Chapter XIII: Letter III: Sir, Feb. 8 (7)

With respect to _resemblances_, I shall not trouble you any further.—That the _Comedy of Errors_ is founded on the _Menæchmi_, it is notorious: nor is it less so, that a Translation of it by W. W., perhaps William Warner, the Author of _Albion’s England_, was extant in the time of Shakespeare; tho’ Mr. Upton, and some other advocates for his learning, have cautiously dropt the mention of it. Besides this (if indeed it were different), in the _Gesta Grayorum_, the Christmas Revels of the Gray’s-Inn Gentlemen, 1594, “a _Comedy of Errors_ like to Plautus his _Menechmus_ was played by the Players.” And the same hath been suspected to be the Subject of the _goodlie Comedie of Plautus_ acted at Greenwich before the King and Queen in 1520; as we learn from Hall and Holingshed:—Riccoboni highly compliments the English on opening their stage so well; but unfortunately Cavendish, in his _Life of Wolsey_, calls it an _excellent Interlude in Latine_. About the same time it was exhibited in German at Nuremburgh, by the celebrated _Hanssach_, the _Shoemaker_.

“But a character in the _Taming of the Shrew_ is borrowed from the _Trinummus_, and no translation of _that_ was extant.”

Mr. Colman indeed hath been better employ’d: but if he had met with an old Comedy, called _Supposes_, translated from Ariosto by George Gascoigne, he certainly would not have appealed to Plautus. Thence Shakespeare borrowed this part of the Plot (as well as some of the phraseology), though Theobald pronounces it his own invention: there likewise he found the quaint name of _Petruchio_. My young Master and his Man exchange habits and characters, and persuade a Scenæse, as he is called, to personate the Father, exactly as in the _Taming of the Shrew_, by the pretended danger of his coming from Sienna to Ferrara, contrary to the order of the government.

Still, Shakespeare quotes a line from the _Eunuch_ of Terence: by memory too, and, what is more, “purposely alters it, in order to bring the sense within the compass of one line.”—This remark was previous to Mr. Johnson’s; or indisputably it would not have been made at all.—“Our Authour had this line from Lilly; which I mention that it may not be brought as an argument of his learning.”

But how, cries an unprovoked Antagonist, can you take upon you to say that he had it from Lilly, and not from Terence? I will answer for Mr. Johnson, who is above answering for himself.—Because it is quoted as it appears in the _Grammarian_, and not as it appears in the _Poet_.—And thus we have done with the _purposed_ alteration. Udall likewise in his _Floures for Latine speakyng, gathered oute of Terence_, 1560, reduces the passage to a single line, and subjoins a Translation.

We have hitherto supposed Shakespeare the Author of the _Taming of the Shrew_, but his property in it is extremely disputable. I will give you my opinion, and the reasons on which it is founded. I suppose then the present Play not _originally_ the work of Shakespeare, but restored by him to the Stage, with the whole Induction of the Tinker, and some other occasional improvements; especially in the Character of Petruchio. It is very obvious that the _Induction_ and the _Play_ were either the works of different hands, or written at a great interval of time: the former is in our Author’s _best_ manner, and the greater part of the _latter_ in his _worst_, or even below it. Dr. Warburton declares it to be _certainly_ spurious: and without doubt, _supposing_ it to have been written by Shakespeare, it must have been one of his _earliest_ productions; yet it is not mentioned in the List of his Works by Meres in 1598.

I have met with a facetious piece of Sir John Harrington, printed in 1596 (and possibly there may be an earlier Edition), called, _The Metamorphosis of Ajax_, where I suspect an allusion to the old Play: “Read the _booke_ of _Taming a Shrew_, which hath made a number of us so perfect, that _now_ every one can rule a Shrew in our Countrey, save he that hath hir.”—I am aware, a _modern_ Linguist may object that the word _Book_ does not at present seem _dramatick_, but it was once almost _technically_ so: Gosson in his _Schoole of Abuse, contayning a pleasaunt inuective against Poets, Pipers, Players, Jesters, and such like Caterpillars of a Common-wealth_, 1579, mentions “twoo prose _Bookes_ plaied at the Belsauage”; and Hearne tells us, in a Note at the end of _William of Worcester_, that he had seen “a MS. in the nature of a _Play_ or _Interlude_, intitled, the _Booke_ of Sir _Thomas Moore_.”

And in fact there is such an old _anonymous_ Play in Mr. Pope’s List: “A pleasant conceited History, called, _The Taming of a Shrew_—sundry times acted by the Earl of Pembroke his Servants.” Which seems to have been republished by the Remains of that Company in 1607, when Shakespeare’s copy appeared at the Black-Friars or the Globe.—Nor let this seem derogatory from the character of our Poet. There is no reason to believe that he wanted to claim the Play as his own; it was not even printed ’till some years after his death: but he merely revived it on his Stage as a _Manager_.—Ravenscroft assures us that this was really the case with _Titus Andronicus_; which, it may be observed, hath not Shakespeare’s name on the Title-page of the only Edition published in his life-time. Indeed, from every internal mark, I have not the least doubt but this _horrible_ Piece was originally written by the Author of the _Lines_ thrown into the mouth of the _Player_ in _Hamlet_, and of the Tragedy of _Locrine_: which likewise, from some assistance perhaps given to his Friend, hath been unjustly and ignorantly charged upon Shakespeare.

But the _sheet-anchor_ holds fast: Shakespeare himself hath left some Translations from Ovid. The Epistles, says One, of Paris and Helen give a sufficient proof of his acquaintance with _that_ poet; and it may be concluded, says Another, that he was a competent judge of _other_ Authors who wrote in the same language.

