Chapter XV: Letter III: Sir, Feb. 8 (9)

We will examine the evidence arising from both; and to this end we must in the first place a little unfold the character of this young Commander in chief;—from a review of which we may more clearly discern the general impulses and secret motives of his conduct: And this is a proceeding which I think the peculiar character of _Shakespeare_’s Drama will very well justify.

We are already well prepared what to think of this young man:—We have just seen a very pretty manœuvre of his in a matter of the highest moment, and have therefore the less reason to be surprized if we find him practising a more petty fraud with suitable skill and address. He appears in truth to have been what _Falstaff_ calls him, _a cold, reserved, sober-blooded boy_; a politician, as it should seem, by nature; bred up moreover in the school of _Bolingbroke_ his father, and tutored to betray: With sufficient courage and ability perhaps, but with too much of the knave in his composition, and too little of enthusiasm, ever to be a great and superior character. That such a youth as this should, even from the propensities of character alone, take any plausible occasion to injure a frank unguarded man of wit and pleasure, will not appear unnatural. But he had other inducements. _Falstaff_ had given very general scandal by his distinguished wit and noted poverty, insomuch that a little cruelty and injustice towards him was likely to pass, in the eye of the grave and prudent part of mankind, as a very creditable piece of fraud, and to be accounted to _Lancaster_ for virtue and good service. But _Lancaster_ had motives yet more prevailing; _Falstaff_ was a Favourite, without the power which belongs to that character; and the tone of the Court was strongly against him, as the misleader and corrupter of the Prince; who was now at too great a distance to afford him immediate countenance and protection. A scratch then, between jest and earnest as it were, something that would not too much offend the prince, yet would leave behind a disgraceful scar upon _Falstaff_, was very suitable to the temper and situation of parties and affairs. With these observations in our thought, let us return to the passage: It is plainly intended for disgrace, but how artful, how cautious, how insidious is the manner! It may pass for sheer pleasantry and humour: _Lancaster_ assumes the familiar phrase and _girding_ tone of _Harry_; and the gallows, as he words it, appears to be in the most danger from an encounter with _Falstaff_.—With respect to the matter, ’tis a kind of _miching malicho_; it means mischief indeed, but there is not precision enough in it to intitle it to the appellation of a formal charge, or to give to _Falstaff_ any certain and determined ground of defence. _Tardy tricks_ may mean not Cowardice but neglect only, though the _manner_ may seem to carry the imputation to both.—The reply of _Falstaff_ is exactly suited to the qualities of the speech;—for _Falstaff_ never wants ability, but conduct only. He answers the general effect of this speech by a feeling and serious complaint of injustice; he then goes on to apply his defence to the vindication both of his diligence and courage; but he deserts by degrees his serious tone, and taking the handle of pleasantry which _Lancaster_ had held forth to him, he is prudently content, as being sensible of _Lancaster_’s high rank and station, to let the whole pass off in buffoonery and humour. But the question is, however, not concerning the adroitness and management of either party: Our business is, after putting the credit of _Lancaster_ out of the question, to discover what there may be of truth and of fact either in the charge of the one, or the defence of the other. From this only, we shall be able to draw our inferences with fairness and with candour. The charge against _Falstaff_ is already in the possession of the reader: The defence follows.—

Fals. “_I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be thus: I never knew yet but that rebuke and check were the reward of valour. Do you think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? Have I in my poor and old motion the expedition of thought? I speeded hither within the very extremest inch of possibility. I have foundered ninescore and odd posts_ (deserting by degrees his serious tone, for _one_ of more address and advantage), _and here, travel-tainted as I am, have I in my pure and immaculate valour taken Sir John Coleville of the dale, a most furious Knight and valorous enemy._”

_Falstaff_’s answer then is that he used all possible expedition to join the army; the not doing of which, with an implication of Cowardice as the cause, is the utmost extent of the charge against him; and to take off this implication he refers to the evidence of a fact present and manifest,—the surrender of _Coleville_; in whose hearing he speaks, and to whom therefore he is supposed to appeal. Nothing then remains but that we should inquire if _Falstaff_’s answer was really founded in truth; “_I speeded hither_” says he, “_within the extremest inch of possibility_”: If it be so, he is justified: But I am afraid, for we must not conceal any thing, that _Falstaff_ was really detained too long by his debaucheries in London; at least, if we take the Chief Justice’s words very strictly.

“Ch. Just. _How now, Sir John? What are you brawling here? Doth this become your __PLACE__, your __TIME__, your __BUSINESS__? You should have been well on your way to York._”

