VIII. MILDNESS OF THE SPRING SEASON IN 1413
DITTO OF THOMAS CHAUCER’S POETRY AT THE SAME EPOCH.—DEATH OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH, AND OTHER INDICATIONS OF NATIONAL PROSPERITY.
THE spring of 1413 was one of extraordinary mildness. It is a matter of deep regret (to us) that there were no newspapers at that period; otherwise we should undoubtedly have had handed down to us many valuable records of enormous primroses, wonderful thorn-blossoms, and belled cowslips, which might not impossibly have equalled in interest to statistics of parallel phenomena in the present day. It is true that parliament was sitting at the time, and the reporters (had such an objectionable class then existed) might have evaded the important duty of chronicling these matters, on the pitiful and unusual plea that they had something better to write about. They do so now-a-days; and often give us nine columns of a parliamentary speech, the valuable substance of which we had all much rather see condensed in a short paragraph surmounted by the heading of “Enormous Cabbage.”
Thomas Chaucer, the son of the immortal Geoffry, already alluded to in these pages, has feebly attempted to immortalise the phenomena of this remarkable season in verses which, it will be admitted, at all events, prove his inferiority to his father as a poet. *
* In refutation of this proposition, there is but one theory
that can be considered as carrying the slightest weight,
namely, that Thomas Chaucer did not write the poem here
quoted in extenso. There is doubtless much that might be
said on both sides of the question, which had therefore
better be left open.
** English poetry would seem to have had an official
descent—the family name of its reputed father being derived
from the office of Chauf-cire or Chaff-wax (a dignity still
in existence, with, it is said, real functions and an
undeniably real salary attached to it) doubtless held by one
of his not very remote ancestors. The vanity of restoring
the name to its original orthography, instead of adhering to
the form it had assumed in the time of the illustrious
Geoffry, is another proof of the weakness of Thomas
Chaucer’s intellect, if the quality of the above verses were
such as to leave the slightest necessity for anything of the
kind.
It certainly says little for the justice and intelligence of the age that the writer of the above verses * should have been appointed to the Speakership of the House of Commons, and other equally honourable and far more lucrative dignities, at a time when a man of Sir John Falstaff’s merit was going about the kingdom, if not absolutely begging, certainly reduced to one, if not both, of the other two proverbial alternatives, in order to obtain the means of livelihood. However, suppose we put Thomas Chaucer back into that comfortable niche of obscurity from whence he should, perhaps, never have been dragged, and confine our attention to the main subject in hand—the genial summer spring of 1413, as bearing on the adventures of Sir John Falstaff.
* Assuming their authenticity as established—if only for
the sake of argument.
I have said that on the 19th of March, in this year, Sir John Falstaff was a second time the honoured guest of Master Robert Shallow at the worthy justice’s family seat in Gloucestershire. It hath been urged to me, for certain reasons not altogether contemptible, and which will be mentioned presently, that such could not have been the case; but that Sir John and his retinue could not have arrived at Master Shallow’s until the 20th of March, on which day they also took their departure for London. I prefer adhering to my original statement, and for three reasons. Firstly, because it is scarcely credible that I could have made it without having thoroughly satisfied myself that at least the balance of probability was in its favour. Secondly, the practice of eating his own words is one of the most baneful into which the historical writer can possibly fall—leading to habits of pusillanimity and indecision which must ultimately destroy the independence of character so indispensable to his pursuits, and leave the neatly-arranged flower-beds of his work at the mercy of all such of the swinish multitude of critics or objectors as may choose to thrust their ringed noses into the matter. Thirdly, the portion of my manuscript containing the statement alluded to hath been some weeks in the hands of the printers, and (as I am led to believe, from the relentless assiduity with which those estimable citizens, but austere and implacable task-masters, have, by their emissaries, persecuted me within the last fortnight for further supplies of written matter) hath been long ago sent to the press, and is now beyond all possibility of correction until such time as a second edition of the entire work shall be called for. So that, in short, I was right.