This hath been the universal cry, from Mr. Pope himself to the Criticks of yesterday. Possibly, however, the Gentlemen will hesitate a moment, if we tell them that Shakespeare was _not_ the Author of these Translations. Let them turn to a forgotten book, by Thomas Heywood, called _Britaines Troy_, printed by W. Jaggard in 1609, Fol. and they will find these identical Epistles, “which being so pertinent to our Historie,” says Heywood, “_I_ thought necessarie to translate.”—How then came they ascribed to Shakespeare? We will tell them that likewise. The same voluminous Writer published an _Apology for Actors_, 4to. 1612, and in an Appendix directed to his new Printer, Nic. Okes, he accuses his old One, Jaggard, of “taking the two Epistles of _Paris to Helen_ and _Helen to Paris_, and printing them in a less volume and under the name of _Another_:—but _he_ was much offended with Master Jaggard, that, altogether unknowne to him, he had presumed to make so bold with his Name.” In the same work of Heywood are all the other Translations which have been printed in the modern Editions of the Poems of Shakespeare.

You now hope for land: We have seen through little matters, but what must be done with a whole book?—In 1751 was reprinted “A compendious or briefe examination of certayne ordinary complaints of diuers of our Countrymen in these our days: which although they are in some parte unjust and friuolous, yet are they all by way of Dialogue throughly debated and discussed by William Shakespeare, Gentleman.” 8vo.

This extraordinary piece was originally published in 4to. 1581, and dedicated by the Author, “To the most vertuous and learned Lady, his most deare and soveraigne Princesse, Elizabeth; being inforced by her Majesties late and singular clemency in pardoning certayne his unduetifull misdemeanour.” And by the modern Editors, to the late King; as “a Treatise composed by the most extensive and fertile Genius that ever any age or nation produced.”

Here we join issue with the Writers of that excellent tho’ very unequal work, the _Biographia Britannica_: “If,” say they, “this piece could be written by our Poet, it would be absolutely decisive in the dispute about his learning; for many quotations appear in it from the Greek and Latin Classicks.”

The concurring circumstances of the _Name_ and the _Misdemeanor_, which is supposed to be the old Story of _Deer-stealing_, seem fairly to challenge our Poet for the Author: but they hesitate.—His claim may appear to be confuted by the date 1581, when Shakespeare was only _Seventeen_, and the _long_ experience which the Writer talks of.—But I will not keep you in suspense: the book was _not_ written by Shakespeare.

Strype, in his _Annals_, calls the Author SOME _learned Man_, and this gave me the first suspicion. I knew very well that honest John (to use the language of Sir Thomas Bodley) did not waste his time with such _baggage books_ as _Plays_ and _Poems_; yet I must suppose that he had heard of the name of Shakespeare. After a while I met with the original Edition. Here in the Title-page, and at the end of the Dedication, appear only the Initials, W. S. Gent., and presently I was informed by Anthony Wood, that the book in question was written, not by William Shakespeare, but by William Stafford, Gentleman: which at once accounted for the _Misdemeanour_ in the Dedication. For Stafford had been concerned at that time, and was indeed afterward, as Camden and the other Annalists inform us, with some of the conspirators against Elizabeth; which he properly calls his _unduetifull_ behaviour.

I hope by this time that any One open to conviction may be nearly satisfied; and I will promise to give you on this head very little more trouble.

The justly celebrated Mr. Warton hath favoured us, in his _Life of Dr. Bathurst_, with some _hearsay_ particulars concerning Shakespeare from the papers of Aubrey, which had been in the hands of Wood; and I ought not to suppress them, as the _last_ seems to make against my doctrine. They came originally, I find, on consulting the MS., from one Mr. Beeston: and I am sure Mr. Warton, whom I have the honour to call my Friend, and an Associate in the question, will be in no pain about their credit.

“William Shakespeare’s Father was a Butcher,—while he was a Boy he exercised his Father’s trade, but when he killed a Calf, he would do it in a high stile, and make a speech. This William being inclined _naturally_ to Poetry and Acting, came to London, I guess, about _eighteen_, and was an Actor in one of the Playhouses, and did act _exceedingly well_. He began _early_ to make Essays in dramatique Poetry.—The humour of the Constable in the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ he happened to take at Crendon in Bucks.—I think I have been told that he left near three hundred pounds to a _Sister_.—_He understood Latin pretty well, _FOR_ he had been in his younger yeares a Schoolmaster in the Country._”

I will be short in my animadversions; and take them in their order.

The account of the _Trade_ of the Family is not only contrary to all other Tradition, but, as it may seem, to the instrument from the Herald’s office, so frequently reprinted.—Shakespeare most certainly went to London, and commenced Actor thro’ necessity, not natural inclination.—Nor have we any reason to suppose that he did act _exceedingly well_. Rowe tells us from the information of Betterton, who was inquisitive into this point, and had very early opportunities of Inquiry from Sir W. Davenant, that he was no _extraordinary Actor_; and that the top of his performance was the Ghost in his own _Hamlet_. Yet this _Chef d’Oeuvre_ did not please: I will give you an original stroke at it. Dr. Lodge, who was for ever pestering the town with Pamphlets, published in the year 1596 _Wits miserie, and the Worlds madnesse, discovering the Devils incarnat of this Age._ 4to. One of these Devils is _Hate-virtue_, or _Sorrow for another mans good successe_, who, says the Doctor, is “_a foule lubber_, and looks as pale as the Visard of the Ghost, which cried so miserably at the Theatre, like an Oister-wife, _Hamlet revenge_.” Thus you see Mr. Holt’s supposed _proof_, in the Appendix to the late Edition, that _Hamlet_ was written after 1597, or perhaps 1602, will by no means hold good; whatever might be the case of the particular passage on which it is founded.

