of human emotion, with an aptness for a rugged forcible kind of

Q 4

148 LIFE OP FALSTAFF.

versification, and an unquestionable turn for humour — he must, nevertheless,
be pronounced lamentably deficient in those higher attributes of the historical
writer, by which it is the laudable ambition of the present scribe (for in-
stance), to know himself distinguished — and of which the most scrupulous
correctness as to dates and localities, is by no means the least essential.
And, indeed, as I reflect on the subject and turn over a variety of precedents
in my mind, I am reluctantly brought much nearer than I ever expected to
come to the by no means uncommon opinion that Shakspeare is an over-
rated personage in literature.

I am led to this admission — most distasteful to my feelings and predilec-
tions — by the irresistible fact that nearly all of his commentators and
critics, for the most part persons of vast erudition and acumen, by whose
exalted standard the present humble recruit in the army of letters would
shrink from offering himself for measurement ; who, commencing (like their
unpretending junior) with the most enthusiastic faith in, not to say idolatrous
admiration for, the subject of their investigations, will seldom be found to
have proceeded to any depth in their labours ere they agree in making out
Shakspeare a most ridiculous, not to say contemptible personage. The late
Mr. Thomas Campbell, who, notwithstanding the unavoidable accident of his
birthplace, may be considered a tolerably competent and impartial judge of
English literature, being employed by certain publishers to prepare an
edition of the works of the Immortal Bard, as he is termed (I am not fond
of this slavish kind of nomenclature myself, considering that, as a rule, one
man is nearly as good as another), and plunging into his task with great
ardour and alacrity, and in the most reverential spirit imaginable, never-
theless speedily got sick of the service of adulation — I would say " puffery,"
were the epithet consistent with the dignity of history — on which he had
been engaged, and even complained, in a letter to a friend, of the kind of
stuff he was compelled, by the ne'cessities of his position and the terms of his
contract, to "write about Old Shakey." Now from such high-flown designa-
tions as the Immortal Bard, the Sweet Swan, &c., — to which ]\Ir. Campbell,
at the outset of his editorial career, had been addicted, like other people, —
" Old Shakey " (in the forcible words of a modern art-critic) is " not fall —
it is catastrophe ;" and, depend upon it, the learned gentleman had found
out some weak points in the poet's character to justify the familiarity.
I may be answered, I am aware, with the stale proverb that no man is a
hero in the eyes of his own valet, the abstract wisdom of which, as well as
its partial application to the case in point, I cheerfully admit. An editor or
conmientator of a great man's writings un(juestionably occupies, to the great
man, the position of a valet or groom of the chambers, having to perform lor

"OLD SUAKEY." 149

him the most menial offices, such as looking out his new readings for him,
polishing his sentences, trimming his periods, and throwing away his slip-
slop. These irksome and even degrading duties may excite in the bosom
of the overworked official a feeling of disgust for his situation, which no
liberality or punctuality in the matter of wages and perquisites can alto-
gether annihilate ; and the constant absorption of his attention by such
ignoble matters of external detail, can scarcely fail to blind him to the inner
greatnesses of the demi-god whose wig and whiskers, so to speak, he is
eternally occupied in brushing and oiling. I would, therefore, guard against
too hastily accepting the opinion of such persons upon the great men whom
they are employed, as it were, to render presentable to society, just as I
would hesitate to base my estimate of the soldierly and statesmanlike qualities
of the first Cajsar on the representations of the ingenious artist in laurel who
was engaged to conceal the baldness of the great Roman by the " gentleman's
real wreath of glory" of the period ; or, were I a sculptor (which it may be
a fortunate thing for the British metropolis I am not, seeing that I have
influential friends who would undoubtedly employ me in adding to the
public monuments), as I should decline modelling a statue of England's last,
greatest, and most symmetrical George upon the one-sided views of the tailor
who measured him for his last padded and frogged surtout, or of the hosier
who was in the secret of the royal calves, during the decadence of the first
— whatever you like to call him — of Europe. Nevertheless, there is no
withstanding overAvhelniing masses of evidence, let them emanate from sources
never so obscure or prejudiced. And when we find that the commentators
upon Shakspeare, almost without exception, when they have taken hold of
what are vulgarly considered the finest passages in that author's writings, —
when they have carefully held up those passages against every possible kind
of light, turned them inside out, pulled and tugged at them, this way and that,
ripped open their seams, scratched off their nap or surfaces, and, in fact,
submitted them to every conceivable test, — when, I say, we find that the com-
mentators, having made these searching experiments, almost invariably decide
that what to the superficial observer has appeared something of exquisite
goodness and beauty must be accepted as nothing more or less than the
rankest nonsense — why, then, the dispassionate judge is bound to shake his
head in common depi'ecation with the scrutineers, and admit that very
possibly the Sweet Swan, &c., may be nothing more than " Old Shakey "
after all. Nay, some of the most laborious and indefatigable of the class
alluded to have so carefully sifted the matter, and so thoroughly have con-
vinced themselves of the utter flimsiness and impalpability of the supposed
Mr. Shakspearc's claims to literai'y distinction, as to have been irresistibly led

150 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

to the conviction that no sucli person ever could have existed ; but that the
rather ingenious and plausible-looking phantasms in the forms of plays and
poems, bearing his name, must be considered as mere spontaneous exhala-
tions OY fungi produced from a kind of intellectual chaos — much as primroses,
oak-trees, horses, beautiful women, poets, and philosophers are held to have
sprung into existence, by the tenets of certain kindred thinkers on subjects
connected vpith theology.

The last is a culminating phase of Shakspearian free-thinking, to vrhich, I
confess, I have not yet been able to bring myself. I am still young, and
possibly hampered by nursery traditions on the subject. But I hope it will
be admitted that I am gradually emancipating myself from the unpopular
trammels of Shakspearian superstition, when I venture so far as to affirm
that the Swan of Avon (I must be understood now to make use of the

designation in an ironical sense) was, in some respects, a Yes ! I have

lashed myself up to the necessary pitch of defiant resolution — a humbug !
I fearlessly assert that there is a prevalent looseness in his chronology, for
which I defy his most slavish admirers to prove that the correctness of his
grammar is at all of a quality to compensate. Why, he actually leads us to
infer that within a few weeks, at the outside, of the treacherously won field
of Gualtree, Sir John Falstaif, being then on his second visit to the domain
of Mr. Justice Shallow, in Gloucestershire (having just returned from the
inglorious campaign), did receive, through the officious instrumentality of
Ancient Pistol, tidings of the death of King Henry the Fourth. Now I hope
I have, by this time, proved, to the satisfaction of the most captious, that the
battle of Gualtree must have been fought (bought, or stolen, whichever the
reader pleases) in the summer of 1410. The lamented death of Henry
the Fourth — lamentable because it did not take place some forty-seven years
earlier — occurred on Saint Cuthbert's Day, otherwise the 19th of March,
1413. Assuming then, as we are led to, from the representations of the
Shakspearian chronicle, that Sir John Falstaff", on the disbanding of the
Iloyalist army under Prince John of Lancaster and the Earl of "Westmore-
land, betook himself, at once, to the hospitable mansion of Mr. Robert Shallow,
and there remained until the Sovereign's demise, this would give to our
knight's visit a duration of something like two years and three-quarters. Now,
though I freely admit that we find nothing in the antecedents of Sir John to
make it impi'obable that he should have extended a gratuitous residence in
comfortable quarters to that, or even a longer period, in the event of impunity
having been granted to him to do so, it is in the wildest degree incredible that
even a greater fool tlianlNIr. Robert Shallow — did history present us with such
a personage — would tamely have submitted to the infiiction of guests so ex-

MISREPRESENTATIONS OF SIIAKSPEARE. 151

pensive as our knight and his retainers, for even one-twentieth pai't of that
term. No country gentleman's revenues could have stood it. The unaided
exertions of the insatiable Bardolph alone would have exhausted the family
cellar and exchequer in a fortnight.

It is therefore undeniable that in this particular instance, if in no other,
Shakspeare has not only violated historical truth — either wilfully or through
negligence — but has also shown an imperfect appreciation of the proba-
bilities. That Falstaff and his retinue could not possibly have lived on
the Shallow estate for the space of two years and three quarters, is as
self-evident as that an able-bodied man could not subsist for the same
period on a single leg of mutton. The supposition that Master Shallow
would have continued glad to see them, up to the end of a residence so
protracted, is too insanely preposterous to be entertained for a single
moment.

Having carefully balanced the matter, I am inclined to decide that the
second visit of Sir John Falstaff to Master Shallow's, as described in the
Shakspcarian chronicle — the account of which offers strong internal evi-
dence of a basis on authentic information — took place precisely as exhibited
by the dramatist, who chose, however, for his own convenience of com-
position, and with the reckless indifference to the higher canons of criticism
by which many really able writers of that period were unfortunately cha-
racterised, to anticipate the course of events to the culpable extent I have
alluded to. It could not be otherwise. It has been made clear, from docu-
mentary evidence recently laid before the reader*, that the Falstaff expedition
to Yorkshire deviated into Gloucestershire in the month of June, 1410. The.
unqualified statement that Henry Plantagenet, surnamed Bolingbroke, and
fourth English king of his baptismal appellation, breathed his last on the
19th of March (in the old style), otherwise the festival day of St. Cuthbertf,
in the year 1413, was by no means incautiously hazarded. The writer will stake
his reputation on its accuracy, which, if called into question for a moment, he
is prepared to corroborate by the undeniable evidence of Hollinshed, Hardyng,
Stowe, Speed, White Kennet, Mangnall, Pinnock, and other writers of anti-
quity. You see there is no getting over facts. They are things of such
matchless stubbornness that none but a donkey would venture to cope with
them in the exhibition of that valuable attribute.

We must consider, then, that there is a period of two years and probably

* Vide Epistlo from Sir John Falstaff, Knight, to Master Kohert Shallow, Cust. Rot.,
&c., in the Strongate Collection; or (for greater convenience of reference) in pp. 134, 135,
of the present biography.

f Vide Komish Calendiu:.

152 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

seven or eight months in the life of Sir John Falstaff unaccounted for in the
Shakspeare Chronicles. In what manner were those years and. odd months em-
ployed by the hero of these pages ? For once in a way, the biographer is driven
to supply an extensive gap in his narrative by mere conjecture. It is reason-
able to suppose that the time was passed by Sir John in his native country,
as I find no evidence, in the records of continental nations, of the influence of
a master spirit of our knight's calibre on the dynastic, social, or religious
struggles of the period. It is also to be feared that Sir John continued to live
in comparative obscurity, and certainly in exclusion from court favour. The
latter hypothesis is, indeed, based on something more than conjecture, and
may be considered proved by certain important omissions in the chronicles
of the time. On the 23rd of January, 1411, Sir John FalstaflF would have
completed his fifty-ninth year. A moment's reflective calculation will con-
vince the most inconsiderate that on the same date in the following year our
knight would have attained the reverend age of threescore. Extend this
line of inductive reasoning to another twelve months, and a result of sixty-
one is obtained. Now, it would be reasonable to suppose that had Sir John
Falstaff, at these times, been in the enjoyment of that royal esteem to which
his merits and services undoubtedly entitled him, any one of the three anni-
versaries indicated would have been made the occasion of court festivities.
I defy the most laborious investigation to produce the slightest authentic
evidence, from the writings of the time, of any such recognition of our
knight's importance and public services having been made at any of the royal
residences. It will be found, it is true, by consulting HoUinshed, the Cotton
MSS., Stowe and other authorities, that London, in the commencement of
1413, was the scene of great military and naval pageantry; that numbers of
the king's forces were mustered in the metropolis, and that there was such a
display of ships and galleys on the river Thames as had not been seen since the
magnificent days of Edward the Third. From the same and contemporary
writings, it will be found that towards the close of the Christmas holidays —
which King Henry the Fourth, in consequence of the mortal illness wherewith
he was already smitten, had kept in strict seclusion with his Queen Joanna, at
the Palace of Eltham — His Majesty, in spite of grievous bodily suffering, made
shift to return to London, in order to be present at certain rejoicings ordained
to be held at his chief palace of Westminster, at a time closely coincident
with the anniversary of our hero's birth. I am inclined to think, however,
that it will prove, on careful investigation, that the mustering of troops and
display of naval armaments had been commanded, not, as would superficially
appear, to celebrate the day of Falstaff"'s nativity by tournaments, sham
lights, water quintains, and the like, but with the more serious design of

MR. Chaucer's son. 153

carrying out a project, long entertained by the king, of proceeding with a
powerful army to Palestine, there to assist in the attempt to recover the holy
sepulchre from the hands of the Paynim followers of Mahomet* — a kind of
moral Insolvent or Bankruptcy Court of the period, to which very great
rascals indeed were accustomed to apply for protection against the prose-
cutions of conscience, and by which (if enabled to do things on a liberal
scale as to expenses in other people's lives and property), they were supposed
to whitewash themselves of all liabilities in this world and the next. The
rejoicings at Westminster may be partially explained by the fact that King
Henry's birthday happened to fall within a few days of that of Sir John
Falstatf. And, keeping in view the habitual and ineradicable selfishness of
Henry's character, it is more than probable that His Majesty had decreed the
festivities in question on his own account, and not on that of our more meri-
torious hero. As a proof that, in spite of the numerous embarrassments of
the royal family, the glaring and systematic manner in which the priceless
services of Falstaff were ignored by the court could not have been attribu-
table to any absolute scarcity of means, it may be mentioned that about this
time Queen Joanna presented one Thomas Chaucer, an individual whose only
claims to personal distinction lay in the fact that he was, as it were, the half-
brother of English Poetry — being the son of its reputed father — with the
manors of Wotten and Stantesfield for life : the hospitalities of which, there
can be no question or doubt, would have been dispensed with much greater
dignity and liberality by Sir John Falstaff. As a fui'ther proof that the
favours heaped upon this mere Son of a Somebody were only conferred with a
view to the humiliation and discomfiture of Sir John Falstaff, it may be
mentioned that Mr. Thomas Chaucer — a man of the slenderest physical and
mental dimensions — was shortly afterwards appointed to fill the Speaker's
Chair of the House of Commons — a seat which, had the appointment of the
Right Man to the Right Place been a recognised principle in those days any
more than it is at the present time. Sir John Falstaff was, most obviously,
the man to fill. But, as has been repeatedly urged, our knight had powerful
enemies. I name no names, as a rule, and have an abhorrence of malicious
insinuations. I will content myself with the statement that the dignity of
Lord Chief Justice of England, with all its injluence for good and evil, con-
tinued to be represented by a distinguished personage, with whom we are
already acquainted in that capacity, until some years after the demise of
Sir John Falstaff.

* Vide the writings of Froissart, G. P. E. James, and others. The Italian poet Torquato
Tasso has an able work not wholly disconnected with the interesting subject of the Crusades
as these expeditions were termed.