I am aware that, in order to make good my position, I shall be required to prove that Ancient Pistol—a warrior not habitually remarkable for his excellence in any manly or athletic pursuits—did, in the course of a single day, accomplish a very rapid and daring act of horsemanship, calculated to tax the endurance of stronger thews and sinews than the worthy Ancient’s; being nothing less than the conveying to Master Shallow’s Gloucestershire—residence in the evening, tidings of an event that had taken place in London in the morning. But I trust I have sufficient powers of special pleading and aptitude for the historical business generally, to be enabled to get over far greater obstacles than are presented by this emergency. Pistol need not have ridden the whole distance himself. He might have been lying in wait for the expected tidings, which he was the means of conveying to Sir John Falstaff—let us say, somewhere between London and Oxford—whither the news of the event in question, namely, the death of the king, who expired on the 20th, would assuredly be conveyed post, immediately on its occurrence. A well-authenticated episode in the life of Ancient Pistol makes it more than probable that London, at about this time, was scarcely a safe residence for him. The gallant subaltern was in a temporary difficulty for having, with other warlike spirits, “beaten a man,” who would seem to have been left at the termination of the encounter in a precarious condition, inasmuch as, within a day or two of the occurrences immediately under notice, we find he had breathed his last in consequence of injuries he received on the occasion. * The provocation was doubtless great; in all probability, nothing less than an unpardonable insult to Mrs. Dorothea Tearsheet, in the presence of whom and of Mrs. Quickly the punishment appears to have been inflicted. When we remember that Pistol himself had been known (under the influence of vinous aberration, it is true) to speak slightingly of the former lady, and that he was by no means a man of strait-laced notions in the matter of respect for the sex generally, the outrage upon his patron’s friend and kinswoman * must have been great indeed to impel him to so terrible an act of vengeance. But the law is not accustomed to take cognizance of such honourably extenuating circumstances in cases of murderous assault, and it can scarcely be doubted that Pistol was, at this time, “keeping out of the way,”—by no means an unaccustomed manouvre to that distinguished professor of military stratagem. Whither could he fly for protection except to the sheltering wing of Sir John Falstaff? What tidings so likely to be anxiously awaited by him as those that would assure him of his patron’s greatness, with dispensing power over the laws of England? Depend upon it, Ancient Pistol, at the time of King Henry the Fourth’s death, was as far from London, and as near to Falstaff, as his circumstances would permit, and keenly on the watch. The thing is as clear as day. Or, assuming that it is not, and that I must admit that Pistol actually did himself accomplish the journey from London to Gloucestershire in a single day. Why not? Of all tactics in the art of war, there was none which this veteran soldier had so deeply studied, and so frequently practised, as that of successfully managing a retreat. There was no possible amount or speed of running away, on pressing emergency, of which he could have been reasonably pronounced incapable.
* Beadle.—Come, I charge you both go with me; for the man
is dead that you and Pistol beat among you.—Henry IV. Part
II. Act iv. Scene 5.
I am now enabled to resume my narrative with the most perfect composure; and I really wish the captious and fastidious would not compel me to do violence to my predilections by such frequent digressions.
It must have been then—in short, it was—the evening of the nineteenth of this much-talked-of month of March, which Sir John Falstaff, with Master Robert Shallow, his entertainer, and Master Silence, the latter gentleman’s unobtrusive kinsman, found of such unseasonably tempting mildness as to induce them to get up from the supper table, whereat Davy, Master Shallow’s factotum, had deftly served them with the choicest efforts of William Cook’s genius (“some pigeons,” “a couple of short-legged hens,” “a joint of mutton,” and “pretty little tiny kickshaws,” ad libitum, are indicated by the chronicler as having, in all probability, formed the staple articles of the bill of fare), to partake of dessert in the open air, in a snug arbour of the justice’s orchard. Sir John, with his retinue, consisting of Bardolph, Robin, and possibly some half dozen supernumeraries, had arrived just in time for supper—ostensibly à l’improviste, and with no intention of staying for a longer time than might serve them to repose and refresh themselves.
* For arguments on this subject see ante, p. 113.
“By cock and pye, Sir,” Master Shallow had said on our knight’s arrival, “you shall not away to-night.”
To which Sir John had replied that he must be excused.
But Master Shallow would not excuse him: he should not be excused. There was no excuse should serve: Sir John should not be excused. And Master Shallow had immediately ordered supper, and bidden Sir John to off with his boots.
