Chapter XIV: Letter III: Sir, Feb. 8 (8)

It may not possibly be wholly amiss to remark in this place, that if Sir _John Falstaff_ had possessed any of that Cardinal quality, Prudence, alike the guardian of virtue and the protector of vice; that quality, from the possession or the absence of which, the character and fate of men in this life take, I think, their colour, and not from real vice or virtue; if he had considered his wit not as _principal_ but _accessary_ only; as the instrument of power, and not as power itself; if he had had much baseness to hide, if he had had less of what may be called mellowness or good humour, or less of health and spirit; if he had spurred and rode the world with his wit, instead of suffering the world, boys and all, to ride him;—he might, without any other essential change, have been the admiration and not the jest of mankind:—Or if he had lived in our day, and instead of attaching himself to one Prince, had renounced _all_ friendship and _all_ attachment, and had let himself out as the ready instrument and Zany of every successive Minister, he might possibly have acquired the high honour of marking his shroud or decorating his coffin with the living rays of an Irish at least, if not a British Coronet: Instead of which, tho’ enforcing laughter from every disposition, he appears, now, as such a character which every wise man will pity and avoid, every knave will censure, and every fool will fear: And accordingly _Shakespeare_, ever true to nature, has made _Harry_ desert, and _Lancaster_ censure him:—He dies where he lived, in a Tavern, broken-hearted, without a friend; and his final exit is given up to the derision of fools. Nor has his misfortunes ended here; the scandal arising from the misapplication of his wit and talents seems immortal. He has met with as little justice or mercy from his final judges the critics, as from his companions of the Drama. With our cheeks still red with laughter, we ungratefully as unjustly censure him as a coward by nature, and a rascal upon principle: Tho’, if this were so, it might be hoped, for our own credit, that we should behold him rather with disgust and disapprobation than with pleasure and delight.

But to remember our question—_Is Falstaff a constitutional coward?_

With respect to every infirmity, except that of Cowardice, we must take him as at the period in which he is represented to us. If we see him dissipated, fat,—it is enough;—we have nothing to do with his youth, when he might perhaps have been modest, chaste, “_and not an Eagle’s talon in the waist_.” But _Constitutional __ Courage_ extends to a man’s whole life, makes a part of his nature, and is not to be taken up or deserted like a mere Moral quality. It is true, there is a Courage founded upon _principle_, or rather a principle independent of Courage, which will sometimes operate in spite of nature; a principle which prefers death to shame, but which always refers itself, in conformity to its own nature, to the prevailing modes of honour, and the fashions of the age.—But Natural courage is another thing: It is independent of opinion; It adapts itself to occasions, preserves itself under every shape, and can avail itself of flight as well as of action.—In the last war, some Indians of America perceiving a line of Highlanders to keep their station under every disadvantage, and under a fire which they could not effectually return, were so miserably mistaken in our points of honour as to conjecture, from observation on the habit and stability of those troops, that they were indeed the women of England, who wanted courage to run away.—That Courage which is founded in nature and constitution, _Falstaff_, as I presume to say, possessed;—but I am ready to allow that the principle already mentioned, so far as it refers to reputation only, began with every other Moral quality to lose its hold on him in his old age; that is, at the time of life in which he is represented to us; a period, as it should seem, approaching to _seventy_.—The truth is that he had drollery enough to support himself in credit without the point of honour, and had address enough to make even the preservation of his life a point of drollery. The reader knows I allude, tho’ something prematurely, to his fictitious death in the battle of Shrewsbury. This incident is generally construed to the disadvantage of _Falstaff_: It is a transaction which bears the external marks of Cowardice: It is also aggravated to the spectators by the idle tricks of the Player, who practises on this occasion all the attitudes and wild apprehensions of fear; more ambitious, as it should seem, of representing a _Caliban_ than a _Falstaff_; or indeed rather a poor unwieldy miserable Tortoise than either.—The painful Comedian lies spread out on his belly, and not only covers himself all over with his robe as with a shell, but forms a kind of round Tortoise-back by I know not what stuffing or contrivance; in addition to which, he alternately lifts up, and depresses, and dodges his head, and looks to the one side and to the other, so much with the piteous aspect of that animal, that one would not be sorry to see the ambitious imitator calipashed in his robe, and served up for the entertainment of the gallery.—There is no hint for this mummery in the Play: Whatever there may be of dishonour in _Falstaff_’s conduct, he neither does or says any thing on this occasion which indicates terror or disorder of mind: On the contrary, this very act is a proof of his having all his wits about him, and is a stratagem, such as it is, not improper for a buffoon, whose fate would be singularly hard, if he should not be allowed to avail himself of his Character when it might serve him in most stead. We must remember, in extenuation, that the executive, the destroying hand of _Douglas_ was over him: “_It was time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid him scot and lot too._” He had but one choice; he was obliged to pass thro’ the ceremony of dying either in jest or in earnest; and we shall not be surprized at the event, when we remember his propensities to the former.—Life (and especially the life of _Falstaff_) might be a jest; but he could see no joke whatever in dying: To be chopfallen was, with him, to lose both life and character together: He saw the point of honour, as well as every thing else, in ridiculous lights, and began to renounce its tyranny.