154 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Sir John lived in London — tliere can be no doubt of that. Had his name
been John Dory instead of John Falstaff, the sea could not have been a more
indispensable element to his existence than was the metropolitan atmosphere
to him, surnamed and organised as he actually was. Where else could there
have been found a Boar's Head, with its accommodating hostess, its inex-
haustible cellars, and still more (if the adjective can be said to admit of
a comparative degree) inexhaustible credit ? What other English city,
district, or province, has ever, at any time of the world's history, produced a
hero-worshipping class so willing to pay liberal terms for the honour of even
an ex-great man's society. Where else in England have there ever been
known such good dinners, such boon companions, and such accommodating
tradespeople ?

Talking of tradespeople (a subject to which I am by no means greatly
addicted, suggesting, as it does, such painful memories and still more disa-
greeable possibilities) there is a document extant, the faithful transcript of
an earlier document, no longer in existence, which will serve to throw some
light on the position of Sir John Falstaff during this most obscure, and con-
sequently most interesting, portion of his biography. It is a letter from
Master Richard Whittington, mercer, some time Lord Mayor of London,
addressed to Sir John Falstaff, in answer to a communication from that great
man, which has unfortunately not been preserved. The epistle, as will be
seen, is not dated ; but the unmistakable allusion contained in it to King
Henry the Fourth's intended expedition to the Holy Land leaves no doubt
that it must have been written in the winter of 1412-13. The shrewd,
sarcastic tone of the letter (the orthography whereof in the following
transcript has been modified for the convenience of the modern reader, in
obedience to the rule invariably observed throughout this work) will, it is
hoped, be found sufficiently characteristic of its distinguished writer, to
dispense with any necessity for the production, as evidence, of the original
manuscript, which was unfortunately destroyed in the ever-lamentable
burning of the famous Whittington library, in Arundel Street, Strand, some
two or three years since.

" to mine excellent friend sir john falstaff, knight, be these delivered
" Right worshipful Sir John,

" Mcthinks, in future, I shall call you my cat. For as there be those who insist that
I owe my standing as a good citizen and man of wealth to a certain cat which I took with
me to Barbaric (where, Heaven bo praised ! I never was), who did there earn for me larjic
sums in money, slaves, and jewels, by freeing the king's chamber of mice and rats ; so will
you have it tliat I have risen to be alderman and mayor, to buy lands and endow churches,
alone tln-uugh having ridden on your crupper from Blackhcath to the Soutiiwark side of
London Bridge, in the year of grace, 1364, when wc were both lads, little wotting we should

LETTER FROM WHITTINGTON. 155

live to know each the other as old men. Now I call my patron to witness that I had never
a cat that did aught for me beyond skimming the milk in my kitchen. I took with me to
Fhmders, and thence through France and Germany to the ignorant estates of the East, a
certain Thrift or Judgment, which the witless have fabled into a cat, whereby I was enabled to
point out to many foolish peoples the way to clear themselves of grievous pests and torments
in government and common life, which might well be likened to rats and mice, for the which
good services I was so well rewarded by the thankful rulers of those countries as to return to
mine own with the means for large and honourable trading. But the \Tilgar will have it that
it was not I myself, but the cat, etfected all this. So would you have it. Sir John, that
because I came to London a barefoot, ragged, hemng-bodied scarecrow, and am now a man
of substance (not in the flesh. Sir John ; there you have still the best of me), I owe my
advancement to you, who brought me half a dozen miles on the way. It was a pleasant ride, — I
mind it well, — and a timely, for I was heartsore and footsore when you took me up. But I
am a trader. Sir John, and keep books. And when I look over our account, I cannot but
think that I have long ago paid for that ride at a rate of posting far beyond what my travels
to Germany and the Asiatic countries (which the blockheads will have Barbaric) cost me
altogether. Let us cast the sum. There was two shillings (out of the first four of my
earning), soon after our coming to London, to replace your torn doublet, which you declared
you dared not write to your lady mother about.* There was five marks on your coming
of age, when you had bidden certain young noblemen of the court to meet you at the
tavern, which I was fain to lend you, as you had lost the money set aside for their enter-
tainment, the night before, at play. You wept so bitterly, and so feared me with threatening-
self-destruction, that I must needs do this though it forced me to put off my first slender
venture with the Flemings. Then, when they knighted you, there was forty other marlis,
that you might present yourself becomingly at court. Ten marks on my being made mayor,
that it might not be said I forgot an old friend who had helped me to my rise iu life.
Since then, at divers times, in silks, velvets, and moneys lent, eight hundred and forty-
three pounds nine and elevenpence Now, all this I have been told, time after time, I have
owed you for bringing me to Loudon, and putting me in the way of fortune. It hath been a
dear ride to me. Sir John. Blackheath to London is, let us say, six miles. A hundred
and forty-one pounds eight shillings seven pence and a fraction is costly posting for times like
these. Sir John. Methinks it is time I should hold myself quit of your debt, or that if any
be still due you should forgive me the remainder. A truce to jesting, old friend Jack.
I will lend thee no more money, and that is the plain tnith of the matter. It is of no more
use to thee than pearls to a pig. Thou art no more going to the Holy Land with King
Henry than I am going thither behind thee on thy crupper (which Heaven forefend, con-
sidering the costliness of that mode of travel). Come thou hither to dine, sup, and sleep as
often as may list thee, and thou art welcome to the best my roof can afford. But I am a
trader. Sir Jack, and a keen one, — I give naught for naught. Sell us thy company, good-
fellowship, merry jests and gentleness, and I will pay thee in kind (saving the jests and meiry
tales, wherein I am the bankrupt and thou the niggard miser). Show us thy jolly face and
we will reflect it in endless bowls of as many wines as thou mayest name like to a face in a
chamber lined with tinted mirrors, till thou seest thyself million-fold, and of all colours.
Mine honest wife and thy little playfellows, whom thou hast deserted, have been trained in
my school. They join the outer world in calling thee foul names, since thou withholdest from
them that familiarity which is their due. Dame Alice calls thee downright rogue, — that thou
wilt not pay her the long arrears of society and converse thou owest her, — and for which she
says she has a mind to pursue thee up and down every law court in Christendom. The little
Jews have long arrears of caresses against thee, and are prone to insist on their bargain to
the letter. Pay these debts, thou hardened prodigal, and we will see what can be effected for
the future. As for money, thou shalt none of it, for it only serves to keep thee from us,

* See ante, p. 108.

156 LIFE OF FALSTAFP.

wasting that of thy company which is our lawful right, as thine oldest friends, on thankless
tavern roysterers who love thee not. I am now too old a merchant to repeat that kind of
improfitable venture.

" I have again fallen into jesting, mine old friend, which methinks between aged men who love
each other, on grave matters, should not be. If thou art in serious strait I will help thee as
heretofore and while I live, and no man save ourselves the wiser 5 but the spirit of a weakly man,
bom to poverty and grown up in the need of turning all around him to his selfish advantage,
will assert itself within me; and I cannot bear to serve thee that I may lose thee. When thou
lackest naught (it is the shopman who states his debt) thou dost never think of the poor
shambling youth of Blackheath, whom thou didst lift, not only into horseback, but out of
despair and heart-sickness by the contagion of thy health, courage, and kindliness ; and to
whom at the turning point of his fortunes (for despair was then setting in) thou didst give a
ride worth far more than many hundreds of pounds a mile. Whereas, when thy purse is
empty, thou art ever prompt to remember Master Richard Whittington, some time lord mayor
of London and always a rich merchant and housekeeper. This is the only charge thou wilt
ever hear me bring against thee ; for it is the only thing in which thou hast ever wronged me
— and I meddle not with other men's debts or claims ; but when one justly owes me that
which I deem he can pay, I will ever urge it, though he were my brother.

" Dear, beloved, and, whatever the world may of thee (for I have the conceit that I look
deeper into men's natures than the thoughtless commonalty), honoured Sir John Falstaff, if
money could win thee to be near me and mine — who love thee deservedly, and to whom thou
hast never been aught but what is just and pure — thou shouldst have it from my well-stored
coffers poured untold into thy pockets. But I have ever found it act as a spell that parts us.
Remedy this if thou canst. Come and dwell with us — with all thine extravagancies and all
thy retinue if thou wilt. Our cellars may perchance even hold out a year's siege against the
redoubtable Master Bardolph. All I stipulate is that thou shalt give me thy stalwart Jacka-
napes, Robin, to save from perdition, by placing him in the new school lam building; this for
his own sake and more for that of two sober little kitchen-maidens of Mistress Alice's, whom
I should be loath to grow familiar with the kind of conversation I fear he must have picked
up ere this in thine erratic progress.

" Briefly, Jack, I will not send thee the money thou demandest. Come and ask for it, and
Dame Alice and I (with the bantlings to hold on by thy skirts) will do our best to keep thee
from going away till thou gettest it.

" Thy friend,

" Richard Whittington."

It is scarcely probable tliat Sir John Falstaff being in, even for him, unusu-
ally embarrassed circumstances, could have withstood the temptation of inde-
finite hospitality, at the expense of a wealthy and sympathetic friend. It may,
therefore, be taken for granted that the Avinter of 1413-14 was passed by our
knight and his retainers under the genial roof of the renowned citizen, mercer,
traveller and philanthropist, Master Richard Whittington. I use the term
" Master," being inclined to think that the distinguished Londoner in ques-
tion had not yet attained to the dignity of knighthood. My memory fails me
on the subject, and the question is not one of sufficient importance to demand
reference to authorities. Certain indications in the above letter lead me to
believe that it was written by a plain undubbed citizen : for though Whit-
tington liimsclf, as a cosmopolitan philosopher, may have held all titular dis-
tinctions in contempt, and considered himself no better man after knighthood

AT MASTER WHITTINGTON S. 157

than before it, yet it "would be in the highest degree unreasonable to sup-
pose that the wife of his bosom could have participated in his apathy on the
question. The above letter vras, most obviously, written under the immediate
supervision of the excellent Dame Alice Whittington — obviously from the
terms of reverential decorum in which that lady is spoken-of in it. Is it
likely, that a city gentlewoman of the period, whose husband had successfully
aspired to chivalric honours, would allow that husband to speak of her in a
letter to another knight of real noble birth, as mere "Mistress Alice," or that
the writer would have been permitted by her to sign his epistle without the
affix of " eques" ? Certainly not. This, however, is irrelevant. The present
work purports to be the history of Sir John Falstaff. That of Richard
Whittington has been already written, and published in a neat and commo-
dious form, profusely illustrated, and to be had of all booksellers.

A.D. 1413. Assuming that Sir John Falstaff actually spent his Christmas
with the Whittington family, surrounded by the, to him, unwonted luxuries
of a refined, pure-minded matron (who, if, as I have supposed, she had been
inclined to look over her husband's letters and insist on his asserting, on his
and her behalf, any dignities which his honourable exertions might have
earned for the pair of them, need be none the worse for that) ; the innocent
prattling of an honest man's young children ; and, above all, the enduring
friendship and protection of the honest man himself — an old warrior with
the world, who had passed through many fires, and who could be lenient to the
failures of combatants in more trying, if less honourable fields, only thanking
his stars that he himself was alive, sitting by his fireside, and with all his scars
in front ! — a thoughtful friend Avho could perceive good, where the world only
saw bad ; who could remember the beauteous promise of spring in the very
depths of winter! — why should Sir John Falstaff" have torn himself away
from such a peaceful haven — old creaky hulk as he was, with every timber
starting, and not sea- worthy for a two years' voyage — to be again buffeted
about on the turbulent waters of uncertainty and dissipation ? Alas ! alas !
Why does the poisoned cup kill ? Why does the broken leg limp ? Why
does the bent bough grow downwards, and trail its meagre fruit among the
worms and mud ? Why does the old maimed hound hunt in dreams ? Why
do the ruined gamesters in the German demon stories, gamble away, first their
doublets, then their vests, then their hose, then their shirts, and ultimately,
their souls ?

I can fancy Sir John Falstaff" for a few days leading a life of marvellous
peace, and even happiness, in the orderly household of sage Master Whit-
tington,. who loved our friend for the strong latent good that was in him,
and to whom the doubly errant knight's vices and irregularities were mere

K

158 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

hateful excrescences, to be abhorred, as we abhor the consumption that kills
our favourite sister, but which makes us love herself the more in our indig-
nation at its rapacious cruelty. I can fancy a few pleasant evenings by the
big fireside. Sir John telling innumerable pleasant stories from the vast
resources of his sixty years' experience, tempering them, with that sagacity
of his which no excess or reverses could blind, to the innocence and capacity
of his hearers. Dame Alice embroidering, or sitting sedately with her hands
crossed upon her straight-cut mediaeval skirt, as we see the ladies in the old
illuminations ; Master Richard, in an arm-chair like a young cathedral,
playing with a big gold chain, of bulk and substance to suggest the idea of a
watch-guard with which a fine-grown Titan, particularly anxious to be up
to the time of day, might have carried Big Ben in his waistcoat pocket ;
and the little people, crawling lovingly over the knight's round knees, and
looking up into his bloated, purple, damaged, handsome face, with a by no
means misplaced confidence in, and admiration for, their amusing instructor.
For — come! — where do you find a single instance on record of Sir John
Falstaff" having by word or deed — expressed, performed, or omitted — contri-
buted to the corruption of a single innocent creature? You may tell me of
little Robin the page, whom Sir John dragged mercilessly after him through
the various moral sloughs and slums he himself Avas destined to wade through.
To this I can only answer, that Robin was corrupt as St. Giles's when Sir
John found him ; and that I do not pretend to set up my poor scapegrace old
knight as a social reformer. He was merely a reprehensible, cynical, laisser
alter philosopher. He took things as he found them, and could no more
mend them than he could mend himself. He could no more have made a
good boy of Robin than he could have forced Bardolph to sign the tem-
perance pledge, or than he could have spared sufficient money from his own
daily exjienses to found a Magdalen hospital for the especial reformation of
Mistress Dorothea Tearsheet — assuming the prevalent aspersions on that lady's
reputation to have been based on anything but the most malicious calumny.

But those pleasant evenings in the Whittington household could not have
lasted. The first flush of pleasure derived from comfortable quarters,
abundant and luxurious provisions, and the security from legal interference
being over, the very respectability of the thing would become irksome. Let
Whittington try never so hard to place his guest on a footing of equality
with himself, the unconscious patronage of the man who had fought and won,
over the man who had merely skirmished and lost, would, in the long run,
become intolerable. And then tliere is the great force of habit. There is
undoubted fascination in " the desolate freedom of the wild ass." Unlimited
sand, with an occasional root of cactus or prickly pear, would, I presume,
be far more acceptable to a quadruped of that species than a daily bran-

JUSTICE SHALLOW AGAIN. 159

mash, turnips, and warm straw bedding, where there would be harness and
padlocks withal. I can fancy Falstaff beginning to find the early hours and
decorous regulations of the Whittington establishment considerably too much
for him. Respectable members of the Mercers' Company would doubtless
look in, and gaze upon him as a curious monster. He would yearn for
the naughtinesses of the Boar's Head, with its limed sack, sanded floor, and
obsequious retainers. And then there would be the ever-present and dreadful
consciousness of Master Whittington himself, to whom no weak point in the
character of Sir John Falstaff was a mystery ; who would help Sir John
liberally to sack, knowing it was not good for him; who would lend Sir John
money, knowing he would bestow it in bad uses ; who would let Sir John
talk himself breathless, and smilingly count all Sir John's lies on his fingers!
Depend upon it, there is nothing so intolerable to a sensible man who has
made a fool of himself through life as the silent criticism of another sensible
man, who is aware of the fact, and who himself has done nothing of the kind.