It is needless to say that Sir John had no wish to be excused, but that he had come intentionally to stop. He had long had Master Robert Shallow “tempering between his finger and thumb,” and had now come to “seal with him.” He had, years ago, seen to the bottom of Justice Shallow. He knew that ornament to the magistracy to be nothing better than a time-serving humbug, and he had come, as I think most justifiably, to take any possible advantage of him. It was a breach of hospitality, if you will; but remember we are treating of great men and their motives. My only regret is that I am compelled to exhibit my hero, towards the end of his career, engaged in the pursuit of “such small deer” as a pitiful country justice. When I compare John Falstaff, in his sixty-seventh year, on this particular evening, stretching his limbs under Master Shallow’s oak (as yet the mahogany tree was an unnaturalised exotic), picking the short legs of Master Shallow’s roasted hens, and washing down as much of Master Shallow’s garrulous mendacity as limitless draughts of Master Shallow’s sack and Bordeaux might enable him—all the while meditating through what particular chink in Master Shallow’s vanity he could best get at the same gentleman’s purse-strings;—when I compare this with another picture presented on the preceding evening, by another great man of imperfect notions of meum and teum, frequently mentioned in these pages, younger in years, but centuries older in depravity than Sir John, and with both feet already in the grave—legs, body, and all rapidly sliding in after them—Henry Bolingbroke on his death-bed, in short—counselling his young son and successor—
“to busy giddy minds
With foreign quarrels: that action hence borne out
May waste the memory of the former days;”
(that is, the days of his early rascality, the fruits of which he would have his son preserve by the fomentation of fresh villanies)—when I compare the conduct of these two waning celebrities, the one within half a dozen hours of death, the other with good two years and a quarter of life in him, (alas! no more,) I am more forcibly than ever reminded of my reluctantly formed suspicion, that the character of Sir John Falstaff may have been really deficient in the heroic element after all, and am made to feel that he comes out, by comparison with the more wholesale practitioner, in a pitifully moral and respectable light.
I am getting so near the end of my poor old knight, (I call him mine, though I have but the sorriest stepfather’s claim to him, and doubtless deserve to have him removed from my charge for ill-treating him as I have done,) and am so closely in sight of the overthrow of his last hopes and energies, that I have scarcely the heart any longer to make light of his rogueries. I will try and explain how I feel with regard to Sir John Falstaff. Consider me a street urchin in a town where a very fat old gentleman has been in the habit of misconducting himself, and so publishing his irregularities in the public thoroughfares, as to have forfeited the respect of well-behaved citizens, and make himself the target for all kinds of pleasantry from the lowest and most thoughtless. I have had my jeer, and my pebble, and perhaps my rotten egg, at the poor old man, with the rest of the gamins, and rare fun we have considered it. But a day arrives when I see the old gentleman paler than usual. The red of his cheeks has become an unwholesome purple. He no longer walks jauntily, but totters. The stick, that he used to shake in merry defiance at his tatterdemalion critics, is now necessary to support his steps. There is a tear in his eye. He is suffering—failing—and I (being, perhaps, a sensitive, well-meaning ragamuffin) beat my breast, and am ashamed of my conduct. I feel inclined to go whimpering for pardon to him, and ask him to let me serve him in some menial but comforting capacity. But the stronger boys are not of my way of thinking. To them he is more ridiculous than ever in his weakness and decay. They pelt him the more, and laugh at him the louder. He falls. I run to try and help him. I look in his face, and wonder that I could ever have seen there anything to laugh at. It is to me all sadness and bitter suffering. I forget the stories I have heard against him. I am conscious of nothing but an old man, fallen in the mud, who cannot raise himself. I would do anything to express to him my contrition and sympathy. I feel an absurd inclination to offer him my tops and marbles—nay, my very slice of bread and butter itself. At least, I would treat him respectfully. But——the other boys jeer at me, and I am ashamed of my passing weakness; and, like a mean-spirited young sneak as I am, I turn round, and make game of the poor old gentleman more mercilessly than ever, with a strong sensation that I deserve to be flayed alive for doing so.