Nor does it appear that Shakespeare did begin _early_ to make _Essays in Dramatique Poetry_: the _Arraignment of Paris_, 1584, which hath so often been ascribed to him on the credit of Kirkman and Winstanley, was written by George Peele; and Shakespeare is not met with, even as an Assistant, ’till at least seven years afterward.—Nash, in his Epistle to the Gentlemen Students of both Universities, prefixed to Greene’s _Arcadia_, 4to. _black Letter_, recommends his Friend, Peele, “as the chiefe supporter of pleasance now living, the Atlas of Poetrie, and _primus Verborum Artifex_: whose first increase, the _Arraignment of Paris_, might plead to their opinions his pregnant dexteritie of wit, and manifold varietie of inuention.”

In the next place, unfortunately, there is neither such a Character as a Constable in the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_: nor was the _three hundred pounds_ Legacy to a Sister, but a Daughter.

And to close the whole, it is not possible, according to Aubrey himself, that Shakespeare could have been some _years a Schoolmaster in the Country_: on which circumstance only the supposition of his learning is professedly founded. He was not surely _very_ young, when he was employed to _kill Calves_, and he commenced Player about _Eighteen_!—The truth is that he left his Father, for a Wife, a year sooner; and had at least two Children born at Stratford before he retired from thence to London. It is therefore sufficiently clear that poor Anthony had too much reason for his character of Aubrey: You will find it in his own Account of his Life, published by Hearne, which I would earnestly recommend to any Hypochondriack;

“A pretender to Antiquities, roving, magotie-headed, and sometimes little better than crased: and being exceedingly credulous, would stuff his many Letters sent to A.W. with _folliries_ and misinformations.” p. 577.

Thus much for the Learning of Shakespeare with respect to the ancient languages: indulge me with an observation or two on his supposed knowledge of the modern ones, and I will promise to release you.

“It is _evident_” we have been told, “that he was not unacquainted with the Italian”: but let us inquire into the _Evidence_.

Certainly some Italian words and phrases appear in the Works of Shakespeare; yet if we had nothing else to observe, their Orthography might lead us to suspect them to be not of the Writer’s importation. But we can go further, and prove this.

When Pistol “cheers up himself with ends of verse,” he is only a copy of Hanniball Gonsaga, who ranted on yielding himself a Prisoner to an English Captain in the Low Countries, as you may read in an old Collection of Tales, called _Wits, Fits, and Fancies_,

Si Fortuna me tormenta,
Il speranza me contenta.

And Sir Richard Hawkins, in his Voyage to the South-Sea, 1593, throws out the same jingling Distich on the loss of his Pinnace.

“Master Page, sit; good Master Page, sit; _Proface._ What you want in meat, we’ll have in drink,” says Justice Shallow’s _Fac totum_, Davy, in the 2d Part of _Henry the fourth_.

_Proface_, Sir Thomas Hanmer observes to be Italian, from _profaccia, much good may it do you_. Mr. Johnson rather thinks it a mistake for _perforce_. Sir Thomas however is right; yet it is no argument for his Author’s Italian knowledge.

Old Heywood, the Epigrammatist, addressed his Readers long before,

Readers, reade this thus: for Preface, _Proface_,
Much good do it you, the poore repast here, &c.—_Woorkes._ Lond.
4to. 1562.

And Dekker in his Play, _If it be not good, the Diuel is in it_ (which is certainly true, for it is full of Devils), makes Shackle-soule, in the character of Friar Rush, tempt his Brethren with “choice of dishes,”

To which _proface_; with blythe lookes sit yee.

Nor hath it escaped the quibbling manner of the _Water-poet_, in the title of a Poem prefixed to his _Praise of Hempseed_: “A Preamble, Preatrot, Preagallop, Preapace, or Preface; and _Proface_, my Masters, if your Stomacks serve.”

But the Editors are not contented without coining Italian. “_Rivo, says the Drunkard_,” is an Expression of the _madcap_ Prince of Wales; which Sir Thomas Hanmer corrects to _Ribi, Drink away_, or _again_, as it should rather be translated. Dr. Warburton accedes to this; and Mr. Johnson hath admitted it into his Text; but with an observation, that _Rivo_ might possibly be the cant of English Taverns. And so indeed it was: it occurs frequently in Marston. Take a quotation from his Comedy of _What you will_, 1607:

Musicke, Tobacco, Sacke, and Sleepe,
The Tide of Sorrow backward keep:
If thou art sad at others fate,
_Rivo_ drink deep, give care the mate.

In _Love’s Labour Lost_, Boyet calls Don Armado,

——A Spaniard that keeps here in Court,
A Phantasme, a _Monarcho_.——

Here too Sir Thomas is willing to palm Italian upon us. We should read, it seems, _Mammuccio_, a Mammet, or Puppet: Ital. _Mammuccia_. But the allusion is to a fantastical _Character_ of the time.—“Popular applause,” says Meres, “dooth nourish some, neither do they gape after any other thing, but vaine praise and glorie,—as in our age Peter Shakerlye of Paules, and MONARCHO that liued about the Court.” p. 178.

I fancy you will be satisfied with one more instance.

“_Baccare_, You are marvellous forward,” quoth Gremio to Petruchio in the _Taming of the Shrew_.

“But not so _forward_,” says Mr. Theobald, “as our Editors are _indolent_. This is a stupid corruption of the press, that none of them have dived into. We must read _Baccalare_, as Mr. Warburton acutely observed to me, by which the Italians mean, Thou ignorant, presumptuous Man.”—“Properly indeed,” adds Mr. Heath, “a _graduated_ Scholar, but ironically and sarcastically a _pretender_ to Scholarship.”