Therefore I am inclined to think that Sir John Falstaff and his old friend
Richard Whittington must have come to a one-sided quarrel within a month,
at the utmost, of Sir John's more than probable residence in the Whitting-
tonian household. It may have been a question of stopping out late, or of
introducing an unbecoming companion (let us say Ancient Pistol, whom
Sir John, in a moment of vinous aberration, may have been so inconsiderate
as to present to Dame Alice Whittington as a model member of mass-going
society). At any rate, it is very certain that, in the month of March, 1413,
Sir John Falstafi" was no longer, if he had recently been, a guest of Master
Richard Whittington, or even a resident in the British metropolis.

Sir John Falstaff, on the 21st of March, 1413, was again the honoured
visitor of Master Robert Shallow, in the Commission of the Peace for the
county of Gloucester.

VIII.

MILDNESS OF THE SPRING SEASON IN 1413. — DITTO OF TH05IAS CHAUCER's
POETRY AT THE SAME EPOCH. — DEATH OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH, AND
OTHER INDICATIONS OF NATIONAL PROSPERITY.

The spring of 1413 Avas one of extraordinary mildness. It is a matter of
deep regret (to us) that there were no newspapers at that pei-iod ; otherwise
we should undoubtedly have had handed down to us many valuable records

160 LIFE OP FALSTAFF.

of enormous primroses, wonderful thorn-blossoms, and forty-belled cowslips,
whicb might not impossibly have equalled in interest the statistics of parallel
phenomena in the present day. It is true that parliament was sitting at the
time, and the reporters (had such an objectionable class then existed) might
have evaded the important duty of chronicling these matters, on the pitiful
and unusual plea that they had something better to write about. They do so
now-a-days ; and often give us nine columns of a parliamentary speech, the
valuable substance of Avhich we had all much rather see condensed in a
short paragraph surmounted by the heading of " Enormous Cabbage."

Thomas Chaucer, the son of the immortal Geoffry, already alluded to in
these pages, has feebly attempted to immortalise the phenomena of this
remarkable season in verses which, it will be admitted, at all events, prove
his inferiority to his father as a poet.*

"^c dfayrc &ta^an ai i^avcl), 1413.

•' VERSES IN MEMORY THEREOF BY THOMAS CHAUFCIRE f ARMIG.

" Of y- year fourteen hundredde and thirteen,
Y® month of Mars can never be forgotten ;
So fayre a season cyne had never seen,
And I came into myne estayte of Wotten,
Which till y" globis hystorye bee rotten
Y" race of man will proudlyk bear in mynde

(Mote I become a salted herring shotten
If I another rime save this can fynde),
All nature sang with joy that Fortune proved soe kynde.

" Y'= lyttel birdis on y^ twiggis hopped

As and it were j" smylynge month of June,
And forth their merric roundclaes y-popped,
Like minstrels lacking one to start y" tune,
Ea ch pypynge forthc his own — ne in commune.
Y" broo1;ys that were frozen stiff before,
Like heathen runagates did very soon
Betake themselves from Isis unto Thor
(A sorry clench methynks I sholde bee sorry for).

* Li refutation of this proposition, there is but one theory that can be considered as
carrying the slightest weight, namely, that Thomas Chaucer did not write the poem here
quoted in extenso. There is doubtless much that might be said on both sides of the question,
which had therefore better be left open.

t English poetry would seem to have had an official descent — the family name of its
reputed father being derived from the office of Chauf-cire or Chaff-wax (a dignity still in
existence, with, it is said, real functions and an undeniably real salary attached to it) doubt-
less held by one of his not very remote ancestors. The vanity of restoring tlie name to
its original orthography, instead of adhering to the form it had assumed in the time of the
illustrious Geoffry, is another proof of the weakness of Thomas Chaucer's intellect, if the
quality of the above verses were such as to leave the slightest necessity for anything of the
kind.

SPECIMEN OF Chaucer's poetry. 161

" Y« primeroses and cowslippis were shcdde,

Like golden buttons upon jerkyn green,
Or bits of butter upon cabbitch spread

(Good eatyngo wyth ane hande of pork, I weenc

Y' salted kind, with pease y-boiled, I meant).
Y" honeysucklis buddys gan unclose, __

And fine spring onions were in market seen ;
Whyles Mistress Chaufcire casts her winter hose,
And forth along y« lanes withouten cloggis goes.

" I wot it was a comelyk syght to see

Y' earlye birdis pyckynge up y= wormes ;
And earlye radyshes in bunchys three

For y" halfe-farthynge — reasonable terms !

Albeit there is one who round afBrmes
lie hathe knowne cheper in y° Southerne clime. — ^

'Tis playne I have of poesie y« germes
Within me ; but to spinne for ever rime
I lack my father's gust, and soothe have not y" time."

It certainly says little for the justice and intelligence of the age that the
writer of the above verses* should have been appointed to the Speakership
of the House of Commons, and other equally honourable and far more lucra-
tive dignities, at a time when a man of Sir John FalstaiF's merit was going
about the kingdom, if not absolutely begging, certainly reduced to one, if not
both, of the other two proverbial alternatives, in order to obtain the means of
livelihood. However, suppose we put Thomas Chaucer back into that com-
fortable niche of obscurity from whence he should, perhaps, never have been
dragged, and confine our attention to the main subject in hand — the genial
summer spring of 1413, as bearing on the adventures of Sir John Falstaff.

I have said that on the 19th of March, in this year. Sir John Falstaff was
a second time the honoured guest of Master Robert Shallow at the woi-thy
justice's family seat in Gloucestershire. It hath been urged to me, for certain
reasons not altogether contemptible, and which will be mentioned presently,
that such could not have been the case ; but that Sir John and his retinue
could not have arrived at Master Shallow's until the 20th of March, on
which day they also took their departure for London. I prefer adhering to
my original statement, and for three reasons. Firstly, because it is scarcely
credible that I could have made it without having thoroughly satisfied myself
that at least the balance of probability was in its favour. Secondly, the
practice of eating his own words is one of the most baneful into which the
historical writer can possibly fall — leading to habits of pusillanimity and
indecision which must ultimately destroy the independence of character so

* Assuming their authenticity as established — if only for the sake of argument.

162 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

indispensable to liis pursuits, and leave the neatly-arranged flower-beds of
his work at the mercy of all such of the swinish multitude of critics or ob-
jectors as may choose to thrust their ringed noses into the matter. Thirdly,
the portion of my manuscript containing the statement alluded to hath been
some weeks in the hands of the printers, and (as I am led to believe, from the
relentless assiduity with which those estimable citizens, but austere and
implacable task-masters, have, by their emissaries, persecuted me within tlie
last fortnight for further supplies of written matter) hath been long ago sent
to the press, and is now beyond all possibility of correction until such time as
a second edition of the entire Avork shall be called for. So that, in short, I
was right.

I am aware that, in order to make good my position, I shall be required to
prove that Ancient Pistol — a warrior not habitually remarkable for his
excellence in any manly or athletic pursuits — did, in the course of a single
day, accomplish a very rapid and daring act of horsemanship, calculated to
tax the endurance of stronger thews and sinews than the worthy Ancient's ;
being nothing less than the conveying to Master Shallow's Gloucestershire
residence in the evening, tidings of an event that had taken place in London
in the morning. But I trust I have sufficient powers of special pleading and
aptitude for the historical business generally, to be enabled to get over far
greater obstacles than are presented by this emergency. Pistol need not
have ridden the whole distance himself. He might have been lying in wait
for the expected tidings, which he was the means of conveying to Sir John
Falstaff — let us say, somewhere between London and Oxford — whither the
news of the event in question, namely, the death of the king, who expired
on the 20th, would assuredly be conveyed post, immediately on its occur-
rence. A well-authenticated episode in the life of Ancient Pistol makes it
more than probable that London, at about this time, was scarcely a safe
residence for him. The gallant subaltern was in a temporary difficulty for
having, with other warlike spirits, " beaten a man," who would seem to have
been left at the termination of the encounter in a precarious condition, inas-
much as, within a day or two of the occurrences immediately under notice,
we find he had breathed his last in consequence of injuries he received on the
occasion.* The provocation was doubtless great ; in all probability, nothing
less than an unpardonable insult to Mrs. Dorothea Tearshcot, in the presence
of whom and of Mrs. Quickly the punishment appears to have been inflicted.
When we remember that Pistol himself had been known (under the influence
of vinous aberration, it is true) to speak slightingly of the former lady, and

* Beadle. — Come, I oharfrc you both go with inc ; for the muii is dead that you and Pistol
beat among you. — Henry IV. Tart II. Act iv. Scene 5.

IN MASTER shallow's ORCHARD. 163

that he was by no means a man of strait-laced notions in the matter of
respect for the sex generally, the outrage upon his patron's friend and kins-
woman* must have been great indeed to impel him to so terrible an act of
vengeance. But the law is not accustomed to take cognizance of such
honourably extenuating circumstances in cases of murderous^ assault, and it
can scarcely be doubted that Pistol was, at this time, " keeping out of the
way," — by no means an unaccustomed manoeuvre to that distinguished pro-
fessor of military stratagem. Whither could he fly for protection except to
the sheltering wing of Sir John FalstafF ? What tidings so likely to be
anxiously awaited by him as those that would assure him of his patron's
greatness, with dispensing power over the laws of England ? Depend upon
it. Ancient Pistol, at the time of King Henry the Fourth's death, was as far
from London, and as near to Falstaff, as his circumstances would permit, and
keenly on the watch. The thing is as clear as day. Or, assuming that it is
not, and that I must admit that Pistol actually did himself accomplish the
journey from London to Gloucestershire in a single day. Why not ? Of all
tactics in the art of war, there was none which this veteran soldier had so
deeply studied, and so frequently practised, as that of successfully managing
a retreat. There was no possible amount or speed of running away, on
pressing emergency, of which he could have been reasonably pronounced
incapable.

I am now enabled to resume my narrative with the most perfect composure ;
and I really wish the captious and fastidious would not compel me to do vio-
lence to my predilections by such frequent digressions.

It must have been then — in short, it was — the evening of the nineteenth
of this much-talked-of month of March, which Sir John FalstafF, with Master
Robert Shallow, his entertainer, and Master Silence, the latter gentleman's
unobtrusive kinsman, found of such unseasonably tempting mildness as to
induce them to get up from the supper table, whereat Davy, Master Shal-
low's factotum, had deftly served them with the choicest efforts of William
Cook's genius ("some pigeons," " a couple of short-legged hens," " a joint of
mutton," and " pretty little tiny kickshaws," ad libitum, are indicated by the
chronicler as having, in all probability, formed the staple articles of the bill
of fare), to partake of dessert in the open air, in a snug arbour of the justice's
orchard. Sir John, with his retinue, consisting of Bardolph, Robin, and
possibly some half dozen supernumeraries, had arrived just in time for
supper — ostensibly a Timproviste, and with no intention of staying for a
longer time than might serve them to repose and refresh themselves.

* For arguments on this subject see ante, p. 113.

164 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

" By cock and pye, Sir," Master Shallow had said on our knight's arrival,
" you shall not away to-night."

To which Sir John had replied that he must be excused.

But Master Shallow would not excuse him : he should not be excused.
There was no excuse should serve : Sir John should not be excused. And
Master Shallow had immediately ordered supper, and bidden Sir John to off
with his boots.

It is needless to say that Sir John had no wish to be excused, but that he
had come intentionally to stop. He had long had Master Robert Shallow
" tempering between his finger and thumb," and had now come to " seal with
him.'' He had, years ago, seen to the bottom of Justice Shallow. He knew
that ornament to the magistracy to be nothing better than a time-serving
humbug, and he had come, as I think most justifiably, to take any possible
advantage of him. It was a breach of hospitality, if you Avill ; but remember
we are treating of great men and their motives. My only regret is that I am
compelled to exhibit my hero, towards the end of his career, engaged in the
pursuit of "such small deer" as a pitiful country justice. When I compare John
Falstaff, in his sixty-seventh year, on this particular evening, stretching his
limbs under Master Shallow's oak (as yet the mahogany tree was an un-
naturalised exotic), picking the short legs of Master Shallow's roasted hens,
and washing down as much of Master Shallow's garrulous mendacity as
limitless draughts of Master Shallow's sack and Bordeaux might enable him
— all the while meditating through what particular chink in Master Shallow's
vanity he could best get at the same gentleman's purse-strings ; — when I
compare this with another picture presented on the preceding evening, by
another great man of imperfect notions of meiim and teum, frequently men-
tioned in these pages, younger in years, but centuries older in depravity
than Sir John, and with both feet already in the grave — legs, body, and all
rapidly sliding in after them — Henry Bolingbroke on his death-bed, in short
— counselling his young son and successor —

" to busy giddy minds
With foreign quarrels : that action hence borne out
May waste the memory of the former days;"—

(that is, the days of his early rascality, the fruits of which he would have his
son preserve by the fomentation of fresh villanies) — when I compare the
conduct of these two waning celebrities, the one within half a dozen hours of
death, the other with good two years and a quarter of life in him, (alas ! no
more,) I am more forcibly than ever reminded of my reluctantly formed sus-
picion, that the character of Sir John Falstaff" may have been really deficient
in the heroic element after all, and am made to feel that he comes out, by

THE CHRONICLER WAXETH SENTIMENTAL. 165

comparison with the more wholesale practitioner, in a pitifully moral and
respectable light.

I am getting so near the end of my poor old knight, (I call him mine,
though I have but the sorriest stepfather's claim to him, and doubtless deserve
to have him removed from my charge for ill-treating him as I have done,)
and am so closely in sight of the overthrow of his last hopes and energies,
that I have scarcely the heart any longer to make light of his rogueries. I
will try and explain how I feel with regard to Sir John Falstaff. Consider
me a street urchin in a town where a very fat old gentleman has been in the
habit of misconducting himself, and so publishing his irregularities in the
public thoroughfares, as to have forfeited the respect of well-behaved
citizens, and make himself the target for all kinds of pleasantry from the
lowest and most thoughtless. I have had my jeer, and my pebble, and
perhaps my rotten egg, at the poor old man, with the rest of the gamins,
and rare fun we have considered it. But a day arrives when I see the
old gentleman paler than usual. The red of his cheeks has become an
unwholesome purple. He no longer walks jauntily, but totters. The stick,
that he used to shake in merry defiance at his tatterdemalion critics, is
now necessary to support his steps. There is a tear in his eye. He is suf-
fering— failing — and I (being, perhaps, a sensitive, well-meaning raga-
muffin) beat my breast, and am ashamed of my conduct. I feel inclined to
go whimpering for pardon to him, and ask him to let me serve him in some
menial but comforting capacity. But the stronger boys are not of my way of
thinking. To them he is more ridiculous than ever in his weakness and
decay. They pelt him the more, and laugh at him the louder. He falls. I
run to try and help him. I look in his face, and wonder that I could ever
have seen there anything to laugh at. It is to me all sadness and bitter
suffering. I forget the stories I have heard against him. I am conscious
of nothing but an old man, fallen in the mud, who cannot raise himself. I
would do anything to express to him my contrition and sympathy. I feel an
absurd inclination to offer him my tops and marbles — nay, my very slice of

bread and butter itself. At least, I would treat him respectfully. But

the other boys jeer at me, and I am ashamed of my passing weakness ; and,
like a mean-spirited young sneak as I am, I turn round, and make game of
the poor old gentleman more mercilessly than ever, with a strong sensation
that I deserve to be flayed alive for doing so.