But I am too much in advance, and must retreat for more advantage. I should not forget how much opinion is against me, and that I am to make my way by the mere force and weight of evidence; without which I must not hope to possess myself of the reader: No address, no insinuation will avail. To this evidence, then, I now resort. The Courage of _Falstaff_ is my Theme: And no passage will I spare from which any thing can be inferred as relative to this point. It would be as vain as injudicious to attempt concealment: How could I escape detection? The Play is in every one’s memory, and a single passage remembered in detection would tell, in the mind of the partial observer, for fifty times its real weight. Indeed this argument would be void of all excuse if it declined any difficulty; if it did not meet, if it did not challenge opposition. Every passage then shall be produced from which, in my opinion, any inference, favourable or unfavourable, has or can be drawn;—but not methodically, not formally, as texts for comment, but as chance or convenience shall lead the way; but in what shape soever, they shall be always distinguishingly marked for notice. And so with that attention to truth and candour which ought to accompany even our lightest amusements I proceed to offer such proof as the case will admit, that _Courage_ is a part of _Falstaff_’s _Character_, that it belonged to his constitution, and was manifest in the conduct and practice of his whole life.

Let us then examine, as a source of very authentic information, what Impressions _Sir John Falstaff_ had made on the characters of the Drama; and in what estimation he is supposed to stand with mankind in general as to the point of Personal Courage. But the quotations we make for this or other purposes, must, it is confessed, be lightly touched, and no particular passage strongly relied on, either in his favour or against him. Every thing which he himself says, or is said of him, is so phantastically discoloured by humour, or folly, or jest, that we must for the most part look to the spirit rather than the letter of what is uttered, and rely at last only on a combination of the whole.

We will begin then, if the reader pleases, by inquiring what Impression the very Vulgar had taken of _Falstaff_. If it is not that of Cowardice, be it what else it may, that of a man of violence, or _a Ruffian in years_, as _Harry_ calls him, or any thing else, it answers my purpose; how insignificant soever the characters or incidents to be first produced may otherwise appear;—for these Impressions must have been taken either from personal knowledge and observation; or, what will do better for my purpose, from common fame. Altho’ I must admit some part of this evidence will appear so weak and trifling that it certainly ought not to be produced but in proof Impression only.

The _Hostess Quickly_ employs two officers to arrest _Falstaff_: On the mention of his name, one of them immediately observes, “_that it may chance to cost some of them their lives, for that he will stab._”—“_Alas a day,_” says the hostess, “_take heed of him, he cares not what mischief he doth; if his weapon be out, he will foin like any devil; He will spare neither man, woman, or child._” Accordingly, we find that when they lay hold on him he resists to the utmost of his power, and calls upon _Bardolph_, whose arms are at liberty, to draw. “_Away, varlets, draw Bardolph, cut me off the villain’s head, throw the quean in the kennel._” The officers cry, _a rescue, a rescue!_ But the Chief Justice comes in and the scuffle ceases. In another scene, his wench _Doll Tearsheet_ asks him “_when he will leave fighting ... and patch up his old body for heaven._” This is occasioned by his drawing his rapier, on great provocation, and driving _Pistol_, who is drawn likewise, down stairs, and hurting him in the shoulder. To drive _Pistol_ was no great feat; nor do I mention it as such; but upon this occasion it was necessary. “_A Rascal bragging slave,_” says he, “_the rogue fled from me like quicksilver_”: Expressions which, as they remember the cowardice of _Pistol_, seem to prove that _Falstaff_ did not value himself on the adventure. Even something may be drawn from _Davy, Shallow_’s serving man, who calls _Falstaff_, in ignorant admiration, the _man of war_. I must observe here, and I beg the reader will notice it, that there is not a single expression dropt by these people, or either of _Falstaff_’s followers, from which may be inferred the least suspicion of Cowardice in his character; and this is I think such an _implied negation_ as deserves considerable weight.

But to go a little higher, if, indeed, to consider _Shallow_’s opinion be to go _higher_: It is from him, however, that we get the earliest account of _Falstaff_. He _remembers him a Page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk_: “_He broke,_” says he, “_Schoggan’s head at the Court-Gate when he was but a crack thus high._” _Shallow_, throughout, considers him as a great Leader and Soldier, and relates this fact as an early indication only of his future Prowess. _Shallow_, it is true, is a very ridiculous character; but he picked up these Impressions somewhere; and he picked up none of a contrary tendency.—I want at present only to prove that _Falstaff_ stood well in the report of common fame as to this point; and he was now near seventy years of age, and had passed in a Military line thro’ the active part of his life. At this period common fame may be well considered as the _seal_ of his character; a seal which ought not perhaps to be broke open on the evidence of any future transaction.