At any rate, I am glad that the spring of 1413 was a genial one—seeing that Sir John had but two more springs of any kind between him and the grave; and was doomed to bask in but little more sunshine, either of the actual or of the figurative kind. It pleases me to dwell on such little pleasures and comforts I may find proof of his having enjoyed from this time forth. I am delighted to feel confident that the supper provided for him by the anxious care of Master Shallow was good and abundant. I take comfort in believing that William Cook had done his spiriting with zeal and ability: that the short-legged hens were roasted to a turn; that the joint of mutton was a small brown haunch, which had walked, when capable of pedestrian exercise, towards Gloucestershire, in a south-easterly direction—from the Welsh mountains in fact (a hope, not without foundation in presumptive evidence—seeing that Master Shallow had, at any rate, one kindly friend from that hospitable district—Hugh Evans, byname, a gentleman in holy orders, at this time established in the neighbouring county of Berkshire); that the pigeons were plump and tender victims, either served up on an altar of the crispest toast, or brought to the sacrifice in a sarcophagus of melting crust; and that the “pretty little tiny kickshaws” embraced every available delicacy of the early season.
At all events, it is certain that Sir John had had something he liked, and plenty of it. There is no record in his life that displays him in a more thorough state of serenity and genial goodfellowship with all mankind than the passages in the chronicle of Henry the Fourth *, referring to the evening in question. There we find Sir John “unbuttoning himself after supper,” lounging “upon benches after noon” in Master Shallow’s orchard, inhaling the soft breeze of the premature summer, listening to the carols of the birds immortalised (through the medium of these pages) by the poet Thomas Chaucer ** and partaking of a “last year’s pippin” of the worthy justice’s “own graffing,” with the addition of a “dish of carraways and so forth.” The “so forth” is not particularised in the chronicler’s page; but from the conduct of Master Shallow himself and of his kinsman, Silence, on the festive occasion, it would seem to have been a long time in bottle, and furnished forth with no niggard hand.
* Part II. Act v. Scene 3.
** Nicholas Chaucer, kinsman of the above, was at about this
time a distinguished member of the Grocers’ Company, in the
city of London. Assuming that he combined with his aromatic
calling the congenial one of butterman, the preservation of
Thomas Chaucer’s manuscript—doubtless submitted to his
relative’s approval in the regular way of business—is at
once accounted for.
Let us follow the scene, as described in the chronicle, for its termination sounds the key-note to the great crisis in the history of our hero’s declining fortunes.
Master Shallow had drunk too much sack at supper. He said so, though there was not the slightest necessity for the confession. Master Silence had similarly committed himself, but to such an extent as to make any confession on his part a matter of some difficulty. We hear of men being blind drunk, crying drunk, roaring drunk. Master Silence was singing drunk. He could only express himself in snatches of old songs, which he poured forth with a volubility which nothing could stop.
“Do nothing but eat and make good cheer,
And praise Heaven for the merry year
When food is cheap and females dear,
And lusty lads roam here and there.
So merrily.
And ever among so merrily!”
I confess to a warm affection for Master Silence. He was a stupid old gentleman, and doubtless more tiresome in his taciturnity than even his cousin Shallow in his garrulity. But what there was of Master Silence seems to have been good. Much as has been said against old proverbs and old wine, there yet remains some defence for both. I believe in the truth of the proverb which asserts that there is truth in wine. It is a dangerous and exhaustive kind of manure, I admit. In agricultural phraseology, it “rots the ground” terribly. But, as long as the ground lasts, it develops the latent germs within it marvellously. Master Silence was little, if any, more inebriated than his kinsman. But the same flask (or number of flasks) which had made Justice Shallow only a coarser or an infinitely more vulgar sycophant and timeserver than ever, paying court, not only to Sir John Falstaff, but even to Bardolph and little Robin the scapegrace page, for the sake of the knight’s imaginary court influence, merely set Master Silence thinking of the pleasant season, of the bounty of Providence, of the claims of kindliness and goodfellowship. Unable to speak for himself, he searched in the dark, cobwebby, unhinged cupboards of his feeble memory for the most tuneful and thankful expression of his feelings, in other men’s words, that would help him to
“Praise Heaven for the merry year.”
I would rather have had his dim chaotic sensations about the fine spring weather and the beauty of earthly existence than Master Shallow’s most ambitious dreams of “penny in purse,” to be obtained through a “friend at court.” I resemble Sir John Falstaff, at all events in this respect, that “I do see the bottom of Mr. Justice Shallow,” and there is nothing in the bed of the puddle but mud, and stones, and potsherds. But I do not pretend to penetrate to the mystery of what Master Silence felt as he sat there, intoxicated and reprehensible, in the arbour, breathing in Nature, and mumbling old songs,—any more than I would dare to analyse the feelings of my fat baby, who now sits opposite to me in his mother’s arms, eating a pocket-handkerchief, and staring at the fire.