At any rate, I am glad that the spring of 1413 was a genial one — seeing that
Sir John had but two more springs of any kind between him and the grave ;
and was doomed to bask in but little more sunshine, either of the actual or of
the figurative kind. It pleases me to dwell on such little pleasures and com-

s 3

166 LIFE OF FACSTAFF.

forts I may find proof of his having enjoyed from this time forth. I am
delighted to feel confident that the supper provided for him by the anxious
care of Master Shallow was good and abundant. I take comfort in believing
that William Cook had done his spiriting with zeal and ability : that the
short-legged hens were roasted to a turn ; that the joint of mutton was a
small brown haunch, which had walked, when capable of pedestrian exercise,
towards Gloucestershire, in a south-easterly direction — from the Welsh
mountains in fact (a hope, not without foundation in presumptive evidence
— seeing that Master Shallow had, at any rate, one kindly friend from that
hospitable district — Hugh Evans, by name, a gentleman in holy orders, at
this time established in the neighbouring county of Berkshire) ; that the
pigeons were plump and tender victims, either served up on an altar of the
crispest toast, or brought to the sacrifice in a sarcophagus of melting crust ;
and that the "pretty little tiny kickshaws" embraced every available delicacy
of the early season.

At all events, it is certain that Sir .John had had something he liked, and
plenty of it. There is no record in his life that displays him in a more
thorough state of serenity and genial goodfellowship with all mankind than
the passages in the chronicle of Henry the Fourth*, referring to the evening
in question. There we find Sir John " unbuttoning himself after sup-
per," lounging " upon benches after noon " in Master Shallow's orchard,
inhaling the soft breeze of the premature summer, listening to the carols of
the birds immortalised (through the medium of these pages) by the poet
Thomas Chaucer f, and partaking of a " last year's pippin " of the worthy jus-
tice's " own grafting," with the addition of a " dish of carraways and so forth."
The " so forth " is not particularised in the chronicler's page ; but from the
conduct of Master Shallow himself and of his kinsman, Silence, on the festive
occasion, it would seem to have been a long time in bottle, and furnished
forth with no niggard hand.

Let us follow the scene, as described in the chronicle, for its termination
sounds the key-note to the great crisis in the history of our hero's declining
fortunes.

Master Shallow had drunk too much sack at supper. He said so, though
there was not the slightest necessity for the confession. Master Silence had
similarly committed himself, but to such an extent as to make any confession

* Tart II. Act v. Scene 3.

•f Nicholas Chaucer, kinsman of the above, was at about this time a distinguislicd member
of the Grocci's' Company, in tlie city of London. Assuming that he combined with his
aromatic calling the congenial one of buttcrman, the preservation of Thomas Chaucer's
manuscript — doubtless submitted to his relative's approval in tlie regular Way of business —
is at ouce accounted for.

AFTER SUPPER. 167

on his part a matter of some difficulty. We hear of men being blind drunk,
crying drunk, roaring drunk. Master Silence was singing drunk. He could
only express himself in snatches of old songs, which he poured forth with a
volubility which nothing could stop.

" Do nothing but eat and make good cheer,
And praise Heaven for the merry year
When food is cheap and females dear.
And lusty lads roam here and there.

So merrily.
And ever among so merrily ! "

I confess to a warm affection for Master Silence. He was a stupid old
gentleman, and doubtless more tiresome in his taciturnity than even his
cousin Shallow in his garrulity. But what there was of Master Silence
seems to have been good. Much as has been said against old proverbs and old
wine, there yet remains some defence for both. I believe in the truth of the
proverb which asserts that there is truth in wine. It is a dangerous and
exhaustive kind of manure, T admit. In agricultural phraseology, it " rots
the ground" terribly. But, as long as the ground lasts, it develops the latent
germs within it marvellously. Master Silence was little, if any, more in-
ebriated than his kinsman. But the same flask (or number of flasks) which
had made Justice Shallow only a coarser or an infinitely more vulgar syco-
phant and timeserver than ever, paying court, not only to Sir John Falstaff,
but even to Bardolph and little Robin the scapegrace page, for the sake
of the knight's imaginary court influence, merely set Master Silence thinking
of the pleasant season, of the bounty of Providence, of the claims of kindliness
and goodfellowship. Unable to speak for himself, he searched in the dark,
cobwebby, unhinged cupboards of his feeble memory for the most tuneful
and thankful expression of his feelings, in other men's words, that would
help him to

" Praise Ileaven for the merry year."

I Avould rather have had his dim chaotic sensations about the fine spring
weather and the beauty of earthly existence than Master Shallow's most
ambitious dreams of " penny in purse," to be obtained through a " friend at
court." I resemble Sir John Falstaff, at all events in this respect, that " I do
see the bottom of INIr. Justice Shallow," and there is nothing in the bed of
the puddle but mud, and stones, and potsherds. But I do not pretend to
penetrate to the mystery of what Master Silence felt as he sat there, intoxi-
cated and reprehensible, in the arbour, breathing in Nature, and mumbling
old songs, — any more than I would dare to analyse the feelings of my fat baby,

s 4

168 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

who now sits opposite to me in Lis mother's arms, eating a pocket-handker-
chief, and staring at the fire.

At any rate — as I wish from henceforth to regard none but the best
phases in my hero's character — I am glad to know that Sir John FalstafF'
treated Master Silence in his melodious cups with tolerant kindness and
even encouragement. He would have fleeced Master Shallow, I sincerely
believe, of every farthing in that dignitary's exchequer — and (as I am upon
the candid tack) I confess that my high estimate of his character would not
have been materially lowered had he effected that desirable end. But I do
sincerely believe that Sir John Falstaff would not have taken advantage of
Master Silence's condition to borrow from him so much as a hundred
bezants — unless, indeed, provoked to do so by great necessity or temptation.

" There 's a merry heart ! " said Sir John E'alstaif, whom we may picture to
ourselves picking his teeth lazily, with liis legs stretched on the arbour seat,
his head resting on the back of his plump hand, the broad, purple disc of
his countenance reflecting the rays of the March sun that, like himself,
had risen gloriously, had shone now and then brilliantly, but was now
going down early and rapidly, covered with clouds and blotches (having made
its appearance on earth, you see, in Avhat was, after all, an unfiivourable
season). " Good Master Silence, I'll give you a health for that anon."

The sunset was lost on Master Shallow. His appreciation of out-of-door
beauties was bounded by " Marry, good air !" It gave him an appetite, and
he was quits with Nature. He was bent on serving the guests whom he
intended to make serve him.

" Give Master Bardolph some wine, Davy," said his worship.

In Sir John Falstaif 's own words, " it was a wonderful thing to see the
semblable coherence of his (Shallow's) men's spirits and his." As Shallow
was to FalstafF so was Davy to Bardolph and Robin. Davy — who also
meditated a London season, with introductions to the best society — busied
himself with attendinc; to the wants of those subaltern officers.

Master Silence again burst into song, unsolicited —

" 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, my wife's as all ;
For women are shrews both short and tall,
'Tis merry in hall when beards wag all

And welcome merry Shrovetide.
Be merry, be merry, &c."

"1 did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle," mur-
mured Sir John, who, I think, by this time was beginning to get drowsy.

" Who, 1 ? " said the meek songster. " I have been merry twice and once
ere now."

ARRIVAL OF ANCIENT PISTOL. 169

The festivities continued, but with a somewhat languishing spirit. Master
Shallow's angular chin began to beat double knocks against his bony chest.
He had the greatest difficulty in keeping one eye — the weather one, doubt-
less— open. Bardolph confined himself to the main business of his con-
sistent life — good, steady drinking. Davy ofl(iciated as Ganymede. Robin
was silently contemplative. There were spoons and tankards in the orchard,
and nobody sober to watch them ! Sir John spoke not, except to give a
word of encouragement to Master Silence, whose vocal exertions he rather
approved of, as calculated to save him the labour of conversation. It is
not absolutely recorded, but circumstantial evidence makes it probable, that
Sir John FalstaiF, having drowsily pledged that inveterate songster in a
bumper, fell instantly fast asleep, and was snoring in blissful ignorance of
actual circumstances — only to dream of coronets that were never to be
worn and cofiers that were never to be filled — when he was roused from
his nap by a terrific knocking at the outer gate.

Everybody was on the alert. Justice Shallow, in the midst of a dreamy
platitude of welcome, breathed into the confidential recesses of his folded
arms, started into wide-awakefulness with an echoing knock of chin against
chest, which must have been highly detrimental to his remaining dental
economy. Davy flew to the gate. Master Silence considered the startling
occurrence an excuse for further melody. Bardolph drank. Eobin, it may
be presumed, took some advantage of the confusion ; but as the Shallow
spoons were not counted that evening, it is uncertain to what extent.

There was cause for disturbance. In those days an Englishman was
obliged to make his house his castle. The meanest homestead — and Master
Shallow's was not one answering to that definition — had to be carefully
guarded by moat and drawbridge. They kept early hours then. All the
family were expected to be iu-doors by sunset, for it was not safe to be
out after dark. Any vassal, pig, or other retainer, stopping out after the
gates were closed, might do so at his own peril. A late visitor — especially
one making such formidable announcement of his arrival as that which
disturbed Sir John Falstaff from his comfortable after-supper nap, and sent
Master Shallow's little dried walnut of a heart leaping into his mouth, like
a parched pea from a shovel up the chimney — was not only a source of
astonishment but of alarm. It might be a robber at the head of a forest-
band come to levy what we should term an execution on the goods and
chattels ; or a travelling abbot on his way to some ecclesiastical conference,
having brought the elite of his monks and their appetites with them ; or
a proscribed nobleman and his suite, to harbour whom would be certain
death in the course of a month, and to behave uncivilly to whom would be

170 LIFE OF falstaff:

the same in the course of a minute and a half; or it might be the king who
had been kicked off the throne, or the other king who had kicked him off
in pursuit of him. In any case, the chances were ninety-nine and nine-
tenths to a decimal fraction that the visitor would prove one who, at his
departure, would leave the proprietor a sadder and a poorer man than he had
been in the morning. The probability of a needy and harmless wight being
found sufficiently mad or intoxicated to make a disturbance at a rich man's
door (more especially if the rich man happened to be in the commission of
the peace), just as the family might be supposed to be retiring to rest, being
of the remotest.

The speedy return of Davy to the orchard with the information that the
demonstrative visitor was merely " one Pistol, come from the Court with
news " for Sir John Falstaff, must have had an immediately soothing and
reassuring effect upon the assembly.

At the word " Court " Sir John Falstaff pricked up his ears instinctively.
A momentary thrill ran through his system. Had they, at last, " sent for "
him ? Was he really wanted to guide, counsel, or amuse — at any rate, to be
recognised and rewarded ?

Pshaw ! The very name of the messenger was a proof to the contrary.
Pistol was, doubtless, in the neighbourhood; had heard of his patron's
whereabouts ; and tracked him, as usual, in the hope of a flagon, a supper,
and a piece of silver ! Sir John was a philosopher, and was engaged in the
digestion of his own supper. He would not allow that vital process to be
prejudiced by the excitement of possibly fallacious hope. He fell back upon
the garden seat, and ordered Pistol to be admitted.

Pistol strode into the orchard, looking daggers around him. Pistol was in
the habit of looking daggers, as I might be in the habit of looking fifty pound
notes. The process was by no means a proof that hfe had one about him to

make use of when called upon. He said But you shall hear what he

said, and what was said to, and about, him, in the dramatic chronicler's own
words, with such unwritten elucidations, or " stage directions," as your
humble servant may consider himself justified in venturing upon.

Sir John Falstaff (indifferently'). — How now, Pistol ?

Pistol (with gesticulations of extravagant homage'). — Sir John, God save you, sir.

Sir John Falstaff ''susviciousli/, buttoning his pockets). — What wind blew you hither,
Pistol ?

Pistol. — Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Sweet knight, th'art now one
of the greatest men in the realm.

Master Silence (dimlr/ reviinded of a forgotten ballad, sings). — "By'r lady, I think he be,
but goodman Puii" of Barson."

Pistol (at once discerning that Master Silence is a man who may be safely bullied). — Puff?
Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base ! — Sir John, I am thy Pistol, and thy friend,

•OO""

POST HASTE TO LONDON. 171

and helter-skelter have I rode to thee ; and tidings do I bring, and lucky joys, and golden
times, and happy news of price.

Sir John Falstapf. — I pr'ythee now, deliver them like a man of this world.

Pistol. — A foutra for the world, and worldlings base ! I speak of Africa, and golden joys.*

Sir John Falstaff. — O base Assyrian knight ! what is thy news ? Let king Cophetua
know the truth thereof.

Master Silence (sings seraphicalli/). — "And Robin Hood, Sqarlet, and John."

Pistol. — Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons ? And shall good news be baffled ?
Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies' lap.

Master Shallow (rismg, with magisterial assumption of sobriety'). — Honest gentleman, I
know not } r breeding.

Pistol. — Why then, lament therefore.

Master Shallow. — Give me pardon, sir : — if, sir, you come with news from the court,
I take it, there is but two ways, either to utter them, or to conceal them. I am, sir, under
the king, in some authority.

Pistol (drawing a rusty rapier). — Under which king, Bezonian ? speak, or die.

Master Shallow. — Under King Harry.

Pistol. — Harry the fourth ? or tifth ?

Master Shallow, — -Harry the fourth.

Pistol. — A foutra for thine office I — Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is king : Harry the
fifth's the man. I speak the truth : when Pistol lies, do this ; and fig me, like the bragging
Spaniard.

Sir John Falstaff (leaping to his feet like a colt). — What ! is the old king dead ?

Pjstol. — As nail in door : the things I speak are just.

Sir John ~Fxlst\V¥ (quivering with excitement). — Away, Bardolph ! saddle my horse. —
Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the land, 'tis thine. — Pistol, I will
double-charge thee with dignities.

Master Bardolph 0 joyful day ! — I would not take a knighthood for my fortune.

(He drinks and exits.)

Pistol (smiling sardonically). — What ! I do bring good news ?

Sir John Falstaff. — Carry Master Silence to bed. — Master Shallow, my Lord Shallow,
be what thou wilt, I am fortune's steward. Get on thy boots : we'll ride all night. — O
sweet Pistol ! — Away, Bardolph. — Come, Pistol, utter more to me ; and, withal, devise
something to do thyself good. — Boot, boot. Master Shallow: I know, the young king is sick
for me. Let us take any man's horses ; the laws of England are at my commandment.
Happy are they which have been my friends, and woe unto my lord chief justice !