This is admitted by the Editors and Criticks of every Denomination. Yet the word is neither wrong, nor Italian: it was an old proverbial one, used frequently by John Heywood; who hath made, what he pleases to call, _Epigrams_ upon it.

Take two of them, such as they are,

_Backare_, quoth Mortimer to his Sow:
Went that Sow _backe_ at that biddyng trowe you?

_Backare_, quoth Mortimer to his sow: se
Mortimers sow speakth as good _latin_ as he.

Howel takes this from Heywood, in his _Old Sawes and Adages_: and Philpot introduces it into the Proverbs collected by Camden.

We have but few observations concerning Shakespeare’s knowledge of the Spanish tongue. Dr. Grey indeed is willing to suppose that the plot of _Romeo and Juliet_ may be borrowed from a COMEDY of Lopes de Vega. But the Spaniard, who was certainly acquainted with Bandello, hath not only changed the Catastrophe, but the names of the Characters. Neither Romeo nor Juliet, neither Montague nor Capulet, appears in this performance: and how came they to the knowledge of Shakespeare?—Nothing is more certain than that he chiefly followed the Translation by Painter from the French of Boisteau, and hence arise the Deviations from Bandello’s original Italian. It seems, however, from a passage in Ames’s _Typographical Antiquities_, that Painter was not the only Translator of this popular Story: and it is possible, therefore, that Shakespeare might have other assistance.

In the Induction to the _Taming of the Shrew_, the Tinker attempts to talk Spanish: and _consequently_ the Author himself was acquainted with it.

_Paucas pallabris_, let the World slide, _Sessa_.

But this is a burlesque on _Hieronymo_; the piece of Bombast that I have mentioned to you before:

What new device have they devised, trow?
_Pocas pallabras_, &c.——

Mr. Whalley tells us, “the Author of this piece hath the happiness to be at this time unknown, the remembrance of him having perished with himself”: Philips and others ascribe it to one William Smith: but I take this opportunity of informing him that it was written by Thomas Kyd; if he will accept the authority of his Contemporary, Heywood.

More hath been said concerning Shakespeare’s acquaintance with the French language. In the Play of _Henry the fifth_, we have a whole Scene in it, and in other places it occurs familiarly in the Dialogue.

We may observe in general, that the early Editions have not half the quantity; and every sentence, or rather every word, most ridiculously blundered. These, for several reasons, could not possibly be published by the Author; and it is extremely probable that the French ribaldry was at first inserted by a different hand, as the many additions most certainly were after he had left the Stage.—Indeed, every friend to his memory will not easily believe that he was acquainted with the Scene between Catharine and the old Gentlewoman; or surely he would not have admitted such obscenity and nonsense.

Mr. Hawkins, in the Appendix to Mr. Johnson’s Edition, hath an ingenious observation to prove that Shakespeare, supposing the French to be his, had very little knowledge of the language.

“Est-il impossible d’eschapper la force de ton _Bras_?” says a Frenchman.—“_Brass_, cur?” replies Pistol.

“Almost any one knows that the French word _Bras_ is pronounced _Brau_; and what resemblance of sound does this bear to _Brass_?”

Mr. Johnson makes a doubt whether the pronunciation of the French language may not be changed since Shakespeare’s time; “if not,” says he, “it may be suspected that some other man wrote the French scenes”: but this does not appear to be the case, at least in this termination, from the rules of the Grammarians, or the practice of the Poets. I am certain of the former from the _French Alphabet_ of De la Mothe, and the _Orthoepia Gallica_ of John Eliot; and of the latter from the Rhymes of Marot, Ronsard, and Du Bartas.—Connections of this kind were very common. Shakespeare himself assisted Ben. Jonson in his _Sejanus_, as it was originally written; and Fletcher in his _Two noble Kinsmen_.

But what if the French scene were occasionally introduced into every Play on this Subject? and perhaps there were more than one before our Poet’s.—In _Pierce __ Penilesse his Supplication to the Diuell_, 4to. 1592 (which, it seems, from the Epistle to the Printer, was not the first Edition), the Author, Nash, exclaims, “What a glorious thing it is to have _Henry the fifth_ represented on the Stage leading the French King prisoner, and forcing both him and the Dolphin to sweare fealty!”—And it appears from the Jests of the famous Comedian, Tarlton, 4to. 1611, that he had been particularly celebrated in the Part of the Clown in _Henry the fifth_; but no such Character exists in the Play of Shakespeare.—_Henry the sixth_ hath ever been doubted; and a passage in the above-quoted piece of Nash may give us reason to believe it was previous to our Author. “How would it have joyed braue Talbot (the terror of the French) to thinke that after he had lyen two hundred yeare in his Toomb, he should triumph again on the Stage; and haue his bones new embalmed with the teares of ten thousand spectators at least (at severall times) who, in the Tragedian that represents his person, imagine they behold him fresh bleeding.”—I have no doubt but _Henry the sixth_ had the same Author with _Edward the third_, which hath been recovered to the world in Mr. Capell’s _Prolusions_.

It hath been observed that the Giant of Rabelais is sometimes alluded to by Shakespeare: and in _his_ time no translation was extant.—But the Story was in every one’s hand.

In a Letter by one Laneham, or Langham, for the name is written differently, concerning the Entertainment at Killingwoorth Castle, printed 1575, we have a list of the vulgar Romances of the age, “King Arthurz book, Huon of Burdeaus, Friar Rous, Howleglass, and GARGANTUA.” Meres mentions him as equally hurtful to young minds with the _Four Sons of Aymon_, and the _Seven Champions_. And John Taylor hath him likewise in his catalogue of _Authors_, prefixed to Sir _Gregory Nonsence_.