At any rate—as I wish from henceforth to regard none but the best phases in my hero’s character—I am glad to know that Sir John Falstaff treated Master Silence in his melodious cups with tolerant kindness and even encouragement. He would have fleeced Master Shallow, I sincerely believe, of every farthing in that dignitary’s exchequer—and (as I am upon the candid tack) I confess that my high estimate of his character would not have been materially lowered had he effected that desirable end. But I do sincerely believe that Sir John Falstaff would not have taken advantage of Master Silence’s condition to borrow from him so much as a hundred bezants—unless, indeed, provoked to do so by great necessity or temptation.
“There’s a merry heart!” said Sir John Falstaff, whom we may picture to ourselves picking his teeth lazily, with his legs stretched on the arbour seat, his head resting on the back of his plump hand, the broad, purple disc of his countenance reflecting the rays of the March sun that, like himself, had risen gloriously, had shone now and then brilliantly, but was now going down early and rapidly, covered with clouds and blotches (having made its appearance on earth, you see, in what was, after all, an unfavourable season). “Good Master Silence, I’ll give you a health for that anon.”
The sunset was lost on Master Shallow. His appreciation of out-of-door beauties was bounded by “Marry, good air!” It gave him an appetite, and he was quits with Nature. He was bent on serving the guests whom he intended to make serve him.
“Give Master Bardolph some wine, Davy,” said his worship.
In Sir John Falstaff’s own words, “it was a wonderful thing to see the semblable coherence of his (Shallow’s) men’s spirits and his.” As Shallow was to Falstaff so was Davy to Bardolph and Robin. Davy—who also meditated a London season, with introductions to the best society—busied himself with attending to the wants of those subaltern officers.
Master Silence again burst into song, unsolicited—
“‘Tis merry, ‘tis merry, my wife’s as all;
For women are shrews both short and tall,
Tis merry in hall when beards wag all
And welcome merry Shrovetide.
Be merry, be merry, &c.”
“I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle,” murmured Sir John, who, I think, by this time was beginning to get drowsy.
“Who, I?” said the meek songster. “I have been merry twice and once ere now.”
The festivities continued, but with a somewhat languishing spirit. Master Shallow’s angular chin began to beat double knocks against his bony chest. He had the greatest difficulty in keeping one eye—the weather one, doubtless—open. Bardolph confined himself to the main business of his consistent life—good, steady drinking. Davy officiated as Ganymede. Robin was silently contemplative. There were spoons and tankards in the orchard, and nobody sober to watch them! Sir John spoke not, except to give a word of encouragement to Master Silence, whose vocal exertions he rather approved of, as calculated to save him the labour of conversation. It is not absolutely recorded, but circumstantial evidence makes it probable, that Sir John Falstaff, having drowsily pledged that inveterate songster in a bumper, fell instantly fast asleep, and was snoring in blissful ignorance of actual circumstances—only to dream of coronets that were never to be worn and coffers that were never to be filled—when he was roused from his nap by a terrific knocking at the outer gate.
Everybody was on the alert. Justice Shallow, in the midst of a dreamy platitude of welcome, breathed into the confidential recesses of his folded arms, started into wide-awakefulness with an echoing knock of chin against chest, which must have been highly detrimental to his remaining dental economy. Davy flew to the gate. Master Silence considered the startling occurrence an excuse for further melody. Bardolph drank. Robin, it may be presumed, took some advantage of the confusion; but as the Shallow spoons were not counted that evening, it is uncertain to what extent.
There was cause for disturbance. In those days an Englishman was obliged to make his house his castle. The meanest homestead—and Master Shallow’s was not one answering to that definition—had to be carefully guarded by moat and drawbridge. They kept early hours then. All the family were expected to be in-doors by sunset, for it was not safe to be out after dark. Any vassal, pig, or other retainer, stopping out after the gates were closed, might do so at his own peril. A late visitor—especially one making such formidable announcement of his arrival as that which disturbed Sir John Falstaff from his comfortable after-supper nap, and sent Master Shallow’s little dried walnut of a heart leaping into his mouth, like a parched pea from a shovel up the chimney—was not only a source of astonishment but of alarm. It might be a robber at the head of a forest-band come to levy what we should term an execution on the goods and chattels; or a travelling abbot on his way to some ecclesiastical conference, having brought the élite of his monks and their appetites with them; or a proscribed nobleman and his suite, to harbour whom would be certain death in the course of a month, and to behave uncivilly to whom would be the same in the course of a minute and a half; or it might be the king who had been kicked off the throne, or the other king who had kicked him off in pursuit of him. In any case, the chances were ninety-nine and nine-tenths to a decimal fraction that the visitor would prove one who, at his departure, would leave the proprietor a sadder and a poorer man than he had been in the morning. The probability of a needy and harmless wight being found sufficiently mad or intoxicated to make a disturbance at a rich man’s door (more especially if the rich man happened to be in the commission of the peace), just as the family might be supposed to be retiring to rest, being of the remotest.