Here then seems to be a delay worthy perhaps of rebuke; and if we could suppose _Lancaster_ to mean nothing more by _tardy tricks_ than idleness and debauch, I should not possibly think myself much concerned to vindicate _Falstaff_ from the charge; but the words imply, to my apprehension, a designed and deliberate avoidance of danger. Yet to the contrary of this we are furnished with very full and complete evidence. _Falstaff_, the moment he quits London, discovers the utmost eagerness and impatience to join the army; he gives up his gluttony, his mirth, and his ease. We see him take up in his passage some recruits at _Shallow_’s house; and tho’ he has pecuniary views upon _Shallow_, no inducement stops him; he takes no refreshment, he cannot _tarry dinner_, he hurries off; “_I will not_,” says he to the Justices, “_use many words with you. Fare ye well, Gentlemen both; I thank ye, I must a dozen miles to night._”—He misuses, it is true, at this time the _King’s Press damnably_; but that does not concern me, at least not for the present; it belongs to other parts of his character.—It appears then manifestly that _Shakespeare_ meant to shew _Falstaff_ as really using the utmost speed in his power; he arrives almost literally _within the extremest inch of possibility_; and if _Lancaster_ had not accelerated the event by a stroke of perfidy much more subject to the imputation of Cowardice than the _Debauch_ of _Falstaff_, he would have been time enough to have shared in the danger of a fair and honest decision. But great men have, it seems, a privilege; “_that in the __GENERAL’S__ but a choleric word, which in the __SOLDIER WERE__ flat blasphemy._” Yet after all, _Falstaff_ did really come time enough, as it appears, to join in the villainous triumphs of the day, to take prisoner _Coleville of the dale, a most furious Knight and valorous enemy_.—Let us look to the fact. If this incident should be found to contain any striking proof of _Falstaff_’s Courage and Military fame, his defence against _Lancaster_ will be stronger than the reader has even a right to demand. _Falstaff_ encounters _Coleville_ in the field, and, having demanded his name, is ready to assail him; but _Coleville_ asks him if he is not Sir _John Falstaff_; thereby implying a purpose of surrender. _Falstaff_ will not so much as furnish him with a pretence, and answers only, that _he is as good a man_. “_Do you yield Sir, or shall I sweat for you?_” “_I think_,” says Coleville, “_you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought yield me._” This fact, and the incidents with which it is accompanied, speak loudly; it seems to have been contrived by the author on purpose to take off a rebuke so authoritatively made by _Lancaster_. The fact is set before our eyes to confute the censure: _Lancaster_ himself seems to give up his charge, tho’ not his ill will; for upon _Falstaff_’s asking leave to pass through Glostershire, and artfully desiring that, upon _Lancaster_’s return to Court, _he might stand well in his report, Lancaster_ seems in his answer to mingle malice and acquittal. “_Fare ye well, Falstaff, I in my condition shall better speak of you than you deserve._” “_I would_,” says _Falstaff_, who is left behind in the scene, “_You had but the wit; ’twere better than your Dukedom._” He continues on the stage some time chewing the cud of dishonour, which, with all his facility, he cannot well swallow. “_Good faith_” says he, accounting to himself as well as he could for the injurious conduct of _Lancaster_, “_this sober-blooded boy does not love me._” This he might well believe. “_A man_,” says he, “_cannot make him laugh; there’s none of these demure boys come to any proof; but that’s no marvel, they drink no sack._”—_Falstaff_ then it seems knew no drinker of sack who was a Coward; at least the instance was not home and familiar to him.—“_They all_,” says he, “_fall into a kind of Male green sickness, and are generally fools and Cowards._” Anger has a privilege, and I think _Falstaff_ has a right to turn the tables upon _Lancaster_ if he can; but _Lancaster_ was certainly no fool, and I think upon the whole no Coward; yet the Male green sickness which _Falstaff_ talks of seems to have infected his manners and aspect, and taken from him all external indication of gallantry and courage. He behaves in the battle of Shrewsbury beyond the promise of his complexion and deportment: “_By heaven thou hast deceived me Lancaster_,” says Harry, “_I did not think thee Lord of such a spirit!_” Nor was his father less surprized “_at his holding Lord Percy at the point with lustier maintenance than he did look for from such an unripe warrior._” But how well and unexpectedly soever he might have behaved upon that occasion, he does not seem to have been of a temper to trust fortune too much or too often with his safety; therefore it is that, in order to keep the event in his own hands, he loads the Die, in the present case, with villainy and deceit: The event however he piously ascribes, like a wise and prudent youth as he is, without paying that worship to himself which he so justly merits, to the special favour and interposition of Heaven.

“Strike up your drums, pursue the scattered stray.
Heaven, and not we, have safely fought to-day.”

But the profane _Falstaff_, on the contrary, less informed and less studious of supernatural things, imputes the whole of this conduct to thin potations, and the not drinking largely of good and excellent _sherris_; and so little doubt does he seem to entertain of the Cowardice and ill disposition of this youth, that he stands devising causes, and casting about for an hypothesis on which the whole may be physically explained and accounted for;—but I shall leave him and Doctor _Cadogan_ to settle that point as they may.

The only serious charge against _Falstaff_’s Courage, we have now at large examined; it came from great authority, from the Commander in chief, and was meant as chastisement and rebuke; but it appears to have been founded in ill-will, in the particular character of _Lancaster_, and in the wantonness and insolence of power; and the author has placed near, and under our notice, full and ample proofs of its injustice.—And thus the deeper we look unto _Falstaff_’s character, the stronger is our conviction that he was not intended to be shewn as a Constitutional coward: Censure cannot lay sufficient hold on him,—and even malice turns away, and more than half pronounces his acquittal.