But to proceed. _Lord Bardolph_ was a man of the world, and of sense and observation. He informs _Northumberland_, erroneously indeed, that _Percy_ had beaten the King at Shrewsbury. “_The King,_” according to him, “_was wounded; the Prince of Wales and the two Blunts slain, certain Nobles_, whom he names, _had escaped by flight, and the Brawn Sir John Falstaff was taken prisoner._” But how came _Falstaff_ into this list? Common fame had put him there. He is singularly obliged to Common fame.—But if he had not been a Soldier of repute, if he had not been brave as well as fat, if he had been _mere brawn_, it would have been more germane to the matter if this lord had put him down among the baggage or the provender. The fact seems to be that there is a real consequence about Sir _John Falstaff_ which is not brought forward: We see him only in his familiar hours; we enter the tavern with _Hal_ and _Poins_; we join in the laugh and _take a pride to gird at him_: But there may be a great deal of truth in what he himself writes to the Prince, that tho’ he be “_Jack Falstaff with his Familiars, he is __SIR JOHN__ with the rest of Europe._” It has been remarked, and very truly I believe, that no man is a hero in the eye of his valet-de-chambre; and _thus_ it is, we are witnesses only of _Falstaff_’s weakness and buffoonery; our acquaintance is with _Jack Falstaff_, _Plump Jack_, and _Sir John Paunch_; but if we would look for _Sir John Falstaff_, we must put on, as _Bunyan_ would have expressed it, the spectacles of observation. With respect, for instance, to his Military command at Shrewsbury, nothing appears on the surface but the Prince’s familiarly saying, in the tone usually assumed when speaking of _Falstaff_, “_I will procure this fat rogue a Charge of foot_”; and in another place, “_I will procure thee Jack a Charge of foot; meet me to-morrow in the Temple Hall._” Indeed we might venture to infer from this, that a Prince of so great ability, whose wildness was only external and assumed, would not have procured, in so nice and critical a conjuncture, a Charge of foot for a known Coward. But there was more it seems in the case: We now find from this report, to which _Lord Bardolph_ had given full credit, that the world had its eye upon _Falstaff_ as an officer of merit, whom it expected to find in the field, and whose fate in the battle was an object of Public concern: His life was, it seems, very material indeed; a thread of so much dependence, that _fiction_, weaving the fates of Princes, did not think it unworthy, how coarse soever, of being made a part of the tissue.

We shall next produce the evidence of the Chief Justice of England. He inquires of his attendant, “_if the man who was then passing him was __FALSTAFF__; he who was in question for the robbery._” The attendant answers affirmatively, but reminds his lord “_that he had since done good service at Shrewsbury_”; and the Chief Justice, on this occasion, rating him for his debaucheries, tells him “_that his day’s service at Shrewsbury had gilded over his night’s exploit at Gads Hill._” This is surely more than Common fame: _The Chief Justice_ must have known his whole character taken together, and must have received the most authentic information, and in the truest colours, of his behaviour in that action.

But, perhaps, after all, the Military men may be esteemed the best judges in points of this nature. Let us hear then _Coleville_ of the dale, _a Soldier, in degree a Knight, a famous rebel, and_ “_whose betters, had they been ruled by him, would have sold themselves dearer_”: A man who is of consequence enough to be guarded by _Blunt_ and _led to present execution_. This man yields himself up even to the very Name and Reputation of _Falstaff_. “_I think_,” says he, “_you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought yield me._” But this is but one only among the men of the sword; and they shall be produced then by _dozens_, if that will satisfy. Upon the return of the King and Prince Henry from Wales, the Prince seeks out and finds _Falstaff_ debauching in a tavern; where _Peto_ presently brings an account of ill news from the North; and adds, “_that as he came along he met or overtook a dozen Captains, bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns, and asking every one for __SIR JOHN FALSTAFF__._” He is followed by _Bardolph_, who informs _Falstaff_ that “_He must away to the Court immediately; a dozen Captains stay at door for him._” Here is Military evidence in abundance, and _Court evidence_ too; for what are we to infer from _Falstaff_’s being sent for to Court on this ill news, but that his opinion was to be asked, as a Military man of skill and experience, concerning the defences necessary to be taken. Nor is _Shakespeare_ content, here, with leaving us to gather up _Falstaff_’s _better character_ from inference and deduction: He comments on the fact by making _Falstaff_ observe that “_Men of merit are sought after: The undeserver may sleep when the man of action is called on._” I do not wish to draw _Falstaff_’s character out of his own mouth; but this observation refers to the fact, and is founded in reason. Nor ought we to reject what in another place he says to the Chief Justice, as it is in the nature of an appeal to his knowledge. “_There is not a dangerous action_,” says he, “_can peep out his head but I am thrust upon it._” The Chief Justice seems by his answer to admit the fact. “_Well, be honest, be honest, and heaven bless your expedition._” But the whole passage may deserve transcribing.

Ch. Just. “_Well, the King has served you and Prince Henry. I hear
you are going with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop
and the Earl of Northumberland._”

Fals. “_Yes, I thank your pretty sweet wit for it; but look you
pray, all you that kiss my lady peace at home, that our armies
join not in a hot day; for I take but two shirts out with me, and
I mean not to sweat extraordinarily: If it be a hot day, if I
brandish any thing but a bottle, would I might never spit white
again. There is not a dangerous action can peep out his head but I
am thrust upon it. Well I cannot last for ever.—But it was always
the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing to make
it too common. If you will needs say I am an old man you should
give me rest: I would to God my name were not so terrible to the
enemy as it is. I were better to be eaten to death with a rust
than to be scour’d to nothing with perpetual motion._”

Ch. Just. “_Well be honest, be honest, and heaven bless your
expedition._”

_Falstaff_ indulges himself here in humourous exaggeration;—these passages are not meant to be taken, nor are we to suppose that they were taken, literally;—but if there was not a ground of truth, if _Falstaff_ had not had such a degree of Military reputation as was capable of being thus humourously amplified and exaggerated, the whole dialogue would have been highly preposterous and absurd, and the acquiescing answer of the _Lord Chief Justice_ singularly improper.—But upon the supposition of _Falstaff_’s being considered, upon the whole, as a good and gallant Officer, the answer is just, and corresponds with the acknowledgment which had a little before been made, “_that his days service at Shrewsbury had gilded over his night’s exploit at Gads Hill.—You may thank the unquiet time,_” says the Chief Justice, “_for your quiet o’erposting of that action_”; agreeing with what _Falstaff_ says in another place;—“_Well, God be thanked for these Rebels, they offend none but the virtuous; I laud them, I praise them._”—Whether this be said in the true spirit of a Soldier or not, I do not determine; it is surely not in that of a mere Coward and Poltroon.