The speedy return of Davy to the orchard with the information that the demonstrative visitor was merely “one Pistol, come from the Court with news” for Sir John Falstaff must have had an immediately soothing and reassuring effect upon the assembly.
At the word “Court” Sir John Falstaff pricked up his ears instinctively. A momentary thrill ran through his system. Had they, at last, “sent for” him? Was he really wanted to guide, counsel, or amuse—at any rate, to be recognised and rewarded?
Pshaw! The very name of the messenger was a proof to the contrary. Pistol was, doubtless, in the neighbourhood; had heard of his patron’s whereabouts; and tracked him, as usual, in the hope of a flagon, a supper, and a piece of silver! Sir John was a philosopher, and was engaged in the digestion of his own supper. He would not allow that vital process to be prejudiced by the excitement of possibly fallacious hope. He fell back upon the garden seat, and ordered Pistol to be admitted.
Pistol strode into the orchard, looking daggers around him. Pistol was in the habit of looking daggers, as I might be in the habit of looking fifty pound notes. The process was by no means a proof that he had one about him to make use of when called upon. He said—— But you shall hear what he said, and what was said to, and about, him, in the dramatic chronicler’s own words, with such unwritten elucidations, or “stage directions,” as your humble servant may consider himself justified in venturing upon.
Sik John Falstaff (indifferently).—How now, Pistol?
Pistol (with gesticulations of extravagant homage’).—Sir John, God save you, sir.
Sir John Falstaff (suspiciously, buttoning his pockets).—What wind blew you hither Pistol?
Pistol.—Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Sweet knight, th’art now one of the greatest men in the realm.
Master Silence (dimly reminded of a forgotten ballad, sings’)“By’r lady, I think ho bo, but goodman Puff of Barson.”
Pistol (at once discerning that Master Silence is a man who may be safely bullied).—Puff? Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base!—Sir John, I am thy Pistol, and thy friend, and helter-skelter have I rode to thee; and tidings do I bring, and lucky joys, and golden times, and happy news of price.
Sir John Falstaff.—I pr’ythee now, deliver them like a man of this world.
Pistol.—A foutra for the world, and worldlings base! I speak of Africa, and golden joys.
Sir John Falstaff.—O base Assyrian knight! what is thy news? Let king Cophetua know the truth thereof.
Master Silence (sings seraphically).—“And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John.”
Pistol.—Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons? And shall good news be baffled? Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies’ lap.
Master Shallow (rising, with magisterial assumption of sobriety).—Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding.
Pistol.—Why then, lament therefore.
Master Shallow.—Give me pardon, sir:—if, sir, you come with news from the court, I take it, there is but two ways, either to utter them, or to conceal them. I am, sir, under the king, in some authority.
Pistol (drawing a rusty rapier) Under which king, Bezonian? speak, or die.
Master Shallow.—Under King Harry.
Pistol.—Harry the fourth? or fifth?
Master Shallow.—Harry the fourth.
Pistol.—A foutra for thine office!—Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is king: Harry the fifth’s the man. I speak the truth: when Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like the bragging Spaniard.
Sir John Falstaff (leaping to his feet like a colt).—What! is the old king dead?
Pistol.—As nail in door: the things I speak are just.
[Original Size] -- [Medium-Size]
Sir John “Falstaff (quivering with excitement).—Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse.—Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the land, ‘tis thine.—Pistol, I will double-charge thee with dignities.
Master Bardolph—O joyful day!—I would not take a knighthood for my fortune.
(He drinks and exits.)
Pistol (smiling sardonically).—What! I do bring good news?