But as yet we have dealt principally in parole and circumstantial evidence, and have referred to _Fact_ only incidentally. But _Facts_ have a much more operative influence: They may be produced, not as arguments only, but Records; not to dispute alone, but to decide.—It is time then to behold _Falstaff_ in actual service as a soldier, in danger, and in battle. We have already displayed one fact in his defence against the censure of _Lancaster_; a fact extremely unequivocal and decisive. But the reader knows I have others, and doubtless goes before me to the action at _Shrewsbury_. In the midst and in the heat of battle we see him come forwards;—what are his words? “_I have led my Rag-o-muffians where they are peppered; there’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive._” But to _whom_ does he say this? To himself only; he speaks _in soliloquy_. There is no questioning the fact, _he had_ led _them_; _they were peppered_; _there were not __THREE__ left alive._ He was in luck, being in bulk equal to any two of them, to escape unhurt. Let the author answer for that, I have nothing to do with it: He was the Poetic maker of the whole _Corps_, and he might dispose of them as he pleased. Well might the Chief justice, as we now find, acknowledge _Falstaff_’s services in this day’s battle; an acknowledgment which amply confirms the fact. A Modern officer, who had performed a feat of this kind, would expect, not only the praise of having done his duty, but the appellation of a hero. But poor _Falstaff_ has too much wit to thrive: In spite of probability, in spite of inference, in spite of fact, he must be a Coward still. He happens unfortunately to have more Wit than Courage, and therefore we are maliciously determined that he shall have no Courage at all. But let us suppose that his modes of expression, even _in soliloquy_, will admit of some abatement;—how much shall we abate? Say that he brought off _fifty_ instead of _three_; yet a Modern captain would be apt to look big after an action with two thirds of his men, as it were, in his belly. Surely _Shakespeare_ never meant to exhibit this man as a Constitutional coward; if he did, his means were sadly destructive of his end. We see him, after he had expended his Rag-o-muffians, with sword and target in the midst of battle, in perfect possession of himself, and replete with humour and jocularity. He was, I presume, in some immediate personal danger, in danger also of a general defeat; too corpulent for flight; and to be led a prisoner was probably to be led to execution; yet we see him laughing and easy, offering a bottle of sack to the Prince instead of a pistol, punning, and telling him, “_there was that which would __SACK__ a city._”—“_What, is it a time_,” says the Prince “_to jest and dally now?_” No, a sober character would not jest on such an occasion, but a Coward could not; he would neither have the inclination, or the power. And what could support _Falstaff_ in such a situation? Not principle; he is not suspected of the Point of honour; he seems indeed fairly to renounce it. “_Honour cannot set a leg or an arm; it has no skill in surgery:—What is it? a word only; meer air. It is insensible to the dead; and detraction will not let __ it live with the living._” What then but a strong natural constitutional Courage, which nothing could extinguish or dismay?—In the following passages the true character of _Falstaff_ as to Courage and Principle is finely touched, and the different colours at once nicely blended and distinguished. “_If Percy be alive, I’ll __PIERCE__ him. If he do come in my way, __SO__:—If he do not, if I come in __HIS__ willingly, let him make a Carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath; give me life; which if I can save, __SO__; if not, honour comes unlook’d for, and there’s an end._” One cannot say which prevails most here, profligacy or courage; they are both tinged alike by the same humour, and mingled in one common mass; yet when we consider the superior force of _Percy_, as we must presently also that of _Douglas_, we shall be apt, I believe, in our secret heart, to forgive him. These passages are spoken in soliloquy and in battle: If every soliloquy made under similar circumstances were as audible as _Falstaff_’s, the imputation might perhaps be found too general for censure. These are among the passages that have impressed on the world an idea of Cowardice in _Falstaff_;—yet why? He is resolute to take his fate: If _Percy_ do come in his way, _so_;—if not, he will not seek inevitable destruction; he is willing to save his life, but if that cannot be, why,—“honour comes unlook’d for, and there’s an end.” This surely is not the language of Cowardice: It contains neither the Bounce or Whine of the character; he derides, it is true, and seems to renounce that grinning idol of Military zealots, _Honour_. But _Falstaff_ has a kind of Military free-thinker, and has accordingly incurred the obloquy of his condition. He stands upon the ground of natural Courage only and common sense, and has, it seems, too much wit for a hero.—But let me be well understood;—I do not justify _Falstaff_ for renouncing the point of honour; it proceeded doubtless from a general relaxation of mind, and profligacy of temper. Honour is calculated to aid and strengthen natural courage, and lift it up to heroism; but natural courage, which can act as such without honour, is natural courage still; the very quality I wish to maintain to _Falstaff_. And if, without the aid of honour, he can act with firmness, his portion is only the more eminent and distinguished. In such a character, it is to his actions, not his sentiments, that we are to look for conviction. But it may be still further urged in behalf of _Falstaff_, that there may be false honour as well as false religion. It is true; yet even in that case candour obliges me to confess that the best men are most disposed to conform, and most likely to become the dupes of their own virtue. But it may however be more reasonably urged that there are particular tenets both in honour and religion, which it is the grossness of folly not to question. To seek out, to court assured destruction, without leaving a single benefit behind, may be well reckoned in the number: And this is precisely the very folly which _Falstaff_ seems to abjure;—nor are we, perhaps, intitled to say more, in the way of censure, than that he had not virtue enough to become the dupe of honour, nor prudence enough to hold his tongue. I am willing however, if the reader pleases, to compound this matter, and acknowledge, on my part, that _Falstaff_ was in all respects the _old soldier_; that he had put himself under the sober discipline of discretion, and renounced, in a great degree at least, what he might call the Vanities and Superstitions of honour; if the reader will, on his part, admit that this might well be, without his renouncing, at the same time, the natural firmness and resolution he was born to.