But to come to a conclusion, I will give you an irrefragable argument that Shakespeare did _not_ understand _two_ very common words in the French and Latin languages.

According to the Articles of agreement between the Conqueror Henry and the King of France, the latter was to stile the former (in the corrected French of the modern Editions) “Nostre _tres cher_ filz Henry Roy d’Angleterre; and in Latin, _Præclarissimus_ Filius, &c.” “What,” says Dr. Warburton, “is _tres cher_ in French _præclarissimus_ in Latin! we should read _præcarissimus_.”—This appears to be exceedingly true; but how came the blunder? It is a typographical one in Holingshed, which Shakespeare copied; but must indisputably have corrected, had he been acquainted with the languages.—“Our said Father, during his life, shall name, call, and write us in French in this maner: Nostre _tres chier_ filz, Henry Roy d’Engleterre—and in Latine in this maner: _Præclarissimus_ filius noster.” Edit. 1587, p. 574.

To corroborate this instance, let me observe to you, though it be nothing further to the purpose, that another error of the same kind hath been the source of a mistake in an historical passage of our Author; which hath ridiculously troubled the Criticks.

Richard the third harangues his army before the Battle of Bosworth:

Remember whom ye are to cope withal,
A sort of vagabonds, of rascals, runaways—
And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow,
Long kept in _Britaine_ at _our Mother’s_ cost,
A milksop, &c.—

“_Our_ Mother,” Mr. Theobald perceives to be wrong, and Henry was somewhere secreted on the _Continent_: he reads therefore, and all the Editors after him,

Long kept in _Bretagne_ at _his_ mother’s cost.

But give me leave to transcribe a few more lines from Holingshed, and you will find at once that Shakespeare had been there before me:—“Ye see further, how a companie of traitors, theeves, outlaws, and runnagates be aiders and partakers of his feat and enterprise.—And to begin with the erle of Richmond, captaine of this rebellion, he is a Welsh milksop—brought up by _my Moother’s_ meanes and mine, like a captive in a close cage, in the court of Francis duke of _Britaine_.” p. 756.

Holingshed copies this _verbatim_ from his brother chronicler Hall, Edit. 1548, fol. 54; but his Printer hath given us by accident the word _Moother_ instead of _Brother_; as it is in the Original, and ought to be in Shakespeare.

I hope, my good Friend, you have by this time acquitted our great Poet of all piratical depredations on the Ancients, and are ready to receive my _Conclusion_.—He remembered perhaps enough of his _school-boy_ learning to put the _Hig_, _hag_, _hog_, into the mouth of Sir Hugh Evans; and might pick up in the Writers of the time, or the course of his conversation, a familiar phrase or two of French or Italian: but his _Studies_ were most demonstratively confined to _Nature_ and _his own Language_.

In the course of this disquisition, you have often smiled at “all such reading as was never read”: and possibly I may have indulged it too far: but it is the reading necessary for a Comment on Shakespeare. Those who apply solely to the Ancients for this purpose, may with equal wisdom study the TALMUD for an Exposition of TRISTRAM SHANDY. Nothing but an intimate acquaintance with the Writers of the time, who are frequently of no other value, can point out his allusions, and ascertain his Phraseology. The Reformers of his Text are for ever equally positive, and equally wrong. The Cant of the Age, a provincial Expression, an obscure Proverb, an obsolete Custom, a Hint at a Person or a Fact no longer remembered, hath continually defeated the best of our _Guessers_: You must not suppose me to speak at random, when I assure you that, from some forgotten book or other, I can demonstrate this to you in many hundred Places; and I almost wish that I had not been persuaded into a different Employment.

Tho’ I have as much of the _Natale Solum_ about me as any man whatsoever; yet, I own, the _Primrose Path_ is still more pleasing than the _Fosse_ or the _Watling Street_:

Age cannot wither it, nor custom stale
It’s infinite variety.——

And when I am fairly rid of the Dust of topographical Antiquity, which hath continued much longer about me than I expected, you may very probably be troubled again with the ever fruitful Subject of SHAKESPEARE and his COMMENTATORS.

MAURICE MORGANN: AN ESSAY ON THE DRAMATIC CHARACTER OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 1777.

Preface.

The following sheets were written in consequence of a friendly conversation, turning by some chance upon the Character of FALSTAFF, wherein the Writer, maintaining, contrary to the general Opinion, that this Character was not intended to be shewn as a Coward, he was challenged to deliver and support that Opinion from the Press, with an engagement, now he fears forgotten, for it was three years ago, that he should be answered thro’ the same channel: Thus stimulated, these papers were almost wholly written in a very short time, but not without those attentions, whether successful or not, which seemed necessary to carry them beyond the Press into the hands of the Public. From the influence of the foregoing circumstances it is, that the Writer has generally assumed rather the character and tone of an Advocate than of an Inquirer;—though if he had not first _inquired_ and been _convinced_, he should never have attempted to have amused either himself or others with the subject.—The impulse of the occasion, however, being passed, the papers were thrown by, and almost forgotten: But having been looked into of late by some friends, who, observing that the Writer had not enlarged so far for the sake of FALSTAFF alone, but that the Argument was made subservient to Critical amusement, persuaded him to revise and convey it to the Press. This has been accordingly done, though he fears something too hastily, as he found it proper to add, while the papers were in the course of printing, some considerations on the _Whole_ Character of FALSTAFF; which ought to have been accompanied by a slight reform of a few preceding passages, which may seem, in consequence of this addition, to contain too favourable a representation of his Morals.