It will be needless to shew, which might be done from a variety of particulars, that _Falstaff_ was known and had consideration at Court. _Shallow_ cultivates him in the idea that _a friend at Court is better than a penny in purse_: _Westmorland_ speaks to him in the tone of an equal: Upon _Falstaff_’s telling him that he thought his lordship had been already at Shrewsbury, _Westmorland_ replies,—“_Faith Sir John, ’tis more than time that I were there, and you too; the King I can tell you looks for us all; we must away all to night._”—“_Tut,_” says Falstaff, “_never fear me, I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream._”—He desires, in another place, of my lord John of Lancaster, “_that when he goes to Court, he may stand in his good report._” His intercourse and correspondence with both these lords seem easy and familiar. “_Go,_” says he to the page, “_bear this to my Lord of Lancaster, this to the Prince, this to the Earl of Westmorland, and this_ (for he extended himself on all sides) _to old Mrs. Ursula_,” whom, it seems, the rogue ought to have married many years before.—But these intimations are needless: We see him ourselves in the _Royal Presence_; where, certainly, his buffooneries never brought him; never was the Prince of a character to commit so high an indecorum, as to thrust, upon a solemn occasion, a mere Tavern companion into his father’s Presence, especially in a moment when he himself deserts his looser character, and takes up that of _a Prince indeed_.—In a very important scene, where _Worcester_ is expected with proposals from _Percy_, and wherein he is received, is treated with, and carries back offers of accommodation from the King, the King’s attendants upon the occasion are _the Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, the Earl of Westmorland, Sir Walter Blunt, and Sir John Falstaff_.—What shall be said to this? _Falstaff_ is not surely introduced here in vicious indulgence to a mob audience;—he utters but one word, a buffoon one indeed, but aside, and to the Prince only. Nothing, it should seem, is wanting, if decorum would here have permitted, but that he should have spoken one sober sentence in the Presence (which yet we are to suppose him ready and able to do if occasion should have required; or his wit was given him to little purpose) and Sir _John Falstaff_ might be allowed to pass for an established Courtier and counsellor of state. “_If I do grow great,_” says he, “_I’ll grow less, purge and leave sack, and live as a nobleman should do._” Nobility did not then appear to him at an unmeasurable distance; it was, it seems, in his idea, the very next link in the chain.

But to return. I would now demand what could bring _Falstaff_ into the Royal Presence upon such an occasion, or justify the Prince’s so public acknowledgment of him, but an established fame and reputation of Military merit? In short, just the like merit as brought Sir _Walter Blunt_ into the same circumstances of honour.

But it may be objected that his introduction into this scene is a piece of indecorum in the author. But upon what ground are we to suppose this? Upon the ground of his being a notorious Coward? Why, this is the very point in question, and cannot be granted: Even the direct contrary I have affirmed, and am endeavouring to support. But if it be supposed upon any other ground, it does not concern me; I have nothing to do with _Shakespeare_’s indecorums in general. That there are indecorums in the Play I have no doubt: The indecent treatment of _Percy_’s dead body is the greatest;—the familiarity of the significant, rude, and even ill disposed _Poins_ with the Prince, is another;—but the admission of _Falstaff_ into the Royal Presence (supposing, which I have a right to suppose, that his Military character was unimpeached) does not seem to be in any respect among the number. In camps there is but one virtue and one vice; Military merit swallows up or covers all. But, after all, what have we to do with indecorums? Indecorums respect the propriety or impropriety of exhibiting certain actions;—not their _truth_ or _falshood_ when exhibited. _Shakespeare_ stands to us in the place of _truth_ and _nature_: If we desert this principle, we cut the turf from under us; I may then object to the robbery and other passages as indecorums, and as contrary to the truth of character. In short we may rend and tear the Play to pieces, and every man carry off what sentences he likes best.—But why this inveterate malice against poor _Falstaff_? He has faults enough in conscience without loading him with the infamy of Cowardice; a charge, which, if true, would, if I am not greatly mistaken, spoil all our mirth.—But of that hereafter.

It seems to me that, in our hasty judgment of some particular transactions, we forget the circumstances and condition of his whole life and character, which yet deserve our very particular attention. The author, it is true, has thrown the most advantageous of these circumstances into the _back ground_, as it were, and has brought nothing _out of the canvass_ but his follies and buffoonery. We discover, however, that in a very early period of his life he was familiar with _John_ of _Gaunt_; which could hardly be, unless he had possessed much personal gallantry and accomplishment, and had derived his birth from a distinguished at least, if not from a Noble family.