But there is a formidable objection behind. _Falstaff_ counterfeits basely on being attacked by _Douglas_; he assumes, in a cowardly spirit, the appearance of death to avoid the reality. But there was no equality of force; not the least chance for victory, or life. And is it the duty then, _think we still_, of true Courage, to meet, without benefit to society, _certain death_? Or is it only the phantasy of honour?—But such a fiction is highly disgraceful;—true, and a man of nice honour might perhaps have _grinned_ for it. But we must remember that _Falstaff_ had a double character; he was a _wit_ as well as a _soldier_; and his Courage, however eminent, was but the _accessary_; his wit was the _principal_; and the part, which, if they should come in competition, he had the greatest interest in maintaining. Vain indeed were the licentiousness of his principles, if he should seek death like a bigot, yet without the meed of honour; when he might live by wit, and encrease the reputation of that wit by living. But why do I labour this point? It has been already anticipated, and our improved acquaintance with _Falstaff_ will now require no more than a short narrative of the fact.

Whilst in the battle of _Shrewsbury_ he is exhorting and encouraging the Prince who is engaged with the _Spirit Percy_—“_Well said Hal, to him Hal_,”—he is himself attacked by the _Fiend Douglas_. There was no match; nothing remained but death or stratagem; grinning honour, or laughing life. But an expedient offers, a mirthful one,—Take your choice _Falstaff_, a point of honour, or a point of drollery.—It could not be a question;—_Falstaff_ falls, _Douglas_ is cheated, and the world laughs. But does he fall like a Coward? No, like a buffoon only; the superior principle prevails, and _Falstaff_ lives by a stratagem growing out of his character, to prove himself _no counterfeit_, to jest, to be employed, and to fight again. That _Falstaff_ valued himself, and expected to be valued by others, upon this piece of saving wit, is plain. It was a stratagem, it is true; it argued presence of mind; but it was moreover, what he most liked, a very laughable joke; and as such he considers it; for he continues to counterfeit after the danger is over, that he may also deceive the Prince, and improve the event into more laughter. He might, for ought that appears, have concealed the transaction; the Prince was too earnestly engaged for observation; he might have formed a thousand excuses for his fall; but he lies still and listens to the pronouncing of his epitaph by the Prince with all the waggish glee and levity of his character. The circumstance of his wounding _Percy_ in the thigh, and carrying the dead body on his back like luggage, is _indecent_ but not cowardly. The declaring, though in jest, that he killed _Percy_, seems to me _idle_, but it is not meant or calculated for _imposition_; it is spoken to the _Prince himself_, the man in the world who could not be, or be supposed to be, imposed on. But we must hear, whether to the purpose or not, what it is that _Harry_ has to say over the remains of his old friend.

_P. Hen._ What, old acquaintance! could not all this flesh
Keep in a little life? Poor _Jack_, farewell!
I could have better spared a better man.
Oh! I shou’d have a heavy miss of thee,
If I were much in love with vanity.
Death hath not struck so fat a _deer_ to-day,
Tho’ many a _dearer_ in this bloody fray;
Imbowelled will I see thee by and by;
Till then, in blood by noble _Percy_ lye.

This is wonderfully proper for the occasion; it is affectionate, it is pathetic, yet it remembers his vanities, and, with a faint gleam of recollected mirth, even his plumpness and corpulency; but it is a pleasantry softned and rendered even vapid by tenderness, and it goes off in the sickly effort of a miserable pun.(47)—But to our immediate purpose,—why is not his Cowardice remembered too? what, no surprize that _Falstaff_ should lye by the side of the noble _Percy_ in the bed of honour! No reflection that flight, though unfettered by disease, could not avail; that fear could not find a subterfuge from death? Shall his corpulency and his vanities be recorded, and his more characteristic quality of Cowardice, even in the moment that it particularly demanded notice and reflection, be forgotten? If by sparing a better man be here meant a _better soldier_, there is no doubt but there were better Soldiers in the army, more active, more young, more principled, more knowing; but none, it seems, taken for all in all, more acceptable. The comparative _better_ used here leaves to _Falstaff_ the praise at least of _good_; and to be a good soldier, is to be a great way from Coward. But _Falstaff_’s goodness, in this sort, appears to have been not only enough to redeem him from disgrace, but to mark him with reputation; if I was to add with _eminence_ and _distinction_, the funeral honours which are intended his obsequies, and his being bid, till then, _to lye in blood by the noble Percy_, would fairly bear me out.

Upon the whole of the passages yet before us, why may I not reasonably hope that the good natured reader (and I write to no other), not offended at the levity of this exercise, may join with me in thinking that the character of _Falstaff_, as to valour, may be fairly and honestly summed up in the very words which he himself uses to _Harry_; and which seem, as to this point, to be intended by _Shakespeare_ as a _Compendium_ of his character. “_What_,” says the Prince, “_a Coward, Sir John Paunch!_” _Falstaff_ replies, “_Indeed I am not __JOHN OF GAUNT__ your grandfather, but yet __NO COWARD__, Hal._”

The robbery at _Gads-Hill_ comes now to be considered. But _here_, after such long argumentation, we may be allowed to breath a little.