The vindication of FALSTAFF’S Courage is truly no otherwise the object than some old fantastic Oak, or grotesque Rock, may be the object of a morning’s ride; yet being proposed as such, may serve to limit the distance, and shape the course: The real object is Exercise, and the Delight which a rich, beautiful, picturesque, and perhaps unknown Country, may excite from every side. Such an Exercise may admit of some little excursion, keeping however the Road in view; but seems to exclude every appearance of labour and of toil.—Under the impression of such Feelings, the Writer has endeavoured to preserve to his Text a certain lightness of air, and chearfulness of tone; but is sensible, however, that the manner of discussion does not _every where_, particularly near the commencement, sufficiently correspond with his design.—If the Book shall be fortunate enough to obtain another Impression, a separation may be made; and such of the heavier parts as cannot be wholly dispensed with, sink to their more proper station,—a Note.

He is fearful likewise that he may have erred in the other extreme; and that having thought himself intitled, even in argument, to a certain degree of playful discussion, may have pushed it, in a few places, even to levity. This error might be yet more easily reformed than the other.—The Book is perhaps, as it stands, too bulky for the subject; but if the Reader knew how many pressing considerations, as it grew into size, the Author resisted, which yet seemed intitled to be heard, he would the more readily excuse him.

The whole is a mere Experiment, and the Writer considers it as such: It may have the advantages, but it is likewise attended with all the difficulties and dangers, of _Novelty_.

On The Dramatic Character Of Sir John Falstaff.

The ideas which I have formed concerning the Courage and Military Character of the Dramatic Sir _John Falstaff_ are so different from those which I find generally to prevail in the world, that I shall take the liberty of stating my sentiments on the subject; in hope that some person, as unengaged as myself, will either correct and reform my error in this respect; or, joining himself to my opinion, redeem me from, what I may call, the reproach of singularity.

I am to avow, then, that I do not clearly discern that Sir _John Falstaff_ deserves to bear the character so generally given him of an absolute Coward; or, in other words, that I do not conceive _Shakespeare_ ever meant to make Cowardice an essential part of his constitution.

I know how universally the contrary opinion prevails; and I know what respect and deference are due to the public voice. But if to the avowal of this singularity I add all the reasons that have led me to it, and acknowledge myself to be wholly in the judgment of the public, I shall hope to avoid the censure of too much forwardness or indecorum.

It must, in the first place, be admitted that the appearances in this case are singularly strong and striking; and so they had need be, to become the ground of so general a censure. We see this extraordinary Character, almost in the first moment of our acquaintance with him, involved in circumstances of apparent dishonour; and we hear him familiarly called _Coward_ by his most intimate companions. We see him, on occasion of the robbery at _Gads-Hill_, in the very act of running away from the Prince and _Poins_; and we behold him, on another of more honourable obligation, in open day light, in battle, and acting in his profession as a Soldier, escaping from _Douglas_ even out of the world as it were; counterfeiting death, and deserting his very existence; and we find him, on the former occasion, betrayed into those _lies_ and _braggadocioes_ which are the usual concomitants of Cowardice in Military men, and pretenders to valour. These are not only in themselves strong circumstances, but they are moreover thrust forward, prest upon our notice as the subject of our mirth, as the great business of the scene: No wonder, therefore, that the word should go forth that _Falstaff_ exhibited as a character of Cowardice and dishonour.

What there is to the contrary of this, it is my business to discover. Much, I think, will presently appear; but it lies so dispersed, is so latent, and so purposely obscured, that the reader must have some patience whilst I collect it into one body, and make it the object of a steady and regular contemplation.

But what have we to do, may my readers exclaim, with principles _so latent_, _so obscured_? In Dramatic composition the _Impression_ is the _Fact_; and the Writer, who, meaning to impress one thing, has impressed another, is unworthy of observation.

It is a very unpleasant thing to have, in the first setting out, so many and so strong prejudices to contend with. All that one can do in such case, is, to pray the reader to have a little patience in the commencement; and to reserve his censure, if it must pass, for the conclusion. Under his gracious allowance, therefore, I presume to declare it as my opinion, that Cowardice _is not_ the _Impression_ which the _whole_ character of _Falstaff_ is calculated to make on the minds of an unprejudiced audience; tho’ there be, I confess, a great deal of something in the _composition_ likely enough to puzzle, and consequently to mislead the Understanding.—The reader will perceive that I distinguish between _mental Impressions_ and the _Understanding_.—I wish to avoid every thing that looks like subtlety and refinement; but this is a distinction which we all comprehend.—There are none of us unconscious of certain feelings or sensations of mind which do not seem to have passed thro’ the Understanding; the effects, I suppose, of some secret influences from without, acting upon a certain mental sense, and producing feelings and passions in just correspondence to the force and variety of those influences on the one hand, and to the quickness of our sensibility on the other. Be the cause, however, what it may, the fact is undoubtedly so; which is all I am concerned in. And it is equally a fact, which every man’s experience may avouch, that the Understanding and those feelings are frequently at variance. The latter often arise from the most minute circumstances, and frequently from such as the Understanding cannot estimate, or even recognize; whereas the Understanding delights in abstraction, and in general propositions; which, however true considered as such, are very seldom, I had like to have said _never_, perfectly applicable to any particular case. And hence, among other causes, it is, that we often condemn or applaud characters and actions on the credit of some logical process, while our hearts revolt, and would fain lead us to a very different conclusion.