It may seem very extravagant to insist upon _Falstaff_’s birth as a ground from which, by any inference, Personal courage may be derived, especially after having acknowledged that he seemed to have deserted those points of honour which are more peculiarly the accompanyments of rank. But it may be observed that in the Feudal ages rank and wealth were not only connected with the point of honour, but with personal strength and natural courage. It is observable that Courage is a quality which is at least as transmissible to one’s posterity as features and complexion. In these periods men acquired and maintained their rank and possessions by personal prowess and gallantry; and their marriage alliances were made, of course, in families of the same character: And from hence, and from the exercises of their youth, we must account for the distinguished force and bravery of our antient Barons. It is not therefore beside my purpose to inquire what hints of the origin and birth of _Falstaff_, _Shakespeare_ may have dropped in different parts of the Play; for tho’ we may be disposed to allow that _Falstaff_ in his old age might, under particular influences, desert the point of honour, we cannot give up that unalienable possession of Courage, which might have been derived to him from a noble or distinguished stock.

But it may be said that _Falstaff_ was in truth the child of invention only, and that a reference to the Feudal accidents of birth serves only to confound fiction with reality: Not altogether so. If the ideas of courage and _birth_ were strongly associated in the days of _Shakespeare_, then would the assignment of high birth to _Falstaff_ carry, and be intended to carry along with it, to the minds of the audience the associated idea of Courage, if nothing should be specially interposed to dissolve the connection;—and the question is as concerning this intention, and this effect.

I shall proceed yet farther to make a few very minute observations of the same nature: But if _Shakespeare_ meant sometimes rather to _impress_ than explain, no circumstances calculated to this end, either directly or by association, are too minute for notice. But however this may be, a more conciliating reason still remains: The argument itself, like the tales of our Novelists, is a _vehicle_ only; _theirs_, as they profess, of moral instruction; and _mine_ of critical amusement. The vindication of _Falstaff_’s Courage deserves not for its own sake the least sober discussion; _Falstaff_ is the word only, _Shakespeare_ is the _Theme_: And if thro’ this channel I can furnish no irrational amusement, the reader will not, perhaps, every where expect from me the strict severity of logical investigation.

_Falstaff_, then, it may be observed, was introduced into the world,—(at least we are told so) by the name of _Oldcastle_.(41) This was assigning him an origin of nobility; but the family of that name disclaiming any kindred with his vices, he was thereupon, as it is said, ingrafted into another stock(42) scarcely less distinguished, tho’ fallen into indelible disgraces; and by this means he has been made, if the conjectures of certain critics are well founded, the Dramatic successor, tho’, having respect to chronology, the natural _proavus_ of another Sir _John_, who was no less than a Knight of the most noble order of the Garter, but a name for ever dishonoured by a frequent exposure in that Drum-and-trumpet Thing called _The first part of Henry_ VI., written doubtless, or rather exhibited, long before _Shakespeare_ was born,(43) tho’ afterwards repaired, I think, and furbished up by him with here and there a little sentiment and diction. This family, if any branch of it remained in _Shakespeare_’s time, might have been proud of their Dramatic ally, if indeed they could have any fair pretence to claim as such _him_ whom _Shakespeare_, perhaps in contempt of Cowardice, wrote _Falstaff_, not _Fastolfe_, the true Historic name of the Gartered Craven.

In the age of Henry IV. a Family crest and arms were authentic proofs of gentility; and this proof, among others, _Shakespeare_ has furnished us with: _Falstaff_ always carried about him, it seems, _a Seal ring of his Grandfather’s, worth_, as he says, _forty marks_: The Prince indeed affirms, but not seriously I think, that this ring was _copper_. As to the existence of the _bonds_, which were I suppose the negotiable securities or paper-money of the time, and which he pretended to have lost, I have nothing to say; but the ring, I believe, was really gold; tho’ probably a little too much alloyed with baser metal. But this is not the point: The _arms_ were doubtless genuine; they were borne by his Grandfather, and are proofs of an antient gentility; a gentility doubtless, in former periods, connected with wealth and possessions, tho’ the gold of the family might have been transmuting by degrees, and perhaps, in the hands of _Falstaff_, converted into little better than copper. This observation is made on the supposition of _Falstaff_’s being considered as the head of the family, which I think however he ought not to be. It appears rather as if he ought to be taken in the light of a cadet or younger brother; which the familiar appellation of _John_, “the only one (as he says) given him by his brothers and sisters,” seems to indicate. Be this as it may, we find he is able, in spite of dissipation, to keep up a certain _state_ and _dignity_ of appearance; retaining no less than four, if not five, followers or men servants in his train. He appears also to have had apartments in town, and, by his invitations of _Master Gower_ to dinner and to supper, a regular table: And one may infer farther from the Prince’s question, on his return from Wales, to _Bardolph_, “_Is your master_ here _in London_,” that he had likewise a house in the country. Slight proofs it must be confessed, yet the inferences are so probable, so buoyant, in their own nature, that they may well rest on them. That he did not lodge at the Tavern is clear from the circumstances of the arrest. These various occasions of expence,—servants, taverns, houses, and whores,—necessarily imply that _Falstaff_ must have had some funds which are not brought immediately under our notice. That these funds were not however adequate to his style of living is plain: Perhaps his train may be considered only as incumbrances, which the pride of family and the habit of former opulence might have brought upon his present poverty: I do not mean absolute poverty, but call it so as relative to his expence. To have “_but seven groats and two-pence in his purse_” and a page to bear it, is truly ridiculous; and it is for that reason we become so familiar with its contents, “_He can find_,” he says, “_no remedy for this consumption of the purse, borrowing does but linger and linger it out; but the disease is incurable_.” It might well be deemed so in his course of dissipation: But I shall presently suggest one source at least of his supply much more constant and honourable than that of borrowing. But the condition of _Falstaff_ as to opulence or poverty is not very material to my purpose: It is enough if his birth was distinguished, and his youth noted for gallantry and accomplishments. To the first I have spoken, and as for the latter we shall not be at a loss when we remember that “_he was in his youth a page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk_”; a situation at that time sought for by young men of the best families and first fortune. The house of every great noble was at that period a kind of Military school; and it is probable that _Falstaff_ was singularly adroit at his exercises: “_He broke Schoggan’s head_,” (some boisterous fencer I suppose) “_when he was but a crack thus high_.” _Shallow_ remembers him _as notedly skilful at backsword_; and he was at that period, according to his own humourous account, “_scarcely an eagle’s talon in the waist, and could have crept thro’ an alderman’s thumb ring_.” Even at the age at which he is exhibited to us, we find him _foundering_, as he calls it, _nine score and odd miles_, with wonderful expedition, to join the army of Prince _John_ of _Lancaster_; and declaring, after the surrender of _Coleville_, that “_had he but a belly of any indifferency, he were simply the most active fellow in Europe_.” Nor ought we here to pass over his Knighthood without notice. It was, I grant, intended by the author as a dignity which, like his Courage and his wit, was to be debased; his knighthood by low situations, his Courage by circumstances and imputations of cowardice, and his wit by buffoonery. But how are we to suppose this honour was acquired? By that very Courage, it should seem, which we so obstinately deny him. It was not certainly given him, like a modern City Knighthood, for his wealth or gravity: It was in these days a Military honour, and an authentic badge of Military merit.