I know not what Impression has been made on the reader; a good deal of evidence has been produced, and much more remains to be offered. But how many sorts of men are there whom no evidence can persuade! How many, who, ignorant of _Shakespeare_, or forgetful of the text, may as well read heathen Greek, or the laws of the land, as this unfortunate Commentary? How many, who, proud and pedantic, hate all novelty, and damn it without mercy under one compendious word, Paradox? How many more, who, not deriving their opinions immediately from the sovereignty of reason, hold at the will of some superior lord, to whom accident or inclination has attached them, and who, true to their vassalage, are resolute not to surrender, without express permission, their base and ill-gotten possessions. These, however habited, are the mob of mankind, who hoot and holla, hiss or huzza, just as their various leaders may direct. I _challenge_ the whole Pannel as not holding by free tenure, and therefore not competent to the purpose either of condemnation or acquittal. But to the men of very nice honour what shall be said? I speak not of your men of good service, but such as Mr. —— “_Souls made of fire_, and _children of the sun_.” These gentlemen, I am sadly afraid, cannot in honour or prudence admit of any composition in the very nice article of Courage; _suspicion_ is _disgrace_, and they cannot stay to parley with dishonour. The misfortune in cases of this kind is that it is not easy to obtain a fair and impartial Jury: When we censure others with an eye to our own applause, we are as seldom sparing of reproach, as inquisitive into circumstance; and bold is the man who, tenacious of justice, shall venture to weigh circumstances, or draw lines of distinction between Cowardice and any apparently similar or neighbour quality: As well may a lady, virgin or matron, of immaculate honour, presume to pity or palliate the soft failing of some unguarded friend, and thereby confess, as it were, those sympathetic feelings which it behoves her to conceal under the most contemptuous disdain; a disdain, always proportioned, I believe, to a certain consciousness which we must not explain. I am afraid that poor _Falstaff_ has suffered not a little, and may yet suffer by this fastidiousness of temper. But though we may find these classes of men rather unfavourable to our wishes, the Ladies, one may hope, whose smiles are most worth our ambition, may be found more propitious; yet they too, through a generous conformity to the _brave_, are apt to take up the high tone of honour. Heroism is an idea perfectly conformable to the natural delicacy and elevation of their minds. Should we be fortunate enough therefore to redeem _Falstaff_ from the imputations of Cowardice, yet plain Courage, I am afraid, will not serve the turn: Even their heroes, I think, must be for the most part in the bloom of youth, or _just where youth ends, in manhood’s freshest prime_; but to be “_Old, cold, and of intolerable entrails; to be fat and greasy; as poor as Job, and as slanderous as Satan_”;—Take him away, he merits not a fair trial; he is too offensive to be turned, too odious to be touched. I grant, indeed, that the subject of our lecture is not without his infirmity; “_He cuts three inches on the ribs, he was short-winded_,” and his breath possibly not of the sweetest. “_He had the gout_,” or something worse, “_which played the rogue with his great toe._”—But these considerations are not to the point; we shall conceal, as much as may be, these offences; our business is with his _heart_ only, which, as we shall endeavour to demonstrate, lies in the right place, and is firm and sound, notwithstanding a few indications to the contrary.—As for you, _Mrs._ MONTAGUE, I am grieved to find that _you_ have been involved in a popular error; so much you must allow me to say;—for the rest, I bow to your genius and your virtues: You have given to the world a very elegant composition; and I am told your manners and your mind are yet more pure, more elegant than your book. _Falstaff_ was too gross, too infirm, for your inspection; but if you durst have looked nearer, you would not have found Cowardice in the number of his infirmities.—We will try if we cannot redeem him from this universal censure.—Let the venal corporation of authors duck _to the golden fool_, let them shape their sordid quills to the mercenary ends of unmerited praise, or of baser detraction;—_old Jack_, though deserted by princes, though censured by an ungrateful world, and persecuted from age to age by Critic and Commentator, and though never rich enough to hire one literary prostitute, shall find a Voluntary defender; and that too at a time when the whole body of the _Nabobry_ demands and requires defence; whilst their ill-gotten and almost untold gold feels loose in their unassured grasp, and whilst they are ready to shake off portions of the enormous heap, that they may the more securely clasp the remainder.—But not to digress without end,—to the candid, to the chearful, to the elegant reader we appeal; our exercise is much too light for the sour eye of strict severity; it professes amusement only, but we hope of a kind more rational than the History of Miss _Betsy_, eked out with the Story of Miss _Lucy_, and the Tale of Mr. _Twankum_: And so, in a leisure hour, and with the good natured reader, it may be hoped, to friend, we return, with an air as busy and important as if we were engaged in the grave office of measuring the _Pyramids_, or settling the antiquity of _Stonehenge_, to converse with this jovial, this fat, this roguish, this frail, but, I think, _not cowardly_ companion.

Though the robbery at _Gads-Hill_, and the supposed Cowardice of _Falstaff_ on that occasion, are next to be considered, yet I must previously declare, that I think the discussion of this matter to be _now_ unessential to the reestablishment of _Falstaff_’s reputation as a man of Courage. For suppose we should grant, in form, that _Falstaff_ was surprized with fear in this single instance, that he was off his guard, and even acted like a Coward; what will follow, but that _Falstaff_, like greater heroes, had his weak moment, and was not exempted from panic and surprize? If a single exception can destroy a general character, _Hector_ was a _Coward_, and _Anthony_ a _Poltroon_. But for these seeming contradictions of Character we shall seldom be at a loss to account, if we carefully refer to circumstance and situation.—In the present instance, _Falstaff_ had done an illegal act; the exertion was over; and he had unbent his mind in security. The spirit of enterprize, and the animating principle of hope, were withdrawn:—In this situation, he is unexpectedly attacked; he has no time to recall his thoughts, or bend his mind to action. He is not now acting in the Profession and in the Habits of a Soldier; he is associated with known Cowards; his assailants are vigorous, sudden, and bold; he is conscious of guilt; he has dangers to dread of every form, present and future; prisons and gibbets, as well as sword and fire; he is surrounded with darkness, and the Sheriff, the Hangman, and the whole _Posse Commitatus_ may be at his heels:—Without a moment for reflection, is it wonderful that, under these circumstances, “_he should run and roar, and carry his guts away with as much dexterity as possible_”?