The Understanding seems for the most part to take cognizance of _actions_ only, and from these to infer _motives_ and _character_; but the sense we have been speaking of proceeds in a contrary course; and determines of _actions_ from certain _first principles of character_, which seem wholly out of the reach of the Understanding. We cannot indeed do otherwise than admit that there must be distinct principles of character in every distinct individual: The manifest variety even in the minds of infants will oblige us to this. But what _are_ these first principles of character? Not the objects, I am persuaded, of the Understanding; and yet we take as strong Impressions of them as if we could compare and assort them in a syllogism. We often love or hate at first sight; and indeed, in general, dislike or approve by some secret reference to these _principles_; and we judge even of conduct, not from any idea of abstract good or evil in the nature of actions, but by referring those actions to a supposed original character in the man himself. I do not mean that we _talk_ thus; we could not indeed, if we would, explain ourselves in detail on this head; we can neither account for Impressions and passions, nor communicate them to others by _words_: Tones and looks will sometimes convey the _passion_ strangely, but the _Impression_ is incommunicable. The same causes may produce it indeed at the same time in many, but it is the separate possession of each, and not in its nature transferable: It is an imperfect sort of instinct, and proportionably dumb.—We might indeed, if we chose it, candidly confess to one another that we are greatly swayed by these feelings, and are by no means so _rational_ in all points as we could wish; but this would be a betraying of the interests of that high faculty, the Understanding, which we so value ourselves upon, and which we more peculiarly call our own. This, we think, must not be; and so we huddle up the matter, concealing it as much as possible, both from ourselves and others. In Books indeed, wherein character, motive, and action, are all alike subjected to the Understanding, it is generally a very clear case; and we make decisions compounded of them all: And thus we are willing to approve of _Candide_, tho’ he kills my Lord the Inquisitor, and runs thro’ the body the Baron of _Thunder-ten-tronckh_, the son of his patron, and the brother of his beloved _Cunégonde_: But in real life, I believe, _my Lords the Judges_ would be apt to inform the _Gentlemen of the Jury_ that my _Lord the Inquisitor_ was _ill killed_; as _Candide_ did not proceed on the urgency of the moment, but on the speculation only of future evil. And indeed this clear perception, in Novels and Plays, of the union of character and action not seen in nature, is the principal defect of such compositions, and what renders them but ill pictures of human life, and wretched guides of conduct.

But if there was _one man_ in the world who could make a more perfect draught of real nature, and steal such Impressions on his audience, without their special notice, as should keep their hold in spite of any error of their Understanding, and should thereupon venture to introduce an apparent incongruity of character and action, for ends which I shall presently endeavour to explain; such an imitation would be worth our nicest curiosity and attention. But in such a case as this, the reader might expect that he should find us all talking the language of the Understanding only; that is, censuring the action with very little conscientious investigation even of _that_; and transferring the censure, in every odious colour, to the actor himself; how much soever our hearts and affections might secretly revolt: For as to the _Impression_, we have already observed that it has no tongue; nor is its operation and influence likely to be made the subject of conference and communication.

It is not to the _Courage_ only of _Falstaff_ that we think these observations will apply: No part whatever of his character seems to be fully settled in our minds; at least there is something strangely incongruous in our discourse and affections concerning him. We all like _Old Jack_; yet, by some strange perverse fate, we all abuse him, and deny him the possession of any one single good or respectable quality. There is something extraordinary in this: It must be a strange art in _Shakespeare_ which can draw our liking and good will towards so offensive an object. He has wit, it will be said; chearfulness and humour of the most characteristic and captivating sort. And is this enough? Is the humour and gaiety of vice so very captivating? Is the wit, characteristic of baseness and every ill quality, capable of attaching the heart and winning the affections? Or does not the apparency of such humour, and the flashes of such wit, by more strongly disclosing the deformity of character, but the more effectually excite our hatred and contempt of the man? And yet this is not our _feeling_ of _Falstaff_’s character. When he has ceased to amuse us, we find no emotions of disgust; we can scarcely forgive the ingratitude of the Prince in the new-born virtue of the King, and we curse the severity of that poetic justice which consigns our old good-natured companion to the custody of the _warden_, and the dishonours of the _Fleet_.

I am willing, however, to admit that if a Dramatic writer will but preserve to any character the qualities of a strong mind, particularly Courage and ability, that it will be afterwards no very difficult task (as I may have occasion to explain) to discharge that _disgust_ which arises from vicious manners; and even to attach us (if such character should contain any quality productive of chearfulness and laughter) to the cause and subject of our mirth with some degree of affection.

But the question which I am to consider is of a very different nature: It is a question of fact, and concerning a quality which forms the basis of every respectable character; a quality which is the very essence of a Military man; and which is held up to us, in almost every Comic incident of the Play, as the subject of our observation. It is strange then that it should now be a question, whether _Falstaff_ is or is not a man of Courage; and whether we do in fact contemn him for the want, or respect him for the possession of that quality: And yet I believe the reader will find that he has by no means decided this question, even for himself.—If then it should turn out that this difficulty has arisen out of the Art of _Shakespeare_, who has contrived to make secret Impressions upon us of Courage, and to preserve those Impressions in favour of a character which was to be held up for sport and laughter on account of actions of apparent Cowardice and dishonour, we shall have less occasion to wonder, as _Shakespeare_ is a Name which contains All of Dramatic artifice and genius.

If in this place the reader shall peevishly and prematurely object that the observations and distinctions I have laboured to establish are wholly unapplicable; he being himself unconscious of ever having received any such Impression; what can be done in so nice a case, but to refer him to the following pages; by the number of which he may judge how very much I respect his objection, and by the variety of those proofs which I shall employ to induce him to part with it; and to recognize in its stead certain feelings, concealed and covered over perhaps, but not erazed, by time, reasoning, and authority?