But _Falstaff_ was not only a Military Knight, he possess’d an honourable _pension_ into the bargain; the reward as well as retainer of service, and which seems (besides the favours perhaps of Mrs. _Ursula_) to be the principal and only solid support of his present expences. But let us refer to the passage. “_A pox of this gout, or a gout of this pox; for one or the other plays the rogue with my great toe: It is no matter if I do halt, I have the wars for my colour, and my pension shall seem the more reasonable._” The mention _Falstaff_ here makes of a pension, has I believe been generally construed to refer rather to _hope_ than _possession_, yet I know not why: For the possessive MY, _my pension_, (not _a_ pension) requires a different construction. Is it that we cannot enjoy a wit till we have stript him of every worldly advantage, and reduced him below the level of our envy? It may be perhaps for this reason among others that _Shakespeare_ has so obscured the better parts of _Falstaff_ and stolen them secretly out of our feelings, instead of opening them fairly to the notice of our understandings. How carelessly, and thro’ what bye-paths, as it were, of casual inference, is this fact of a pension introduced! And how has he associated it with misfortune and infirmity! Yet I question, however, if, in this one place, the _Impression_ which was intended be well and effectually made. It must be left to the reader to determine if, in that mass of things out of which _Falstaff_ is compounded, he ever considered a pension as any part of the composition: A pension however he appears to have had, one that halting could only seem to make more reasonable, not more honourable. The inference arising from the fact, I shall leave to the reader. It is surely a circumstance highly advantageous to _Falstaff_ (I speak of the pensions of former days), whether he be considered in the light of a soldier or a gentleman.

I cannot foresee the temper of the reader, nor whether he be content to go along with me in these kind of observations. Some of the incidents which I have drawn out of the Play may appear too minute, whilst yet they refer to principles which may seem too general. Many points require explanation; something should be said of the nature of _Shakespeare_’s Dramatic characters;(44) by what arts they were formed, and wherein they differ from those of other writers; something likewise more professedly of _Shakespeare_ himself, and of the peculiar character of his genius. After such a review we may not perhaps think any consideration arising out of the Play, or out of general nature, either as too minute or too extensive.

_Shakespeare_ is, in truth, an author whose mimic creation agrees in general so perfectly with that of nature, that it is not only wonderful in the great, but opens another scene of amazement to the discoveries of the microscope. We have been charged indeed by a Foreign writer with an overmuch admiring of this _Barbarian_: Whether we have admired with knowledge, or have blindly followed those feelings of affection which we could not resist, I cannot tell; but certain it is, that to the labours of his Editors he has not been overmuch obliged. They are however for the most part of the first rank in literary fame; but some of them had possessions of their own in Parnassus, of an extent too great and important to allow of a very diligent attention to the interests of others; and among those Critics more professionally so, the ablest and the best has unfortunately looked more to the praise of ingenious than of just conjecture. The character of his emendations are not so much that of _right_ or _wrong_, as that, being in the extreme, they are always _Warburtonian_. Another has since undertaken the custody of our author, whom he seems to consider as a sort of wild Proteus or madman, and accordingly knocks him down with the butt-end of his critical staff, as often as he exceeds that line of sober discretion, which this learned Editor appears to have chalked out for him: Yet is this Editor notwithstanding “a man, take him for all in all,” very highly respectable for his genius and his learning. What however may be chiefly complained of in these gentlemen is, that having erected themselves into the condition, as it were, of guardians and trustees of _Shakespeare_, they have never undertaken to discharge the disgraceful incumbrances of some wretched productions which have long hung heavy on his fame. Besides the evidence of taste, which indeed is not communicable, there are yet other and more general proofs that these incumbrances were not incurred by _Shakespeare_: The _Latin_ sentences dispersed thro’ the imputed trash is, I think, of itself a decisive one. _Love’s Labour lost_ contains a very conclusive one of another kind; tho’ the very last Editor has, I believe, in his critical sagacity, suppressed the evidence, and withdrawn the record.