Pistol : Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also !

Where is the life that late I led say they ;

Why, here it is ! (s7iaps his fingers.) Welcome those pleasant days.

Scene closes.']

The time long hoped for had then arrived. There was no more thought of
drowsiness or dissipation for that night, — no more of debt or difficulty for

* It will be observed that Shakspeare almost invariably makes Pistol speak in a kind of
mongrel blank verse — apparently in remote imitation of the masques, pageants, and miracle
plays then recently introduced into this country from Italy — fashionable amusements, whereat
the worthy ancient (in his capacity of hanger-on of all dirty work to the upper classes)
doubtless frequently assisted, in a supernumerary capacity. Sir John Falstaff answers him
playfully, from one of the earliest known specimens of this kind of composition — See Payne
Collier's History of Dramatic Poetry, and other works to be met with in the admirable and
compendious catalogue of the British Museum, which will amply repay pcnisal.

172 LIFE OF FALSTAFP.

the future. Henry of Monmouth — Sir John's pet pupil, his " tender lamb-
kin " — was king ; and surely, if such feelings as gratitude and goodfellow-
ship existed in the hearts of princes, no man had greater right to look forward
to emoluments and dignities under the new regime than Sir John Falstaff.
He himself was incapable of forgetting old friends in his prosperity, and he
could not suspect such baseness in others. We have heard him declare that
he would double charge Pistol with dignities, that Master Shallow might
choose what office he would in the land — it should be his ! Bardolph,
knowing his master's disposition, would not take a knighthood for his fortune.
Not one present was omitted from the circle of Sir John Falstaff 's compre-
hensive benevolence. Even to poor Master Silence he performed the only
kindness which that vocalist was just then capable of benefiting by, — he
ordered his inebriated worship to be carried up to bed !

Depend upon it, there was no time lost in booting and saddling for the
townward journey. Be sure that the command to "take any man's horses "
was carried out to the letter, and backed by the legal warrant of Justice
Shallow — (for were they not on His Majesty's service? could the govern-
ment of the realm possibly go on without the immediate presence in the
capital of Sir John Falstaff?)

What a terrible distance was that which separated Sir John from London
and the young king ! How he wished for the power to annihilate time and
space ! Alas ! he was born in a wrong age for locomotive purposes. Half-
a-dozen centuries earlier, a knight-errant of his vast merit and renown,
wishing for a rapid mode of transit, would but have had to summon his
guardian fairy, and that obliging genius would have ordered her griffins to be
put-to for his accommodation, with a lift in her enchanted car, immediately.
In the present day, four hundred and forty years later, the thing would be
scarcely more difficult. A post-chaise to the Tewkesbury station, and a
special train thence to London, would settle the matter in three or four
houi's. But the task of conveying Sir John Falstaff, rapidly, over the vile
roads of the fifteenth century, by mere horse-power, would be a difficulty
which the mind of a Pickford alone could be qualified to grapple with.

And yet, incredible as it may seem, Sir John Falstaff actually contrived
to reach the metropolis on the third day after his departure from Master
Shallow's residence. I am not prepared to say that no magic power was
employed in effecting this apparently miraculous transit. On the contrary,
the aid of a rather potent magician appears to have been successfully invoked
for the occasion — one, at whose bidding, the roughest roads become level, the
stoutest doors fly open, the veriest grillins, tigers, crocodiles, and Cerberi of
gate-keepers become docile as lambs ; an enchanter, at whose very aspect, or

PANIC OF THE COURT. . 173

even name, horses saddle themselves, inn-tables spread themselves, corks fly-
out of self-pouring wine-bottles, pigs spit themselves, larks, pheasants, and
wild duck stop in their mid- air course, and fall, ready-stuffed and roasted, on
to eager travellers' plate. Need I say that I allude to the evil, but fasci-
nating necromancer, King Money ? i

Sir John Falstaff bokrowed a thousand pounds of Master Robert
Shallow !

I would have it printed in letters of gold, would the arrangements of the
printing-office admit of such distinction, for I am proud to chronicle so
meritorious an achievement, the glory of which is doubled by the moral
certainty that Master Shallow never received a single farthing of the money
back again. On one account only can I be brought to regret the transaction :
I am sorry the amount was not two thousand.

IX.

INAUGURATION OF THE NEW REGIME. — MALIGNITY OF THE LORD CHIEF

JUSTICE.

The news of Henry the Fourth's decease was the occasion of a state of
public excitement to which we should in vain look for a parallel in any
dynastic or ministerial crisis of modern times. Rumour, with ail her hundred
tongues gabbling at once, flew hither and thither, announcing that the respect-
abilities were " out," and the reprobates " in." For a few brief hours Sir John
Falstaff really ranked, in the popular estimation, as the most influential sub-
ject in the realm (and that distinction, however briefly enjoyed, is something
for a man to look back to with satisfaction!) The knight's "paper,"
previously a drug in the money-market, was eagerly bought up by the Jews,
calling themselves Lombards*, of the city. Traders, on the fair pages of
whose ledgers the name of Sir John Falstaff had long stood as a blot and
eyesore, ordered expensive dinners, and made rash presents to their wives
and daughters. Others, who had issued writs for the apprehension of the

* A precaution necessitated by the rigour of the existing statute law, which excluded the
Jewish people from residence on English soil. Two unredeemed." obligacions," in the hand-
writing of Sir John Falstaff, for considerable sums advanced, — one by Cosmo di Levi, the
other by Ichi di Solomoni, — are still in existence, to attest the observance of this rule. —
Vide Strongate MSS.

174 LIFE or FALSTAFF.

knight's person, called in tliose documents with breathless eagerness. Grave
burgesses, lawyers, and even ecclesiastics, who had the day before commented
severely on our hero's irregularities, now boasted of his acquaintance, and
quoted his witticisms. A spirited hatter in the ward of Chepe displayed, in
front of his booth, a new falling hood-shape, labelled with the recom-
mendation, "as wokne by Sir John Falstaffe and ye Courte," for copies
of which he received an incredible number of orders. The " Old Boar's
Head" did such a morning's stroke of business as had not been achieved
within the memory of the oldest tippler. The principal wine-merchants of
tlie Vintry obsequiously intimated to Mrs. Quickly that unlimited credit
would be given to her at their respective establishments, and our worthy
hostess's landlord immediately doubled her rent.

The feeling of the Court may be summed up in one word — panic. The
favourites of the late king thought of nothing less than packing up their port-
manteaus, and making the best of their way to their several country seats.
The opinion was universal that Sir John FalstaiF would be raised to a rank, at
all events, equivalent to what we call prime minister ; and it was of course
anticipated that our knight would select his companions in office from men of
character and habits congenial to his own. It is needless to say that none
such could be found amongst the lugubrious familiars of the late monarch.
The princes of the blood themselves — the new king's own brothers — were by
no means free from the general apprehension. It seems rather odd that they
should have believed in the possibility of gratitude existing in the bosom of one
of their own blood ; but it is nevertheless certain that they agreed to look on
Sir John Falstaff in the light of " the coming man, ' a prospect they regarded
with considerable apprehension and alarm. For they were by no means
jovial princes, these young fellows. " A man," as Sir John himself had ob-
served of one of them, " could not make them laugh." The individual Prince
here referred to was John of Lancaster, afterwards Duke of Bedford, whom
we have already seen distinguish himself by treacherously butchering a band
of generous foemen, who had trusted themselves unarmed to his honour — an
achievement which he followed up later in life by a congenial experiment
on the person of one Joan of Arc, at Rouen, in Normandy. A second was
the renowned Duke Humphrey, whose social and hospitable qualities have
grown into a proverb. These two will serve as examples of tlic entire
stock. Such men could scarcely have felt much sympathy for, or hoped
anything from the friendship of. Sir John Falstaff.

As for the Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne, he no sooner heard of the old
king's death than he proceeded to make what, in modern colloquial parlance,
is termed " a bolt of it." He had been hanging anxiously about the palace

THE NEW KING THROWS OFF THE MASK. 175

during the morning, and on the confirmation of his worst fears took pre-
cipitately to his heels. He was detected in that sagacious but undignified act
by the Earl of Warwick*, who detained him in conversation.

Gascoigne made no concealment of his terrors ; and indeed the noble earl
gave him no encouragement whatever to their mitigation. They agreed —
with the Princes John, Humphrey, and Thomas, who, accompanied by the
Earl of Westmoreland and other nobles of the Court, soon after joined their
conference — that the common prospects of the late king's favourites and
admirers were decidedly unfavourable. It was the opinion of the Earl of
Warwick that many nobles who " should hold their places " (meaning himself
for one), would have to " strike sail to spirits of vile sort ; " as a specimen
whereof it is presumed he had the impudence to allude to the hero of these
pages. The Chief Justice confessed himself prepared for the worst, admit-
ting that the "condition of the time" could not look "more hideously" upon
him than his imagination had pictured to him. It was admitted, on all hands,
that his lordship's only safe policy would be to adopt the unpalatable course
of " speaking Sir John FalstafF fair." This salutary piece of advice was first
ofiei-ed by the Duke of Clarence. And I am willing to stake my reputation
as a historian upon the statement that the Lord Chief Justice was perfectly
j)repared to act upon it, had not things taken a wholly unexpected turn. For
he was silent on the subject ; and the case was evidently one of those wherein
silence is consent.

But the new king made his appearance amongst the group (who were
waiting in an antechamber like criminals to hear their sentence), and speedily
changed the aspect of things. He threw off the mask at once. He had no
intention to alter anything. He had stepped into his father's shoes, and
meant to walk in his father's footsteps. Le rot est mort, vive le roi! If they
had really been taken in by his having falsely represented himself as a jovial
good sort of fellow, why, he could only feel flattered by the compliment to
his powers of personation. In reality, he had succeeded to the tyrannical
and conquering business of his unlamented father, which he intended to carry
on with spirit, accepting all the premises, bad-will, and fixtures as he found
them. The princes and eai-ls were, of course, delighted, as feeling assured of
a lenffthened tenure of Court favour and ofiice. But the Lord Chief Justice
Avas still uneasy. He had once committed the present King of England to
prison, and monarchs are not in the habit of forgetting personal afii-onts.

* Immediately after the death of the king, Warwick stops Gascoigne in a " room in the
palace," with the questions, " How now my Lord Chief Justice ? Whither away?" The pre-
varicating responses of the learned justice betray his nervous anxiety to be off. — Vide Henry
IV. Pait II. Act V. Scene 2.

176 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

I have before hinted at a possibility that this event was a matter of private
arrangement between the prince and the judge, for purposes of mutual
popularity. But to take a liberty with a prince, even at his own request, is
always a ticklish business. If you exceed the limit of your instructions, woe
betide you ! I do not say that such was the case ; but it is barely probable
that the cell to which the Prince of Wales was confined on the occasion in
question, may have proved rather more damp, and less comfortable, than His
Royal Highness had intended. At any rate, it is certain that Gascoigne on
this, his first meeting with King Henry the Fifth (in the royal capacity), was
in a state of great trepidation, and evidently apprehended nothing less than
immediate disgrace and suspension from oflace. Recovering, however, a
little courage and composure at the new King's indications of a disposition
to carry out his late father's policy — I was about to say principles — he
ventured upon a little special pleading in defence of his conduct in the
matter of the world-famous police case, which he judiciously mixed up with
a little covert flattery — delicately hinting that Henry the Fifth himself
might some day have a disreputable son, to whose vagaries a severe adminis-
tration of the Common Law might prove a wholesome corrective. Acting on
the old north-country proverb that " the old Avoman would never have looked
in the oven for her daughter if she hadn't been there herself," His Majesty
King Henry the Fifth (a sagacious man at all times) saw the wisdom of this
suggestion, and at once confirmed Chief Justice Gascoigne in the permanent
enjoyment of his dignities and emoluments.

I grieve to write it — but the deed was done, and it shall be chronicled.
The first employment made by the Chief Justice of his new lease of power
was to indulge in a dastardly act of vengeance. With indecent haste he
rushed from the palace, and issued warrants for the apprehension of Mistress
Helen Quickly, licensed victualler, and of Mistress Dorothea Tearsheet,
spinster, on a frivolous and untenable charge. For what reason ? it will be
asked. I can find no better one than that the former was the friend, and the
latter the beloved kinswoman, of Sir John FalstafF. Do you suppose the justice
had forgotten the setting down he had received at the hands of our hero, the
substance of which (transferred from the pages of " Shakespeare "), will be
found in the second chapter of the fourth book of this history? And with
the petty vindictiveness we have seen him employ on more than one occasion,
is it probable that he was at all the sort of man to behave in the hour of his
own triumph with magnanimity towards a fallen foe ? We will waive the
question of Gascoigne being possibly indebted to Mrs. Quickly for early board
and lodging, as being, if not irrelevant, at any rate superfluous. The case is
quite black enough against him as it stands.

SYMPTOMS OF DECLINE AND PALL. 177

At any rate, it is certain that the two ladies in question were ignominiously
arrested by the warrant of the Chief Justice *, and to complete their disgrace
(and Sir John Falstaff's) transferred from the custody of the constables to
that of the town beadle. .

In proof that the arrest had been made under circumstances of extreme
injustice and barbarity, it need only be urged that each of the fair captives
was so violently provoked by her aggressors, as entirely to forget all her
antecedents of good breeding and propriety, and to indulge in positively
coarse and abusive language.

Mistress Tearsheet, for instance, was betrayed into the following decidedly
unladylike outburst, addressed to a beadle in human form : —

"I'll tell thee what, thou thin man in a censer! I will have you as soundly
swinged for this, you hlue-bottle rogue ! you filthy, famished correctioner !
if you be not swinged, I'll forswear half kirtles."

I have extracted this passage from the chronicle, not for the vulgar pur-
pose of harrowing the reader's feelings with the spectacle of lovely woman
goaded by injustice and violence even to the pitch of unbecoming self-forget-
fulness, but from motives purely archaeological. The derisive term "blue-
bottle " — so frequently heard in the present day, applied to the guardians of
the public peace by ladies and gentlemen in circumstances of trial similar to
those of Mistress Tearsheet — is thereby proved to have had an origin at all
events as early as. the commencement of the fifteenth century, — a valuable
antiquarian discovery, for which I trust some learned gentleman with capital
letters after his name will be just enough to give me credit in the pages of
some eminent scientific journal.

Ere the hour of noon had that day sounded Sir John Falstafi^'s bills were
again waste paper. His creditors, who had indulged in costly dinners, and
given rash presents to their wives and daughters, countermanded their sup-
pers, and withdrew their names from numerous charitable subscription lists.
The writs were re-issued. The hatter in the Ward of Chepe altered his
placard to "Y® Gascoigne Shape," and disposed of his invention more
rapidly than before. By half-past three in the afternoon the sheriiF's officers
were in possession of the " Old Boar's Head " for a pitiful debt to a small ale
brewer.