But though I might well rest the question on this ground, yet as there remains many good topics of vindication, and as I think a more minute inquiry into this matter will only bring out more evidence in support of _Falstaff_’s constitutional Courage, I will not decline the discussion. I beg permission therefore to state fully, as well as fairly, the whole of this obnoxious transaction, this unfortunate robbery at _Gads-Hill_.

In the scene wherein we become first acquainted with _Falstaff_, his character is opened in a manner worthy of _Shakespeare_: We see him in a green old age, mellow, frank, gay, easy, corpulent, loose, unprincipled, and luxurious; a _Robber_, as he says, _by his vocation_; yet not altogether so:—There was much, it seems, of mirth and _recreation_ in the case: “_The poor abuses of the times_,” he wantonly and humourously tells the Prince, “_want countenance; and he hates to see resolution fobbed off, as it is, by the rusty curb of old father antic, the law_.”—When he quits the scene, we are acquainted that he is only passing to the Tavern: “_Farewell,_” says he, with an air of careless jollity and gay content, “_You will find me in East-Cheap._” “_Farewell,_” says the Prince, “_thou latter __ spring; farewell, all-hallown summer._” But though all this is excellent for _Shakespeare_’s purposes, we find, as yet at least, no hint of _Falstaff_’s Cowardice, no appearance of Braggadocio, or any preparation whatever for laughter under this head.—The instant _Falstaff_ is withdrawn, _Poins_ opens to the Prince his meditated scheme of a double robbery; and here then we may reasonably expect to be let into these parts of _Falstaff_’s character.—We shall see.

Poins. “_Now my good sweet lord, ride with us tomorrow; I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. __FALSTAFF__, __BARDOLPH__, __PETO__, and __GADSHILL__ shall rob those men that we have already waylaid; yourself and I will not be there; and when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head from off my shoulders._”

This is giving strong surety for his words; perhaps he thought the case required it: “_But how_,” says the Prince, “_shall we part with them in setting forth?_” _Poins_ is ready with his answer; he had matured the thought, and could solve every difficulty:—“_They could set out before, or after; their horses might be tied in the wood; they could change their visors; and he had already procured cases of __BUCKRAM__ to inmask their outward garments._” This was going far; it was doing business in good earnest. But if we look into the Play we shall be better able to account for this activity; we shall find that there was at least as much malice as jest in _Poins_’s intention. The rival situations of _Poins_ and _Falstaff_ had produced on both sides much jealousy and ill will, which occasionally appears, in _Shakespeare_’s manner, by side lights, without confounding the main action; and by the little we see of this _Poins_, he appears to be an unamiable, if not a very brutish and bad, character.—But to pass this;—the Prince next says, with a deliberate and wholesome caution, “_I doubt they will be too hard for us._” _Poins_’s reply is remarkable; “_Well, for __TWO__ of them, I know them to be as true bred Cowards as ever turned back; and for the __THIRD__, if he fights longer than he sees cause, I will forswear arms._” There is in this reply a great deal of management: There were _four_ persons in all, as _Poins_ well knew, and he had himself, but a little before, named them,—_Falstaff_, _Bardolph_, _Peto_, and _Gadshill_; but now he omits one of the number, which must be either _Falstaff_, as not subject to any imputation in point of Courage; and in that case _Peto_ will be the _third_;—or, as I rather think, in order to diminish the force of the Prince’s objection, he artfully drops _Gadshill_, who was then out of town, and might therefore be supposed to be less in the Prince’s notice; and upon this supposition _Falstaff_ will be the _third, who will not fight longer than he sees reason_. But on either supposition, what evidence is there of a pre-supposed Cowardice in _Falstaff_? On the contrary, what stronger evidence can we require that the Courage of _Falstaff_ had to this hour, through various trials, stood wholly unimpeached, than that _Poins_, the ill-disposed _Poins_, who ventures, for his own purposes, to steal, as it were, _one_ of the _four_ from the notice and memory of the Prince, and who shews himself, from worse motives, as skilfull in _diminishing_ as _Falstaff_ appears afterwards to be in _increasing_ of numbers, than that this very _Poins_ should not venture to put down _Falstaff_ in the list of Cowards; though the occasion so strongly required that he should be degraded. What _Poins_ dares do however in this sort, he _does_. “_As to the third_,” for so he describes _Falstaff_ (as if the name of this Veteran would have excited too strongly the ideas of Courage and resistance), “_if he fights longer than he sees reason, I will forswear arms._” This is the old trick of cautious and artful malice: The turn of expression, or the tone of voice does all; for as to the words themselves, simply considered, they might be now truly spoken of almost any man who ever lived, except the iron-headed hero of _Sweden_.—But _Poins_ however adds something, which may appear more decisive; “_The virtue of this jest will be the incomprehensible lyes which this fat rogue will tell when we meet at supper; how thirty at least he fought with; and what wards, what blows, what extremities, he endured: And in the reproof of this lies the jest_”:—Yes, and the _malice_ too.—This prediction was unfortunately fulfilled, even beyond the letter of it; a completion more incident, perhaps, to the predictions of malice than of affection. But we shall presently see how far either the prediction, or the event, will go to the impeachment of _Falstaff_’s Courage.—The Prince, who is never duped, comprehends the whole of _Poins_’s views. But let that pass.