Yet whatever may be the neglect of some, or the censure of others, there are those who firmly believe that this wild, this uncultivated Barbarian has not yet obtained one half of his fame; and who trust that some new Stagyrite will arise, who instead of pecking at the surface of things will enter into the inward soul of his compositions, and expel, by the force of congenial feelings, those foreign impurities which have stained and disgraced his page. And as to those _spots_ which will still remain, they may perhaps become invisible to those who shall seek them thro’ the medium of his beauties, instead of looking for those beauties, as is too frequently done, thro’ the smoke of some real or imputed obscurity. When the hand of time shall have brushed off his present Editors and Commentators, and when the very name of _Voltaire_, and even the memory of the language in which he has written, shall be no more, the _Apalachian_ mountains, the banks of the _Ohio_, and the plains of _Sciota_ shall resound with the accents of this Barbarian: In his native tongue he shall roll the genuine passions of nature; nor shall the griefs of _Lear_ be alleviated, or the charms and wit of _Rosalind_ be abated by time. There is indeed nothing perishable about him, except that very learning which he is said so much to want. He had not, it is true, enough for the demands of the age in which he lived, but he had perhaps too much for the reach of his genius, and the interest of his fame. _Milton_ and he will carry the decayed remnants and fripperies of antient mythology into more distant ages than they are by their own force intitled to extend; and the _Metamorphoses_ of _Ovid_, upheld by them, lay in a new claim to unmerited immortality.

_Shakespeare_ is a name so interesting, that it is excusable to stop a moment, nay it would be indecent to pass him without the tribute of some admiration. He differs essentially from all other writers: Him we may profess rather to feel than to understand; and it is safer to say, on many occasions, that we are possessed by him, than that we possess him. And no wonder;—He scatters the seeds of things, the principles of character and action, with so cunning a hand, yet with so careless an air, and, master of our feelings, submits himself so little to our judgment, that every thing seems superior. We discern not his course, we see no connection of cause and effect, we are rapt in ignorant admiration, and claim no kindred with his abilities. All the incidents, all the parts, look like chance, whilst we feel and are sensible that the whole is design. His Characters not only act and speak in strict conformity to nature, but in strict relation to us; just so much is shewn as is requisite, just so much is impressed; he commands every passage to our heads and to our hearts, and moulds us as he pleases, and that with so much ease, that he never betrays his own exertions. We see these Characters act from the mingled motives of passion, reason, interest, habit, and complection, in all their proportions, when they are supposed to know it not themselves; and we are made to acknowledge that their actions and sentiments are, from those motives, the necessary result. He at once blends and distinguishes every thing;—every thing is complicated, every thing is plain. I restrain the further expressions of my admiration lest they should not seem applicable to man; but it is really astonishing that a mere human being, a part of humanity only, should so perfectly comprehend the whole; and that he should possess such exquisite art, that whilst every woman and every child shall feel the whole effect, his learned Editors and Commentators should yet so very frequently mistake or seem ignorant of the cause. A sceptre or a straw are in his hands of equal efficacy; he needs no selection; he converts every thing into excellence; nothing is too great, nothing is too base. Is a character efficient like _Richard_, it is every thing we can wish: Is it otherwise, like _Hamlet_, it is productive of equal admiration: Action produces one mode of excellence, and inaction another: The Chronicle, the Novel, or the Ballad; the king, or the beggar, the hero, the madman, the sot, or the fool; it is all one;—nothing is worse, nothing is better: The same genius pervades and is equally admirable in all. Or, is a character to be shewn in progressive change, and the events of years comprized within the hour;—with what a Magic hand does he prepare and scatter his spells! The Understanding must, in the first place, be subdued; and lo! how the rooted prejudices of the child spring up to confound the man! The Weird sisters rise, and order is extinguished. The laws of nature give way, and leave nothing in our minds but wildness and horror. No pause is allowed us for reflection: Horrid sentiment, furious guilt and compunction, air-drawn daggers, murders, ghosts, and inchantment, shake and _possess us wholly_. In the mean time the _process_ is completed. _Macbeth_ changes under our eye, _the milk of human kindness is converted to gall; he has supped full of horrors_, and his _May of life is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf_; whilst we, the fools of amazement, are insensible to the shifting of place and the lapse of time, and, till the curtain drops, never once wake to the truth of things, or recognize the laws of existence.—On such an occasion, a fellow, like _Rymer_, waking from his trance, shall lift up his Constable’s staff, and charge this great Magician, this daring _practicer of arts inhibited_, in the name of _Aristotle_, to surrender; whilst _Aristotle_ himself, disowning his wretched Officer, would fall prostrate at his feet and acknowledge his supremacy.—O supreme of Dramatic excellence! (_might he say_) not to me be imputed the insolence of fools. The bards of _Greece_ were confined within the narrow circle of the Chorus, and hence they found themselves constrained to practice, for the most part, the precision, and copy the details of nature. I followed them, and knew not that a larger circle might be drawn, and the Drama extended to the whole reach of human genius. Convinced, I see that a more compendious _nature_ may be obtained; a nature of _effects_ only, to which neither the relations of place, or continuity of time, are always essential. Nature, condescending to the faculties and apprehensions of man, has drawn through human life a regular chain of visible causes and effects: But Poetry delights in surprise, conceals her steps, seizes at once upon the heart, and obtains the Sublime of things without betraying the rounds of her ascent: True Poesy is _magic_, not _nature_; an effect from causes hidden or unknown. To the Magician I prescribed no laws; his law and his power are one; his power is his law. Him, who neither imitates, nor is within the reach of imitation, no precedent can or ought to bind, no limits to contain. If his end is obtained, who shall question his course? Means, whether apparent or hidden, are justified in Poesy by success; but then most perfect and most admirable when most concealed.(45) But whither am I going! This copious and delightful topic has drawn me far beyond my design; I hasten back to my subject, and am guarded, for a time at least, against any further temptation to digress.