* If not by his warrant, by whose ? What less dignified functionary would have presumed
to put so large a construction on the English laws of the period as that manifested by tlie
arrest in question ? I would cheerfully pause for a reply, were not the printer's boy in such
an abominable hurry.

178 LIFE OF FALSTAFP.

X.

CORONATION OF HENRY THE FIFTH. — TRIUMPH OF THE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE
GASCOIGNE, AND DISGRACE OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.

The coronation of Henry the Fifth took place immediately on his assumption
of the royal dignity. Authorities differ as to the exact date of this imposing
ceremony. Fleming, in his Chronicle, fixes it as late as the 9th of April, in
Avhich he is supported by Stowe and a host of respectable authorities. Rapin
comes nearer the probable truth in assigning it to the first of the same
month — a date which leaves us not without slight suspicion of a seasonable
pleasantry intended by the lively French historian at the expense of his
readers. The general balance of probabilities, supported by important cir-
cumstantial evidence, brought to light in the search after materials for this
history, points out the 22nd of March as the day on which Henry the Fifth
practically succeeded to the crown of his father's cousin. In those days a
king was considered no king until he had worn the crown ; and as it was
never in the least degree clear, even to the most discerning intellect, to whom
the crown really belonged, the important claim of possession was naturally
the first thing thought of by the individual enjoying the nearest prospect of
its appropriation. It is hardly probable that a sagacious prince like Heni-y
of Monmouth should have postponed the vital ceremony a single day longer
than was absolutely necessary. Pressing necessities of state afforded a decent
excuse for hastening the funeral of Henry the Fourth ; and there can be no
doubt that his successor's publicly announced alacrity to walk in his father's
footsteps induced him to try on the paternal coronation shoes on the earliest
possible occasion.

Should any doubts on this subject exist, they are at once dispelled by refe-
rence to the facts already in the possession of the reader — which it may be
as well to recapitulate. Sir John Falstaff received the tidings of the old
king's death on the 19th of March. On the third day after this our knight
was in London. That the day of Sir John's arrival in the metropolis was
also that of Henry's coronation is a matter of history.

The chronicler Fleming, speaking of the auspicious accession of Henry the
Fifth to the throne of England, informs us that — " Such great hope and good
" expectation was had of this man's fortunate successc to follow, that within
" three daies after his father's decease diverse noble men and honorable
" personages did to him homage and sware to him due obedience, which had

Y^^W f^^Snr^ESS^

REMARKS ON THE WEATHER. 179

" not beene scene done to any of his predecessors kings of this realme, till
" they had beene possessed of the crowne," Differing with the learned and
voluminous chronicler as to the absence of precedent in such matter of
homage (the worship of the rising sun, on the appearance of his first rays of
power, being older in England than Stonehenge), I can only say that there
was no noble man or honourable personage whatever in the realm more
eager to do to the new king homage, and swear to him due obedience, than
Sir John Falstaff, Knight. Only that unfortunately Sir John was, as
usual, a little too late with his homage. All the nice pickings of court
favour and promotion had been snapped up before his arrival.

The coronation day, in the words of the venerable chronicler last quoted,
was " a sore, ruggie and tempestuous day, with wind, snow and sleet, that
" men greatlie marvelled thereat, making diverse interpretations what the
" same might signifie." To Sir John Falstaff it might have been interpreted
to signify the cold blasts of adversity, icy ingratitude, flowery visions blown
into the air, fair prospects nipped in the bud, the tree of Hope torn up by the
roots and lying prostrate !

The day, however, so inauspiciously commenced would seem to have
cleared up, as upon the conclusion of the coronation ceremony (with the
details whereof it is not the present writer's business to encumber his pages)
the royal party proceeded on foot in solemn procession from the gateway of
Westminster Abbey to Richard the Second's great hall, in the neighbouring
palace. It is true that the royal party might have got wet in so doing — the
umbrella not having been yet invented, and the cab-stand being an institution
undreamt of even by the most Utopian imagination. But I am inclined to
think that if Henry the Fifth's first public appearance as a crowned head
had been made under circumstances so unfavourable to dignity as a pelting
shower, some adverse chronicler would have taken care to mention the
circumstance. If the newly-placed crown, for instance, had been blown off
into the mud, or if the gartered leg of majesty had got over its ankle in a
puddle of the period, depend upon it we should have heard of it. There
were plenty of literary men present, who would not have failed to report
such a cii'cumstance. There was John Lydgate, the monk of Bury, for one,
who had come to town expressly to superintend the rehearsal of a coronation
anthem (composed, it was whispered, by the king himself), to which the
worthy ecclesiastic had adapted words. John, as a faithful courtier and pro-
fessional laureate, would infallibly have immortalised any such calamity in
sympathetic verse. And we should most likely have had the subject treated
from a facetious point of view, for the coronation guests of that day had

" A chiel amang them taking notes "
T 2

180 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

from North Britain ; one James Stuart, in fact, a shrewd liumorist, an
excellent poet, and a man of genius generally, but who having made the
mistake of coming into the world some five hundred years before his time,
and wishing to force upon an independent Scottish nobility the glaring
anachronism of an enlightened government in the fifteenth century, was very
properly shown the error of his ways, and duly assassinated at midnight in
his own chamber, according to the custom of that country and period. Alto-
gether I prefer adhering to Mr. Cruikshank's pictorially recorded opinion of
the weather on the occasion of Henry the Fifth's first emerging a crowned
monarch from the portals of Edward the Confessor's venerable minster. The
wish is father to the thought, I admit. If only for the sake of the fair spec-
tators in the balcony, I must strive to believe that the day turned out fine.
I cannot bear to think that those dainty creatures — many of whose effigies
may doubtless be found, at this day, in the neighbouring cloisters, lying on
their backs, with crossed hands and chipped noses (attributed, by the vergers
of the abbey, as a matter of course, to the iconoclast malice of Oliver
Cromwell) — should have had their hoods, kirtles, and day's pleasure spoiled
by the " wind, snow, and sleete " of a " ruggie and tempestuous day."
Depend upon it that, towards ten o'clock in the morning (the hour at which,
according to the early habits of the period, the coronation ceremony would
have come to a close), the sky began to clear up.

In a literal and physical sense only, be it understood. Metaphorically, as
far as Sir John Falstaif was concerned, the sun was never destined to shine
more ; for the sun of poor old Jack's existence was Henry Plantagenet, fifth
king of England by that name, and the face of that sun Jack Falstaff" was
never to see but once again. And then — oh, Nemesis, Parcoe, and all
unkind heathen deities whatsoever ! — with what clouds before it ?

Clouds of coldness, of displeasure, of — yes, I will say it, and quite in
earnest — of cruelty. Aye, and a yet more impenetrable obstruction to the
desired rays than any such clouds — the presence of a powerful enemy ! On
the brief and only occasion of Sir John Falstaff" being brought ftice to face
with King Henry the Fifth (as a crowned monarch) Chief Justice Gascoignc
was at His Majesty's elbow, the most favoured servant of the realm. Alas !
poor Jack !

Let us particularise the scene.

Sir John Falstaff" — with Master Shallow, his friend; Bardolph, his hench-
man, maitre d'hotel, valet, and factotum ; Pistol, his indefinite subaltern ;
and Robin, his page — reached the gates of Westminster Abbey just as the
ringing of bells and the harmonious swelling of many hundred voices within
the sacred edifice, almost drowned by the shouts of the populace outside,
announced that the ceremony was at an end. Sir John had ridden post, his

WAITING FOR THE KING. 181

impatience scarcely allowing him to sleep during the whole of his three days'
journey. He was untrimmed, draggled, jaded, and travel-stained. He was
nervous, breathless, excited. I am not prepared to assert positively that he
was quite sober ; and, indeed, it may be slightly palliative to the conduct of
Henry the Fifth, which I am about to describe in terms of the severest
reprehension, that — for a newly-crowned monarch of doubtful antecedents,
anxious to stand well with the more respectable portion of the community —
to be hailed as a bosom friend, in the presence of kings, princes, and ambas-
sadors, by a group composed of Messrs. FalstafF, Shallow, Bardolph, and Co.,
under the influence of a three days' journey, having been for the most part
performed in bad weather, in the course of which frequent attempts had
doubtless been made to replace the important necessity of sleep by recourse
to refreshment of a widely different character, — would naturally be rather
a trying business. However, let us to the facts.

Of course Sir John FalstafF had sufficient influence with the guards and
retainers to force his way through barriers of every description. He was
treated with negative respect on all sides ; but he certainly did not meet
with the enthusiastic reception he had anticipated. As he glanced anxiously
round on the many familiar faces pi'esent, he noticed an expression of awk-
wardness and constraint upon each. Many old acquaintances averted their
heads. Such as were bound to recognise the knight did so in terms of
studied formality. Sir John began to feel the raw March atmosphere abso-
lutely oppressive. He strove to crush his rising misgivings.

" Stand here, by me. Master Robert Shallow," he said, lugging that magis-
trate through the last layer of the king's Cheshire archers that stood between
them and the royal pathway. " I will make the king do you grace. I will
leer at him as he comes by, and do but mark the countenance that he will
give me."

" Bless thy lungs, good knight ! " said the valiant Pistol, who had already
shown himself publicly in his ancient haunts, and, indeed, turned a pretty
penny by the acceptance of peace-offerings from myrmidons of the law, his
former enemies and oppressors.

'.' Come here. Pistol ; stand behind me," said Sir John. Alack, how
nervous he was getting ! He twirled and plucked at the ends of his beard
till he winced with pain. He gnawed his finger nails. He played the old
gentleman's tattoo with his mud-stained boot on the steaming rushes beneath
him. He twisted buttons off his just-au-corps. His breath was short, his
under lip drooped, and his teeth chattered.

" Oh, if I had had time to have made new liveries, I would have bestowed
the thousand pounds 1 borrowed of you ! "

X 3

182 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

Master Shallow winced. He, too, was nervous.

" But 'tis no matter ; this poor show doth better ; this doth infer the zeal
I had to see him."

" It doth so." Master Shallow breathed his answer thickly.

" It shows my earnestness in affection."

" It doth so."

" My devotion."

" It doth, it doth, it doth."

(Heavens ! how Master Shallow must have twiddled with his chain or
chewed at the cape of his riding hood as he repeated these words in rapid
crescendo !)

" As it were, to ride day and night, and not to deliberate, not to remember,
not to have patience to shift me."

" It is most certain."

" But to stand stained with travel and sweating with desire to see him ;
thinking of nothing else ; putting all affairs else in oblivion, as if there were
nothing else to be done but to see him."

" 'Tis semper idem for absque hoc nihil est^' put in Pistol. " 'Tis all in
every part."

" 'Tis so, indeed." Master Shallow gasped out these words, which were
scarcely audible. He was in a high state of trepidation, and it will be
admitted that he had exactly one thousand reasons for feeling so.

The moments seemed hours. Would the king never come? Sir John
almost dreaded that he should die with his eyes unblessed by the sight of his
royal pupil and favourite, clad in the attributes of majesty. His gaze was
riveted on the cathedral door. He was deaf to all sounds in his eager
listening for one well-known footstep. Pistol vainly attempted to enlist his
sympathies by a narrative of the wrongs of the Fair Dorothea. Sir John
mechanically promised to deliver the captive princess from her oppressors,
but his words scarcely conveyed a meaning.

The anthem swelled. The shouts were resumed. Officious retainers
bustled forth to clear the way. Sir John Falstaff's heart beat almost audibly.
He felt sick and giddy as a dazzling vision burst upon his sight — round
which all other objects on the scene, animate and inanimate, seemed whirling
like weird shapes in a demon dance about a magic fire. King Henry the
Fifth, in all the pride and splendour of newly anointed majesty, stood before
him !

I dare be bound Henry of Monmouth never more thoroughly merited
Master Stowe's simple panegyric on his personal graces than at that moment.
"This prince," says the worthy old Cockney, "exceeded the mean stature of
men ; he was beautiful of visage, his neck long, bud^c slender and leanc,

DISGRACE OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 183

and his bones small ; nevertheless he was of marvellous great strength, and
passing swift in running."

I have no doubt that His Majesty, on reaching the open air, would
have been but too happy to exercise his skill in the latter accomplish-
ment so as to avoid the compromising -recognition of Sir John Falstaff and
his friends, had circumstances permitted ; but it was an ordeal not to be
avoided.

" Save thy grace, King Hal ! My royal Hal ! " Sir John shouted at the
top of his voice.

It is possible that Sir John Falstaff 's muddy boots, drenched doublet, three
days' linen and all, might have been tolerated on the score of gentle birth
and past services. But there was no getting over the bodily presence of
Bardolph, Pistol, and a dilapidated, draggle-tailed country justice from the
wilds of Gloucestershire.

" The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal imp of fame ! " was the
salutation of Pistol.

" Save thee, my sweet boy ! " added Falstaff.

Henry the Fifth was certainly a great man. The opportunity for exer-
cising his " passing swiftness in running " failing him, he was fain to fall
back upon his "marvellous great strength" of moral assurance, and appear to
deny all knowledge of his former associates. He drew himself up to his full
height, " exceeding the mean stature of men," and, turning to the illustrious
dignitary at his side, said coldly —

" My Lord Chief Justice, speak to that vain man."

Which of course my Lord Chief Justice was only too eager to do, in his
own chosen terms.

"Have you your wits? know you what 'tis you speak?" his lordship
inquired, in his most withering, commit-you-three-months-for-contempt-of-
court tones.

" My king! my Jove! " Falstaff had eyes and ears for the monarch alone.
" I speak to thee, my heart."

It was no easy matter "to cut" Sir John Falstaff. He would make
himself heard ; and nature had provided him with the amplest resources for
making himself seen. The future conqueror of Agincourt was for a moment
nonplussed. But, with characteristic promptness, he rapidly decided on the
part he should play. .Taking Sir John's last greeting as his cue to speak, he
gave utterance to one of the most remarkable royal speeches on record.
The only assumed verbatim report of this oration extant is from the pen of
Shakspeare, by whom it was, doubtless, slightly modified, as to verbal con-
struction, in obedience to the rules of versification usually observed by

X 4

184 LIFE OF FALSTAFF

writers of his school and epoch. But there is no reason to believe that any

undue advantage of the reporter's prescriptive licence to correct, harmonise,

and embellish, was taken on the occasion. That the substance of the speech

was as follows we have the amplest corroborative evidence in the pages of

various contemporary historians : —

" I know thee not, old man ! Fall to thy prayers.
How ill white hairs become a fool and jester !
I have long dreamed of such a kind of man,
So surfeit swell'd, so old, and so profane ;
But, being awake, I do despise my dream.
Make less thy body, hence, and more thy grace ;
Leave gormandising ; know the grave doth gape
For thee thrice wider than for other men."