In the next scene we behold all the parties at _Gads-Hill_ in preparation for the robbery. Let us carefully examine if it contains any intimation of Cowardice in _Falstaff_. He is shewn under a very ridiculous vexation about his horse, which is hid from him; but this is nothing to the purpose, or only proves that _Falstaff_ knew no terror equal to that of walking _eight yards of uneven ground_. But on occasion of _Gadshill_’s being asked concerning the number of the travellers, and having reported that they were eight or ten, _Falstaff_ exclaims, “_Zounds! will they not rob us!_” If he had said more seriously, “_I doubt they will be too hard for us_,”—he would then have only used the Prince’s own words upon a less alarming occasion. This cannot need defence. But the Prince, in his usual stile of mirth, replies, “_What a Coward, Sir John Paunch!_” To this one would naturally expect from _Falstaff_ some light answer; but we are surprized with a very serious one;—“_I am not indeed __JOHN OF GAUNT__ your grandfather, but yet no __COWARD__, __HAL__._” This is singular: It contains, I think, the true character of _Falstaff_; and it seems to be thrown out _here_, at a very critical conjuncture, as a caution to the audience not to take too sadly what was intended only (to use the Prince’s words) “_as argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever after_.” The whole of _Falstaff_’s past life could not, it should seem, furnish the Prince with a reply, and he is, therefore, obliged to draw upon the coming hope. “_Well_,” says he, _mysteriously_, “_let the event try_”; meaning the event of the concerted attack on _Falstaff_; an event so probable, that he might indeed venture to rely on it.—But the travellers approach: The Prince hastily proposes a division of strength; that he with _Poins_ should take a station separate from the rest, so that if the travellers should escape one party, they might light on the other: _Falstaff_ does not object, though he supposes the travellers to be eight or ten in number. We next see _Falstaff_ attack these travellers with alacrity, using the accustomed words of threat and terror;—they make no resistance, and he binds and robs them.

Hitherto I think there has not appeared the least _trait_ either of boast or fear in _Falstaff_. But now comes on the concerted transaction, which has been the source of so much dishonour. _As they are sharing the booty_ (says the stage direction) _the Prince and __POINS__ set upon them, they all run away; and __FALSTAFF__ after a blow or two runs away too, leaving the booty behind them._—“_Got with much ease,_” says the Prince, as an event beyond expectation, “_Now merrily to horse._”—Poins adds, as they are going off, “_How the rogue roared!_” This observation is afterwards remembered by the Prince, who, urging the jest to _Falstaff_, says, doubtless with all the licence of exaggeration,—“_And you, __FALSTAFF__, carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as I ever heard bull-calf._” If he did roar for mercy, it must have been a very inarticulate sort of roaring; for there is not a single word set down for _Falstaff_ from which this roaring may be inferred, or any stage direction to the actor for that purpose: But, in the spirit of mirth and derision, the lightest exclamation might be easily converted into the roar of a bull-calf.

We have now gone through this transaction considered simply on its own circumstances, and without reference to any future boast or imputation. It is upon these circumstances the case must be tried, and every colour subsequently thrown upon it, either by wit or folly, ought to be discharged. Take it, then, as it stands hitherto, with reference only to its own preceding and concomitant circumstances, and to the unbounded ability of _Shakespeare_ to obtain his own ends, and we must, I think, be compelled to confess that this transaction was never intended by _Shakespeare_ to detect and expose the false pretences of a real Coward; but, on the contrary, to involve a man of allowed Courage, though in other respects of a very peculiar character, in such circumstances and suspicions of Cowardice as might, by the operation of those peculiarities, produce afterwards much temporary mirth among his familiar and intimate companions: Of this we cannot require a stronger proof than the great attention which is paid to the decorum and truth of character in the stage direction already quoted: It appears, from thence, that it was not thought _decent_ that _Falstaff_ should run at all, until he had been deserted by his companions, and had even afterwards exchanged blows with his assailants;—and thus, a just distinction is kept up between the natural Cowardice of the three associates and the accidental Terror of _Falstaff_.

Hitherto, then, I think it is very clear that no laughter either is, or is intended to be, raised upon the score of _Falstaff_’s Cowardice. For after all, it is not singularly ridiculous that an old inactive man of no boast, as far as appears, or extraordinary pretensions to valour, should endeavour to save himself by flight from the assault of two bold and vigorous assailants. The very Players, who are, I think, the very worst judges of _Shakespeare_, have been made sensible, I suppose from long experience, that there is nothing in this transaction to excite any extraordinary laughter; but this they take to be a defect in the management of their author, and therefore I imagine it is, that they hold themselves obliged to supply the vacancy, and fill it up with some low buffoonery of their own. Instead of the dispatch necessary on this occasion, they bring _Falstaff_, _stuffing and all_, to the very front of the stage; where, with much mummery and grimace, he seats himself down, with a canvas money-bag in his hand, to divide the spoil. In this situation he is attacked by the Prince and _Poins_, whose tin swords hang idly in the air and delay to strike till the _Player Falstaff_, who seems more troubled with flatulence than fear, is able to rise: which is not till after some ineffectual efforts, and with the assistance (to the best of my memory) of one of the thieves, who lingers behind, in spite of terror, for this friendly purpose; after which, without any resistance on his part, he is goaded off the stage like a fat ox for slaughter by these _stony-hearted_ drivers in _buckram_. I think he does not _roar_;—perhaps the player had never perfected himself in the tones of a bull-calf. This whole transaction should be shewn between the interstices of a back scene: The less we see in such cases, the better we conceive. Something of resistance and afterwards of celerity in flight we should be made witnesses of; the _roar_ we should take on the credit of _Poins_. Nor is there any occasion for all that bolstering with which they fill up the figure of _Falstaff_; they do not distinguish betwixt humourous exaggeration and necessary truth. The Prince is called _starveling_, _dried neat’s tongue_, _stock-fish_, and other names of the same nature. They might with almost as good reason search the glass-houses for some exhausted stoker to furnish out a Prince of _Wales_ of sufficient correspondence to this picture.