I was considering the dignity of _Falstaff_ so far as it might seem connected with or productive of military merit, and I have assigned him _reputation_ at least, if not _fame_, noble connection, birth, attendants, title, and an honourable pension; every one of them presumptive proofs of Military merit, and motives of action. What deduction is to be made on these articles, and why they are so much obscured may, perhaps, hereafter appear.

I have now gone through the examination of all the Persons of the Drama from whose mouths any thing can be drawn relative to the Courage of _Falstaff_, excepting the Prince and _Poins_, whose evidence I have begged leave to _reserve_, and excepting a very severe censure passed on him by Lord _John_ of _Lancaster_, which I shall presently consider: But I must first observe that, setting aside the jests of the Prince and _Poins_, and this censure of _Lancaster_, there is not one expression uttered by any character in the Drama that can be construed into any impeachment of _Falstaff_’s Courage;—an observation made before as respecting some of the Witnesses;—it is now extended to all: And though this silence be a negative proof only, it cannot, in my opinion, under the circumstances of the case, and whilst uncontradicted by facts, be too much relied on. If _Falstaff_ had been intended for the character of a _Miles Gloriosus_, his behaviour ought and therefore would have been commented upon by others. _Shakespeare_ seldom trusts to the apprehensions of his audience; his characters interpret for one another continually, and when we least suspect such artful and secret management: The conduct of _Shakespeare_ in this respect is admirable, and I could point out a thousand passages which might put to shame the advocates of a formal Chorus, and prove that there is as little of necessity as grace in so mechanic a contrivance.(46) But I confine my censure of the Chorus to its supposed use of comment and interpretation only.

_Falstaff_ is, indeed, so far from appearing to my eye in the light of a _Miles Gloriosus_, that, in the best of my taste and judgment, he does not discover, except in consequence of the robbery, the least _trait_ of such a character. All his boasting speeches are humour, mere humour, and carefully spoken to persons who cannot misapprehend them, who cannot be imposed on: They contain indeed, for the most part, an unreasonable and imprudent ridicule of himself, the usual subject of his good humoured merriment; but in the company of ignorant people, such as the Justices, or his own followers, he is remarkably reserved, and does not hazard any thing, even in the way of humour, that may be subject to mistake: Indeed he no where seems to suspect that his character is open to censure on this side, or that he needs the arts of imposition.—“_Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms as I have done this day_” is spoken, whilst he breathes from action, to the Prince in a tone of jolly humour, and contains nothing but a light ridicule of his own inactivity: This is as far from real boasting as his saying before the battle, “_Wou’d it were bed-time, __HAL__, and all were well_,” is from meanness or depression. This articulated wish is not the fearful outcry of a _Coward_, but the frank and honest breathing of a _generous fellow_, who does not expect to be seriously reproached with the character. Instead, indeed, of deserving the name of a vain glorious _Coward_, his modesty perhaps on his head, and whimsical ridicule of himself, have been a principal source of the imputation.

But to come to the very serious reproach thrown upon him by that _cold blooded_ boy, as he calls him, _Lancaster_.—_Lancaster_ makes a solemn treaty of peace with the _Archbishop of York, Mowbray_, &c. upon the faith of which they disperse their troops; which is no sooner done than _Lancaster_ arrests the Principals, and pursues the _scattered stray_: A transaction, by the bye, so singularly perfidious, that I wish _Shakespeare_, for his own credit, had not suffered it to pass under his pen without marking it with the blackest strokes of Infamy.—During this transaction, _Falstaff_ arrives, joins in the pursuit, and takes Sir _John Coleville_ prisoner. Upon being seen by _Lancaster_ he is thus addressed:—

“Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while?
When every thing is over, then you come:
These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life,
One time or other break some gallows’ back.”

This may appear to many a very formidable passage. It is spoken, as we may say, in the hearing of the army, and by one intitled as it were by his station to decide on military conduct; and if no punishment immediately follows, the forbearance may be imputed to a regard for the Prince of Wales, whose favour the delinquent was known so unworthily to possess. But this reasoning will by no means apply to the real circumstances of the case. The effect of this passage will depend on the credit we shall be inclined to give to _Lancaster_ for integrity and candour, and still more upon the facts which are the ground of this censure, and which are fairly offered by _Shakespeare_ to our notice.