As one entertaining an excusable professional jealousy on behalf of the
much-maligned and decidedly unprofitable calling of "fool and jester" —
(which I was so injudicious as to take up with, very early in life, and have
already an "ill-becoming" sprinkling of premature "white hairs" amongst my
black ones, to show as a natural consequence of that error) — I dwell with
malicious pleasure on the fact that, at this juncture of his homily, his no
longer jocular majesty, Henry the Fifth, was suddenly "pulled up" by a
reminder, on the countenance of his senior whom he had presumed to lecture,
that he, the king, had unconsciously slipped back into his old habits, and,
while reprimanding levity, had committed himself by making a joke upon
Falstaflf's bulk, as in the jolly old days of the Boar's Head fraternisation. In
the words of an able commentator upon this historical passage : — " He saw
the rising smile and smothered retort upon Falstaff's lip, and he checks him
with — ' Reply not to me with a fool-born jest.' "

The very thing he was afraid of! He had rashly challenged old Jack with
the knight's own weapons, and was fain to plead benefit of royalty to sneak
out of the combat in which he knew he must be worsted. To impose silence
on his adversary was his only chance.

He continued : —

" Presume not that I am the thing I was :
For Heaven doth know, so shall the world perceive,
That I have turn'd away my former self,
So will I those that kept me company.
When thou dost hoar I am as I have been,
Approach me ; and thou shalt be as thou wast,
The tutor and the feeder of my riots ;
Till then, I banish thee on pain of death.
As I have done the rest of my misleaders,
JVot to come near our person by ten mile.
For competence of life I will allow you,
That lack of means enforce you not to evil ;
And as we hear you do rclorm yourselves,
Wo will, according to your strength and qualities.

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PUT NOT YOUR TRUST IN PRINCES ! 185

Give you advancement.— Be it your charge, my lord,
To sec perform'd the tenor of our word.
Get on."

And then King Henry the Fifth, with his crown on, followed by his
brothers, cousins, nobles, ambassadors, clergy, mace-bearers, sword-bearers,
pages, retainers, and what not — by no means forgetting James the First,, poet
and King of Scotland (who, I am sure, cast a glance of sympathy at the
paralysed figure of Sir John FalstafT, kneeling aghast and open-mouthed
among the damp rushes of the courtyard), and Master John Lydgate, the
laureate monk of Bury (who also, I am willing to believe, was rather dis-
tressed at the turn things had unfortunately taken) — took the arm of the
triumphant Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne, and proceeded to dinner in the
hall of Richard the Second, as though such a person as John Falstaff had
never had existence.

Sir John, after a moment's stupefaction, started to his feet. He pressed
his hand over his burning eyeballs, A convulsive shudder passed through
his entire system ; and one brief sob escaped him. It was over. Sir John
relieved his oppressed lungs of a long-pent-up breath ; wiped his smoking
forehead, and looked composedly at Justice Shallow, Justice Shallow looked
at Sir John FalstafF. Not composedly though, by any means.

" Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pounds," said Sir John FalstafT.
It was a fact at all events, and, therefore, worthy of mention.

"Ay, marry Sir John," the justice faltered, "which I beseech you to let
me have home with me."

"That can hardly be. Master Shallow," was the reply. "Do not you
grieve at this ; I shall be sent for in private to him ! Look you, he must seem
thus to the world. Fear not your advancement ; I will be the man yet that
shall make you great,"

"I cannot well perceive how, unless" — imminent pecuniary danger had
lent the worthy justice unwonted smartness, — "you should give me your
doublet and stuff me out with straw, I beseech you, good Sir John, let
me have five hundred of my thousand."

" Sir, I will be as good as my word : this that you heard was but a
colour."

" A colour, I fear, that you will die in. Sir John."

"Fear no colours; go with me to dinner. Come, Lieutenant Pistol*;
come, Bardolph ; I shall be sent for to-night."

Sir John Falstaff had not to wait until nightfall ere he was sent for.
Scarcely had he spoken when the Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne, accompanied

* A spontaneous promotion of the worthy Ancient, as it would seem, upon the brevet
principle.

186 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

by Prince John of Lancaster (whose grudge against our knight, for the
Gualtree aifair, was, if possible, stronger than that of the justice himself),
reappeared on the scene with a posse of constables. These men had even
quitted a royal dinner table for the gratification of private vengeance. Could
the force of malignity go further ?

The lord chief justice, not trusting himself to an accusation which might
have led to discussion, wherein he would inevitably have been discomfited,
ordered Sir John Falstaff and his companions to be conveyed to the Fleet
Prison I

Sir John naturally attempted to protest against a persecution so unpre-
cedented.

"My lord, my lord, "

" I cannot now speak," said the chief justice. "I will hear you soon. Take
them away."

And they were taken away — Bardolph, Pistol, and poor little Robin
included — aye, and even Master Robert Shallow, of Gloucestershire, in the
commission of the peace, custos rotuloritm, whose only oflTence was one against
the laws of ordinary human judgment; to wit, that he had lent Sir John
Falstaff the sum of one thousand pounds under the impression that he would
one day get it back again.

Now I should be very much obliged to any individual learned in the anti-
quities of English law, who will inform me by what then existing statute Sir
John Falstaff, with his friend and retainers, were committed to the Fleet
Prison ? If, after all I have been at the pains of writing in the course of
this publication, — since the acknowledged failure of my attempt to make out
a case in favour of the Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne — there should remain
any apologists for the character and conduct of that eminent justiciary, I
should also feel thankful to them if they can inform me how they intend
reconciling the behaviour of their protege, on this occasion, with his hitherto
established reputation as an upright judge. With regard to Prince John
of Lancaster, afterwards Duke of Bedford, I trouble myself but little.
History can have left him no friends. No amount of apologetic whitewash
would serve to frost over the thick coating of smut from the funeral pyre
of Joan of Arc, by which his memory must stand blackened to all eternity.

Apropos des hottes. I am happy to be able to convict Henry the Fifth in
a glaring falsehood. He did not banish, " on pain of death," the whole of his
early associates in debauchery and misdemeanour, nor forbid them all " to
come near his person by ten mile." Master Edward Poins, a discreet, time-
serving young gentleman, continued in the enjoyment of court favour,
and received the dignity of knig' thood on the very day of his majesty's
coronation.

187

BOOK THE FIFTH.

1413 — 1415.

SIR JOHN FALSTAFP IN EXILE. — CONSEQUENT STAGNATION IN THE COURT OF
HENRY THE FIFTH. THE WINDSOR CAMPAIGN, ITS MOTIVES AND RESULTS.

The accession of Henry the Fifth to the throne of England was not marked
by such lavish and prolonged rejoicings as the people of that time were
accustomed to on similar occasions. Things, indeed, seem to have been done
on rather a niggardly and puritanical scale. For this there were doubtless
many sufficient reasons. The royal treasury was impoverished. The nation
had not been engaged in a civil war for several months, and the public mind
was getting impatient for the recurrence of that indispensable necessary of
national life — which indeed was kindly furnished them by certain patriots
who (for lack of better excuse) pretended that King Richard the Second
was still alive and a claimant to the throne — a contingency which the
statesmanlike policy of the late King Henry had most eifectually guarded
against. Moreover the newly crowned monarch, having so publicly pledged
himself to measures of reform, and the adoption of business-like habits, was
in common consistency bound to show signs of moral amendment by setting
about the invasion of a foreign country, and torturing to death certain
dangerous persons who had ventured to differ with him in religious opinions.
The body of Richard the Second had to be exhumed and exhibited for public
inspection. The conquest of France had to be undertaken. The exacting
spirit of the times, moreover, required that a reward of 337/. 105. should be
offered by the crown for the apprehension of Sir John Oldcastle *, the supposed
leader of a Protestant conspiracy, — a circumstance in itself sufficient, (con-
sidering that the accused might have been caught and the reward claimed,)
in the then existing state of the exchequer, to indispose the monarch for any

* Oldcastle was good enough to keep out of the way, in return for which considerate
behaviour he was let oft' with a " grand cursing at St. Paul's Cross." He was captured four
years later, and " roasted to death by a tire kindled under him " at Smithfield — the crown
being then in better ciicumstauces and able to defray the expenses of his prosecution.

188 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

exuberance of mirth or expenditure. But unquestionably the arch reason
why the coronation festivities should have gone off flatly and without bril-
liancy or eclat was the absence from court of the man whose gifts and ante-
cedents would naturally have pointed him out as the arbiter elegantiarum for
the occasion. The master of the revels — which did not take place — was at
the time of their non-occurrence a languishing captive, on an illegal war-
rant, in the Fleet Prison. The idea of any merriment in the court of Henry
the Fifth without the assistance of Sir John Falstaff is simply preposterous.
But Henry the Fifth had forsworn merriment and Falstaff together, and
taken up with invasion and Smithfield bonfires in their stead. The only
remarkable public boons consequent upon the coronation were a wholesale
creation of Knights of the Bath — from participation in which honour Sir
John Falstaff was of course excluded — and a general jail delivery, whereof,
equally as a matter of course, our knight took the most prompt and
summary advantage. Sir John and his companions were liberated by royal
amnesty after a confinement of twenty-four hours.

But of what use was the so-called liberty to Sir John Falstaff ? It was,
after all, but the liberty which you grant to a gudgeon when you unhook
him from the end of your fishing line and toss him contemptuously into the
nearest corn-field. Was not Sir John an exile from the court ? Had not
the idol of his misplaced affections, " his king, his Jove," forbidden him
admission to the Olympian cii'cle, where nectar and ambrosia were alone to
be found ? Had not Henry the Fifth commanded him

" Not to come near our person by ten mile ? "

He had indeed ! And that cruel radius was a rigid bar at the end of which
Sir John was ruthlessly chained ten miles aloof from all that was life, and
warmth, and breath to him. It was the very mockery of mercy. It was like
saying to a man, " I will only keep your mouth and nostrils ten inches below
the surface of the water, but above that altitude you shall never rise."
Mighty like drowning after all !

The present book, the last and saddest of our history ! will be, of necessity,
a short one. The public career of Sir John Falstaff may be said to have
terminated with the catastrophe recorded in the last chapter. The remaining
months of his existence he passed in retirement — would I could add in pros-
perity ! — as a private gentleman. There is a completeness and consistency in
the life of this remarkable man almost without parallel in history. He was
born in difficulties ; he lived sixty-three yeai's in embarrassed circumstances ;
and died in hot water. And yet throughout the whole of this trying
pilgrimage Sir John was never once tempted to depart from his guiding prin-

TWO EULES OF LIFE. 189

ciples. What were Sir John Falstaff 's guiding principles ? the inconsiderate
reader may ask, — yielding to the popularly received opinion that the knight
never had any, than which a greater mistake can scarcely be imagined. Who
shall accuse of irregularity a man who, for upwards of three-score years, based
his every act upon the rigid observance of two rules of life ? These were, firstly,
never to let his business interfere with his pleasure ; secondly, on no occjision
to suffer his income to exceed his expenditure ; principles which, it will be
admitted. Sir John adhered to in the teeth of no common or unfrequent
temptations to their abandonment. It must not be supposed that Sir John
Falstaff for a moment believed that King Henry the Fifth intended to fulfil
his promise of allowing his banished associates a sufficiency for " competence
of life ;" still less that his majesty, among his other "startling effects" of
reformation, meditated keeping his word upon so delicate a matter. There is
reason to believe that a nominal pension of three hundred pounds a year was
conferred upon our knight, but not the slightest to suppose that any measures
were ever thought of for paying as much as the first quarterly instalment.
Henry the Fifth had at least profited by Falstaff's training in this respect,
that he managed through life to make his liabilities exceed his resources, and
contrived to secure an immense deal of eclat and enjoyment without troubling
himself to pay for it. He endowed his beautiful young wife, Katherine of
Valois, out of the private fortune of his step-mother (whom he had previously
incarcerated in Pevensey Castle on a charge of witchcraft). The whole of the
young queen's household, with numerous pensioners of her family, were suffered
to help themselves out of the same convenient fund. In the year of his mar-
riage Henry drew upon the treasury of the captive dowager for a hundred
marks, which he graciously presented to the Abbess of Sion, Soon afterwards
he provided for the maintenance of his dearly beloved cousin Dame Jake*
(otherwise the Princess Jaqueline of Hainault) by the moderate allowance of a
hundred pounds a month, also to be paid from the " profits " of the dower of
Joanpa, late Queen of England. The historic parallel to these liberal dis-
bursements suggested by Sir John Falstaff paying Bardolph arrears of wages,
liquidating tavern scores for Ancient Pistol, and bestowing money on new
liveries for little Robin (with perhaps a gallant souvenir for old Mistress
Ursula, and some pretty toys for the young Whittingtons) out of the unfortu-
nate Master Shallow's thousand pounds, is most striking. A few years later
we find Sir William Bardolf, lieutenant-governor of Calais, complaining bitterly
in a letter to the king, that his garrison had only received 500Z. in the two
last years, himself having had to make up the deficiency requisite for their

* Kymer's Fcedera, vol. x. p. 134.

190 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

maintenance. There is still extant a letter, apparently written by a public
scrivener of the time, in th^ name of one Francis, a drawer at the " Old Boar's
Head " tavern, addressed to Sir John Falstaff, at the sign of " ^e JJSa&eH
CaUpc on lJ)or0CbacB," at Coventry, praying the knight to transmit by carrier
the sum of forty-eight marks seven shillings and three-farthings, the price of
lodging and entertainment afforded to Corporal Nym and others of " the
worshipful knight his following," which the said drawer asserts he has been
compelled by his mistress * to pay out of his own earnings. History delights
in these startling coincidences !

With such pressing claims upon his purse (or rather upon the purses of
other people at his disposal), as those above alluded to, it would have been
unreasonable to suppose that the king would put himself — or even any one
else — out of the way to meet his pecuniary engagements with a disgraced
favourite. Sir John Falstaff at once understood that he had little to hope
from the royal bounty or good faith. With his usual philosophy he deter-
mined to make the best of his position. Having nothing to live on but the
king's promise he determined to live upon that — and appears to have suc-
ceeded in doing so pretty comfortably. For we find him in the autumn of
1414, with a goodly retinue of followers and a stud of horses, "sitting at
ten pounds a week " at the Garter Inn, Windsor — a liberal scale of accom-
modation for which Sir John's assumed "expectations" were doubtless
accepted as permanent security.

Much idle dissertation has been wasted in Sir John Falstaff's probable
motives for making Windsor his residence at this juncture of his career.
The motives live on the surface. The court was in London. The atmosphere
of a kingly residence was, as has been shown, indispensable to Sir John
Falstaff. The neighbourhood of Windsor Castle was the most convenient
locality of that description — beyond the prescribed limits of his banishment
from the royal person. Moreover, your true knight errant must be ever
wapdering in search of new fields for adventure. The resources of Oxford,
povejitry, and other country districts our knight had doubtless long since
5;^hfau^ted. Windsor was virgin soil to him. Here he was unknown, and —
a&i-^e:'have seen — trusted.

There was an additional inducement for Sir John to visit Windsor. It
must not be supposed that he had relinquished all hope of restoration to court
favour — what deposed favourite ever did ? To the end of his days he was

* Fits of splenetic economy of this description were by no means of unfrequcnt occuirence
with good Mrs. Quickly. For the orij^inal of the document here alluded to, (the discovery of
any answer to which has hitherto battled the researches of antiquarians,) I'i't/e the Totter MSS.
vol. viii. p. 397a.