We next come to the scene of _Falstaff_’s braggadocioes. I have already wandered too much into details; yet I must, however, bring _Falstaff_ forward to this last scene of trial in all his proper colouring and proportions. The progressive discovery of _Falstaff_’s character is excellently managed.—In the first scene we become acquainted with his figure, which we must in some degree consider as a part of his character; we hear of his gluttony and his debaucheries, and become witnesses of that indistinguishable mixture of humour and licentiousness which runs through his whole character; but what we are principally struck with, is the ease of his manners and deportment, and the unaffected freedom and wonderful pregnancy of his wit and humour. We see him, in the next scene, agitated with vexation: His horse is concealed from him, and he gives on this occasion so striking a description of his distress, and his words so labour and are so loaded with heat and vapour, that, but for laughing, we should pity him; laugh, however, we must at the extreme incongruity of a man, at once corpulent and old, associating with youth in an enterprize demanding the utmost extravagance of spirit, and all the wildness of activity: And this it is which make his complaints so truly ridiculous. “_Give me my horse!_” says he, in another spirit than that of _Richard_; “_Eight yards of uneven ground_,” adds this _Forrester of Diana_, this _enterprising gentleman of the shade_, “_is threescore and ten miles __A-FOOT__ with me._”—In the heat and agitation of the robbery, out comes more and more extravagant instances of incongruity. Though he is most probably older and much fatter than either of the travellers, yet he calls them, _Bacons, Bacon-fed, and gorbellied knaves_: “_Hang them_,” says he, “_fat chuffs, they hate us youth: What! young men, must live:—You are grand Jurors, are ye? We’ll jure ye, i’ faith._” But, as yet, we do not see the whole length and breadth of him: This is reserved for the braggadocio scene. We expect entertainment, but we don’t well know of what kind. _Poins_, by his prediction, has given us a hint: But we do not see or feel _Falstaff_ to be a Coward, much less a boaster; without which even Cowardice is not sufficiently ridiculous; and therefore it is, that on the stage we find them always connected. In this uncertainty on our part, he is, with much artful preparation, produced.—His entrance is delayed to stimulate our expectation; and, at last, to take off the dullness of anticipation, and to add surprize to pleasure, he is called in, as if for another purpose of mirth than what we are furnished with: We now behold him, fluctuating with fiction, and labouring with dissembled passion and chagrin: Too full for utterance, _Poins_ provokes him by a few simple words, containing a fine contrast of affected ease,—“_Welcome, __JACK__, where hast thou been?_” But when we hear him burst forth, “_A plague on all Cowards! Give me a cup of sack. Is there no virtue extant!_”—We are at once in possession of the whole man, and are ready to hug him, guts, lyes and all, as an inexhaustible fund of pleasantry and humour. _Cowardice_, I apprehend, is out of our thought; it does not, I think, mingle in our mirth. As to this point, I have presumed to say already, and I repeat it, that we are, in my opinion, the dupes of our own wisdom, of systematic reasoning, of second thought, and after reflection. The first spectators, I believe, thought of nothing but the laughable scrape which so singular a character was falling into, and were delighted to see a humourous and unprincipled wit so happily taken in his own inventions, precluded from all rational defence, and driven to the necessity of crying out, after a few ludicrous evasions, “_No more of that, __HAL__, if thou lov’st me._”

I do not conceive myself obliged to enter into a consideration of _Falstaff_’s lyes concerning the transaction at _Gad’s-Hill_. I have considered his conduct as independent of those lyes; I have examined the whole of it apart, and found it free of Cowardice or fear, except in one instance, which I have endeavoured to account for and excuse. I have therefore a right to infer that those lyes are to be derived, not from Cowardice, but from some other part of his character, which it does not concern me to examine: But I have not contented myself hitherto with this sort of negative defence; and the reader I believe is aware that I am resolute (though I confess not untired) to carry this fat rogue out of the reach of every imputation which affects, or may seem to affect, his natural Courage.

The first observation then which strikes us, as to his braggadocioes, is, that they are braggadocioes _after the fact_. In other cases we see the Coward of the Play bluster and boast for a time, talk of distant wars, and private duels, out of the reach of knowledge and of evidence; of storms and stratagems, and of falling in upon the enemy pell-mell and putting thousands to the sword; till, at length, on the proof of some present and apparent fact, he is brought to open and _lasting_ shame; to shame I mean as a _Coward_; for as to what there is of _lyar_ in the case, it is considered only as accessory, and scarcely reckoned into the account of dishonour.—But in the instance before us, every thing is reversed: The Play opens with the _Fact_; a Fact, from its circumstances as well as from the age and inactivity of the man, very excusable and capable of much apology, if not of defence. This Fact is preceded by no bluster or pretence whatever;—the lyes and braggadocioes follow; but they are not _general_; they are confined and have reference to this one Fact only; the detection is _immediate_; and after some accompanying mirth and laughter, the shame of that detection ends; it has no _duration_, as in other cases; and, for the rest of the Play, the character stands just where it did before, _without any punishment or degradation whatever_.