In the mean while, it may not perhaps be easy for him to resolve how it comes about, that, whilst we look upon _Falstaff_ as a character of the like nature with that of _Parolles_ or of _Bobadil_, we should preserve for him a great degree of respect and good-will, and yet feel the highest disdain and contempt of the others, tho’ they are all involved in similar situations. The reader, I believe, would wonder extremely to find either _Parolles_ or _Bobadil_ possess himself in danger: What then can be the cause that we are not at all surprized at the gaiety and ease of _Falstaff_ under the most trying circumstances; and that we never think of charging _Shakespeare_ with departing, on this account, from the truth and coherence of character? Perhaps, after all, the _real_ character of _Falstaff_ may be different from his _apparent_ one; and possibly this difference between reality and appearance, whilst it accounts at once for our liking and our censure, may be the true point of humour in the character, and the source of all our laughter and delight. We may chance to find, if we will but examine a little into the nature of those circumstances which have accidentally involved him, that he was intended to be drawn as a character of much Natural courage and resolution; and be obliged thereupon to repeal those decisions which may have been made upon the credit of some general tho’ unapplicable propositions; the common source of error in other and higher matters. A little reflection may perhaps bring us round again to the point of our departure, and unite our Understandings to our instinct.—Let us then for a moment _suspend_ at least our decisions, and candidly and coolly inquire if Sir _John Falstaff_ be, indeed, what he has so often been called by critic and commentator, male and female,—a _Constitutional Coward_.

It will scarcely be possible to consider the Courage of _Falstaff_ as wholly detached from his other qualities: But I write not professedly of any part of his character, but what is included under the term, _Courage_; however, I may incidentally throw some lights on the whole.—The reader will not need to be told that this Inquiry will resolve itself of course into a Critique on the genius, the arts, and the conduct of _Shakespeare_: For what is _Falstaff_, what _Lear_, what _Hamlet_, or _Othello_, but different modifications of _Shakespeare_’s thought? It is true that this Inquiry is narrowed almost to a single point: But general criticism is as uninstructive as it is easy: _Shakespeare_ deserves to be considered in detail;—a task hitherto unattempted.

It may be proper, in the first place, to take a short view of all the parts of _Falstaff_’s Character, and then proceed to discover, if we can, what _Impressions_, as to Courage or Cowardice, he had made on the persons of the Drama: After which we will examine, in course, such evidence, either of _persons_ or _facts_, as are relative to the matter; and account as we may for those appearances which seem to have led to the opinion of his Constitutional Cowardice.

The scene of the robbery, and the disgraces attending it, which stand first in the Play, and introduce us to the knowledge of _Falstaff_, I shall beg leave (as I think this scene to have been the source of much unreasonable prejudice) to _reserve_ till we are more fully acquainted with the whole character of _Falstaff_; and I shall therefore hope that the reader will not for a time advert to it, or to the jests of the Prince or of _Poins_ in consequence of that unlucky adventure.

In drawing out the parts of _Falstaff_’s character, with which I shall begin this Inquiry, I shall take the liberty of putting Constitutional bravery into his composition; but the reader will be pleased to consider what I shall say in that respect as spoken hypothetically for the present, to be retained, or discharged out of it, as he shall finally determine.

To me then it appears that the leading quality in _Falstaff_’s character, and that from which all the rest take their colour, is a high degree of wit and humour, accompanied with great natural vigour and alacrity of mind. This quality, so accompanied, led him probably very early into life, and made him highly acceptable to society; so acceptable, as to make it seem unnecessary for him to acquire any other virtue. Hence, perhaps, his continued debaucheries and dissipations of every kind.—He seems, by nature, to have had a mind free of malice or any evil principle; but he never took the trouble of acquiring any good one. He found himself esteemed and beloved with all his faults; nay _for_ his faults, which were all connected with humour, and for the most part grew out of it. As he had, possibly, no vices but such as he thought might be openly professed, so he appeared more dissolute thro’ ostentation. To the character of wit and humour, to which all his other qualities seem to have conformed themselves, he appears to have added a very necessary support, _that_ of the profession of a _Soldier_. He had from nature, as I presume to say, a spirit of boldness and enterprise; which in a Military age, tho’ employment was only occasional, kept him always above contempt, secured him an honourable reception among the Great, and suited best both his particular mode of humour and of vice. Thus living continually in society, nay even in Taverns, and indulging himself, and being indulged by others, in every debauchery; drinking, whoring, gluttony, and ease; assuming a liberty of fiction, necessary perhaps to his wit, and often falling into falsity and lies, he seems to have set, by degrees, all sober reputation at defiance; and finding eternal resources in his wit, he borrows, shifts, defrauds, and even robs, without dishonour.—Laughter and approbation attend his greatest excesses; and being governed visibly by no settled bad principle or ill design, fun and humour account for and cover all. By degrees, however, and thro’ indulgence, he acquires bad habits, becomes an humourist, grows enormously corpulent, and falls into the infirmities of age; yet never quits, all the time, one single levity or vice of youth, or loses any of that chearfulness of mind which had enabled him to pass thro’ this course with ease to himself and delight to others; and thus, at last, mixing youth and age, enterprize and corpulency, wit and folly, poverty and expence, title and buffoonery, innocence as to purpose, and wickedness as to practice; neither incurring hatred by bad principle, or contempt by Cowardice, yet involved in circumstances productive of imputation in both; a butt and a wit, a humourist and a man of humour, a touchstone and a laughing stock, a jester and a jest, has Sir _John Falstaff_, taken at that period of his life in which we see him, become the most perfect Comic character that perhaps ever was exhibited.