FALSTAFF COEKESPONDEXCE. 191

constantly occupied in diplomatic schemes for the recovery of his forfeited
position. He left no stone unturned in the fruitless endeavour to regain the
royal ear. He deluged his courtly acquaintances with unavailing letters on
the subject. He intrigued with secretaries, grooms-in-waiting, pages,
lacqueys, and even the lords of the bedchamber and equerries. I am afraid
he was rapidly becoming a nuisance.

It is to be regretted that the preserved fragments of the Falstaff cor-
respondence, in connection with this most interesting phase of our knight's
fortunes, are confined to two specimens.* These, however, consisting of a
letter and its answer, it would be difficult to estimate at their adequate value.
Their transference to these pages will sufficiently explain the motive for Sir
John's visit to Windsor last alluded to.

C0 ti)t mQ\)t (at WSixanti) 2!2l0r^]^tp(uT ^ir e^Jtoarlf \Bain^, Bntcrljt of ttfc
3iSntf) aiiis (Sartcr, ComjitrnllEr nf t^t ^tairca^r^, (Sroom of tijc Haunirry,
$cc. Sic, HiuriruTfl at ffiJainU^or Cajitlc, Sc tljisJ irdiJicreir.

" Ned, and be hanged in thine own garter or drowned in thine own bath, according as thou
needcst most trussing or washing.

" They told me in London thou hadst grown great at Windsor, and I hastened hither post
to witness the marvel with mine own eyes — mistrusting other testimony. Lo, I am con-
vinced! I saw thee this morning stnitting on Wykeham's Tower — marshalling the workmen
with thy wand of office, and noted that thou hadst become fat. At length, then, I may greet
thee as an equal — the more, as it would seem I myself have so dwindled to thy fonner pro-
jiortions that thou didst not know me ; but when I sought to catch thine eye, twirledst thy
chain and soughtest quarrel with a knave who was miscarrying a hod of mortar. Since, then,
thou art so puffed up and I so crushed and flattened — what should be the difference between
us ? If there be any, I prl' thee, lessen it. If at length thou hast grown to outweigh me,
slice thyself down and throw me the parings. I but claim to compound a debt. I will cry
quits for the wit I have lent thee if thou wilt give me the superabundance of favour and
dignity which in truth thou seemest still somewhat too spindle-shanked of spirit to carry with
grace. Nay, I will throw thee a good thing into the bargain. Thou lackest humility — a
commodity whereof more than I know what to do with hath been of late forced upon me.
Thou shalt have it all.

" Indite me to dinner at the Castle by ten o'clock to-morrow. Till then I will be tongue-
tied. If thou failest to send for me and to prove over many a pottle-pot that thou hast still
the memory of old times and that thou hast but assumed the guise of a strutting feathered
jackdaw as formerly thou didst that of a very owl of wisdom — on grounds of policy to be
forgiven — then will I make it known by the town- crier of Windsor what an ass thou really
art and ever will be. 'Tis a secret worth hushing and known to none better than thine,

forgivingly,

"John Falstaff.

" [In sober earnest, dear Ned, thou mayest seiwe me near him thou wottest of. I pri' thee
forget not old friends and comrades. Thou couldst not know me this morning — for reasons
I guess at. But see me and it shall bring thee to no harm. J. F.]

"At the Garter Inn, Friday, 1414. 2. H. V."

In tlic Strongate Collection.

192 LIFE OP PALSTAFF.

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING.

" Sir Edavard Poins grieves that his many duties as a humble but diligent servant of King
Henry (whom Heaven preserve !) may not permit him to enjoy the pleasure of Sir John
Falstaff's company at Windsor Castle, whereof his Most Gracious Majesty hath been pleased
to appoint Sir Edward for a time custodian. It is not, however, in Sir Edward's nature to
refuse a service to any one. If Sir John FalstaflP is anxious for himself or friends to obtain
the privilege of viewing the improvements in progress as well as the tapestries and pictures of
the palace, Sir Edward will give instructions to the wardens and porters of the building to
admit Sir John and friends to the same (within t'^ hours allotted to the admission of the
public) with the assurance that Sir John and friends will be iiccv d with right due courtesy.

" P.S. It is entreated that no largesse or drink money shall be given to any of the Castle
servitors — the same subjecting such servitors to immediate dismissal."

That Sir Edward Poins — always a faithful imitator, to the best of his
ability, of King Henry the Fifth — should have thus behaved towards his
early friend and patron will surprise no student of human nature. This
coolness and ingratitude, however, of a supposed friend had no other effect
than to induce Sir John Falstaff during his residence in the neighbourhood
to choose his associates exclusively from the middle classes — the lesser
landowners, clergy, and even small traders of extra-palatial Windsor. In
such unassuming society Sir John passed his time for the most part agreeably
enough, and not altogether unprofitably — though with many serious draw-
backs to his comfort, dignity, and finances.

On the whole, I confess, I feel no temptation whatever to expatiate upon
this portion of my hero's rapidly closing career. The Windsor adventures of
Sir John Falstaff, forming as they do the basis of one of the most admirably
faithful and picturesque of Shakspeare's historical studies, present, after all,
but an exceptional and, in my opinion, most painful episode in the knight's
history. They show us the harrowing spectacle of a great man in his decline.
Many thoughtless commentators have pronounced the portrait of Sir John
Falstaff, as drawn in the " Merry Wives of Windsor," to be wanting in veri-
similitude, and have therefore called its authenticity into question. No
discerning mind can mistake the likeness. It is the same man whom we
have so often seen drawn by the same master-hand under more favourable
cireufiistances — but how changed, how fallen ! The features are all unmis-
tak^alSly there ; but the expression, bearing, and complexion, how sadly
deteriorated ! Age, disappointment, and suffering have done their work.
Sir John can no longer hold his ground against the most contemptible
adversary. The victor is vanquished — the biter bitten. The more than
match for the keen-witted Harry Monmouth — the conqueror of Gascoigiie
and the terror of Poins — becomes the easy dupe of a couple of practical-

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MISADVENTURES AT WINDSOR. 193

joking Berkshire housewives. It is distressing to contemplate a man —
whom we have seen cross swords with Douglas ; capture Cole vile of the
Grange ; and who, after all (as hath been demonstrated), there is strong
reason to believe, was the actual slayer of the terrible Henry Percy — sunk
so low as to receive without resentment a sound cudgelling administered, in
a fit of insensate jealousy, by a bourgeois inhabitant of Peascod Street,
Windsor — who, for aught I can discover to the contrary, may have been a
retired grocer.* It may be urged that Sir John Falstaff, in justice to his
knightly standing, could not challenge an ignoble curmudgeon like Ford to
mortal combat ; and that he acted becomingly in preferring the more appro-
priate vengeance of keeping that citizen's money — intrusted to him for an
avowedly immoral purpose. This was all very well in its way, but did not
wipe out the original outrage. That shameful business of the buck-basket,
also, was an indignity to which Sir John in the heyday of his powers could
never have submitted. " Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at him " with
a vengeance, at this time, and the meanest are permitted to do so with
impunity. His very retainers turn against him (always excepting the
faithful Bardolph, who relieves his master, when under the pressure of
pecuniary difficulties, of the cost of his maintenance, by turning tapster and
waiting on the knight at another person's expense). He is even braved by
Pistol ; and that " drawling, affijcting rogue," Nym, refuses to carry his
messages. He is cajoled, hoaxed, bamboozled. He suffers himself to be
" made an ass " in Windsor Park, where he exposes himself in a tom-fool
disguise, and gets pinched by all the charity boys and girls in' the parish,
believing them to be avenging fairies. He is bound to admit that his wit has
been " made a Jack a Lent of." A Cambrian parson, even, dares to laugh at
him ; and he is " not able to answer the Welsh flannel." It is a sad business.

I repeat that I have no heart to dwell upon these painful details. Shak-
speare has not scrupled to particularise them, and the curious are referred to
his able but pitiless pages. My good friend George Cruikshank also — an
amiable man in the social relations of life, but who when there is a stern
truth to be recorded pictorially, has no more feeling than the sun peering
through a photographic lens — has added his testimony to the principal
features of the case. Let my feelings be spared — for I sympathise with
poor Sir Jack, and, with all his faults, love him.

There is tbis excuse to be urged for Sir John Falstaff's submitting to all
kinds of temporary inconvenience and degradation at the hands of the con-
temptible citizens of Windsor. His mind was occupied with more exalted

* For the evchts here referred to, see the Merry Wives of Windsor.

U

194 LIFE OP FALSTAFF.

subjects. He still contemplated the possibility of his restoration to Court
favour. He was sixty-three, it is true, and prematurely broken in constitu-
tion. But a courtier and statesman must be very old and shaken indeed to
renounce his hopes of power and advancement. Sir John watched his
opportunity, and was willing to abide his time. Vou will be willing to abide
your time, reader, at the age of a hundred (Heaven send you may live to it!)
and never suspect for a moment that your " time " will be out in the early
part of next autumn.

Sir John's opportunity (as he imagined) at length arrived. King Henry
the Fifth prepared for his memorable invasion of France, by demanding,
from the French king, the hand of the Princess Katherine, and a concession
of territory sufficiently unreasonable to ensure the refusal desired by the
English crown. The Dauphin Louis answered the application by his me-
morable present of a cask of tennis balls, which he assured King Henry
" were fitter playthings for him, according to his former course of life, than
the provinces demanded."* The British cabinet was nonplussed, there being
nobody in office capable of replying to a joke. This was Sir John Falstaff's
opportunity.

Sir John, who had, of course, his agents posted about the Court, heard
of the dilemma. He despatched the following private note to His Majesty,
having securely arranged for its certain delivery into the royal hands : —

^ ttmctB ©SlDrii ta tTjr I\tng frnm one jjcrrljancc tIjotigT)t tseaS.j

" King Hal r thou hast forgotten me, but not I thee. Thou wilt not relieve me from my

difficulty. Lo ! I relieve thee of thine.

" Write back to the French fellow, thus : —

" ' These balls shall be struck back with such a racket as shall force open Paris gates.'

" The thought is thine, for I give it to thee. Pay me for it by remembrance that I still

live and can bear armour, or not, as thou listest.

" John Falstaff.

"Note. — Observe well the clench upon rnc^e^ J, which mcancth both hurly-burly noise
and tennis bat.

"At the Garter, Windsor,
"30 March, 1415, 3 H. V."

In the course of a few days Sir John learnt that his witticism (unac-
knowledged) had been made use of as a rejoinder to the insolent message of
the dauphin. He accepted this as a recognition of renewed friendly disposi-
tions towards him on the king's part. He hastily raised such funds as his

* Hullinshed. Vide also White Kennet's History; and an inedited MS. in the British
Museum, first published in Sir H. Nicolas's History of the, Buttle of Agincourt.
t In the Potter MSS.
I Caxton has recorded this pun.

THE CLOSING SCENE. 195

powers of persuasion could induce his Windsor acquaintances to supply him
with, and struck his tent. In defiance of the royal edict he presented himself
at the Court of Westminster in the thick of the active preparations for the
coming French campaign and solicited a command.

11.

THE END OF THE LIFE OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.

" The king has killed his heart, good husband, come home presently."

The speaker was Mrs. Pistol, late Quickly. Her husband was disputing
about nothing particular with Corporal Nym. The heart that had been
killed by the king (dear Mrs. Quickly ! she always spoke truly upon vital
questions) was that of Sir John Falstaff. He had presented himself, clad in
all the panoply of war, at the palace of Westminster, just as the galleys for
the French invasion were getting under weigh. The king had refused him
an audience. The Lord Chief Justice Gascoigne, acting ostensibly under the
directions of the Dowager Queen Regent Joanna, had threatened him with
constables. Sir John came home to his old quarters, the Old Boar's Head in
Eastcheap — to die !

And Sir John Falstaff died on the 5th of August, 1415, at the Old Boar's
Head Tavern, Eastcheap. His eyes were closed by poor Dame Quickly, and
the only mourners round his death bed were the blackguards whom he had
fed, and who were humanised and softened by his death. Pistol and Nym
forgot their quarrel about nothing, sheathed their unmeaning swords and
glared blood-shot condolence one at the other. Bardolph had come up from
Windsor, resigning his tapstership to attend on the master whom he had
loved and served consistently — long ere he knew how to speak. Our
rubicund friend never acquired the art of speech to anything like perfection ;
but when he learnt that Falstaff was dead he somehow managed to give
utterance to a poem.

" Would I were with him, wheresom'er he is, either in heaven, or in hell !"
I cannot describe Sir John Falstaff's death half as well |^ it has been
described by Mrs. Quickly. Take her words : —

" He's in Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. 'A made a finer end, and
went away, an it had been any christom child ; 'a parted even just between twelve and one,
e'en at turning of the tide : for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with the
flowers, and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way ; for his nose was
as sharp as a pen, and 'a babbled of green fields. How now, Sir John ? quoth I : what,
man ! be of good cheer. So 'a cried out, God, God, God ! three or four times : now I, to

196 LIFE OF FALSTAFF.

comfort him, bid him, 'a should not think of God ; I hoped, there was no need to trouble
himself with any such thoughts yet : so 'a bade me lay more clothes on his feet : I put my
hand into the bed, and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone ; then I felt to his knees,
and so upward, and upward, and all was as cold as any stone."

I will not comment upon this. I bow my head as one at a dear friend's
funeral and hold my tongue — loving and thanking those whom I hear
weeping and sobbing around me.

Sir John Falstaff was buried in the church of St. Michael Paternoster in the
Royal, at the expense of Sir Richard Whittington, founder of that edifice, and
Sir John's faithful friend throughout his eventful life — more than ever to-
wards its close. It is recorded that Sir Richard wept bitterly the loss of his
ever dear but often estranged friend, and was given to chide severely those who
spoke slightingly of Sir John Falstaff 's memory — saying that none knew Sir
John Falstaff but himself; and that the waste of such a heart and brain as
Sir John's to humanity was a loss deplorable. All who had been kind or
faithful to Sir John in his lifetime were well cared for by Sir Richard. He
subsidised Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. But it was destined they should not
prosper. They were bound for the French wars. They wasted Sir
Richard's bounty before starting. Nym and Bardolph were hanged for
the pettiest larceny on the field of Agincourt. Heaven knows what became
of Pistol, and Earth does not care.

Sir Richard erected a simple tomb over the remains of Sir John Falstaff in
the crypt of St. Michael Paternoster. King Henry the Fifth, on his return
from France, in a remorseful fit, took his fair bride to see his old friend's last
resting-place. It is whispered that he left the church with reddened eyes.
It is certain that he caused to be inlaid, at his own expense, on the marble
tomb, the following inscription in brass: —

♦' WSie tDuRf Ijabc httttv iSpartlf a Setter jHaii."

This might have been seen up to the year 1666, when the church of St.

Michael Paternoster was burnt to the ground — and the last material traces

-of Sir John Falstaff 's existence faded from the memory of man, even as fades

the recollectimi of having read a foolish book.

FINIS.

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tONDON : PKINTBD BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STUEET SQUARE.

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