Sir John Falstaff.—Carry Master Silence to bed.—Master Shallow, my Lord Shallow, be what thou wilt, I am fortune’s steward. Get on thy boots: we’ll ride all night__O sweet Pistol!—Away, Bardolph.—Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and, withal, devise something to do thyself good.—Boot, boot, Master Shallow: I know, the young king is sick for me. Let us take any man’s horses; the laws of England are at my commandment. Happy are they which have been my friends, and woe unto my lord chief justice!
Pistol:
Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also!
Where is the life that late I led say they;
Why, here it is! (snaps his fingers.)
Welcome those pleasant days.
Scene closes. ]
* It will be observed that Shakspeare almost invariably
makes Pistol speak in a kind of mongrel blank verse—
apparently in remote imitation of the masques, pageants, and
miracle plays then recently introduced into this country
from Italy—fashionable amusements, whereat the worthy
ancient (in his capacity of hanger-on of all dirty work to
the upper classes) doubtless frequently assisted, in a
supernumerary capacity. Sir John Falstaff answers him
playfully, from one of the earliest known specimens of this
kind of composition—See Payne Collier’s History of Dramatic
Poetry, and other works to be met with in the admirable and
compendious catalogue of the British Museum, which will
amply repay perusal.
The time long hoped for had then arrived. There was no more thought of drowsiness or dissipation for that night,—no more of debt or difficulty for the future. Henry of Monmouth—Sir John’s pet pupil, his “tender lambkin”—was king; and surely, if such feelings as gratitude and goodfellow-ship existed in the hearts of princes, no man had greater right to look forward to emoluments and dignities under the new regime than Sir John Falstaff. He himself was incapable of forgetting old friends in his prosperity, and he could not suspect such baseness in others. We have heard him declare that he would double charge Pistol with dignities, that Master Shallow might choose what office he would in the land—it should be his! Bardolph, knowing his master’s disposition, would not take a knighthood for his fortune. Not one present was omitted from the circle of Sir John Falstaff’s comprehensive benevolence. Even to poor Master Silence he performed the only kindness which that vocalist was just then capable of benefiting by,—he ordered his inebriated worship to be carried up to bed!
Depend upon it, there was no time lost in booting and saddling for the townward journey. Be sure that the command to “take any man’s horses” was carried out to the letter, and backed by the legal warrant of Justice Shallow—(for were they not on His Majesty’s service? could the government of the realm possibly go on without the immediate presence in the capital of Sir John Falstaff?)
What a terrible distance was that which separated Sir John from London and the young king! How he wished for the power to annihilate time and space! Alas! he was born in a wrong age for locomotive purposes. Half-a-dozen centuries earlier, a knight-errant of his vast merit and renown, wishing for a rapid mode of transit, would but have had to summon his guardian fairy, and that obliging genius would have ordered her griffins to be put-to for his accommodation, with a lift in her enchanted car, immediately. In the present day, four hundred and forty years later, the thing would be scarcely more difficult. A post-chaise to the Tewkesbury station, and a special train thence to London, would settle the matter in three or four hours. But the task of conveying Sir John Falstaff, rapidly, over the vile roads of the fifteenth century, by mere horse-power, would be a difficulty which the mind of a Pickford alone could be qualified to grapple with.
And yet, incredible as it may seem, Sir John Falstaff actually contrived to reach the metropolis on the third day after his departure from Master Shallow’s residence. I am not prepared to say that no magic power was employed in effecting this apparently miraculous transit. On the contrary, the aid of a rather potent magician appears to have been successfully invoked for the occasion—one, at whose bidding, the roughest roads become level, the stoutest doors fly open, the veriest griffins, tigers, crocodiles, and Cerberi of gate-keepers become docile as lambs; an enchanter, at whose very aspect, or even name, horses saddle themselves, inn-tables spread themselves, corks fly out of self-pouring wine-bottles, pigs spit themselves, larks, pheasants, and wild duck stop in their mid-air course, and fall, ready-stuffed and roasted, on to eager travellers’ plate. Need I say that I allude to the evil, but fascinating necromancer, King Money?
Sir John Falstaff borrowed a thousand pounds of Master Robert Shallow!
I would have it printed in letters of gold, would the arrangements of the printing-office admit of such distinction, for I am proud to chronicle so meritorious an achievement, the glory of which is doubled by the moral certainty that Master Shallow never received a single farthing of the money back again. On one account only can I be brought to regret the transaction: I am sorry the amount was not two thousand.