SHAKSPEARE CORRESPONDENCE.
On a Passage in the Second Part of Henry IV.—The Death of Falstaff.—I have read with much pleasure your very temperate remarks on the fiery contributions of some of your correspondents; and I trust that, after so gentle a rebuke from certainly the most good-natured Editor living, all will henceforth go "merry as a marriage bell." Amongst the lore that I have picked up since my first acquaintance with "N. & Q.," is that profound truth,
"'Tis a very good world that we live in:"
but I must say I think it would be a very dull one if we all thought alike; as "N. & Q." would be a very dull book if it were not seasoned with differences of opinion, and its pages diversified with discussions and ingenious argument. And what can be more agreeable, when, like an animated conversation, it is conducted with fairness and good temper?
However, now we are to start fair again; and to begin with a difference, I must presume to question a decision of your own which I would fain see recalled. I believe with you that Mr. Collier's Notes and Emendations gives the true reading of the passage in Henry V., "on a table of green frieze," and I, moreover, think that Theobald's conjecture "and 'a babbled o' green fields," was worthy of any poet. Theobald was engaged in the laborious work of minute verbal correction, and necessarily took an isolated view of particular passages. Presenting the difficulty which this passage did, his suggestion was a happy and poetical thought. But when you say that the scholiast excelled his author, we must take another view of the case. The question is not as to which passage is the most poetical, but which is most in place; which was the idea most natural to be expressed. And in this I think you will admit that Shakspeare's judgment must be deferred to, and that taking the character of Falstaff, together with the other circumstances detailed of his death, it is not natural that he should be represented as "babbling o' green fields."
You are aware that Fielding, in his Journey from this World to the next, met with Shakspeare, who, in answer to a similar question to that put to Göthe, gave a like answer to the one you report. This arises in a great measure from the imperfection of language; the most careful writers at times express themselves obscurely. But with regard to Ben Jonson, I should say that, though neither a mean nor an unfriendly critic, he was certainly a prejudiced one. He saw Shakspeare from the conventional-classic point of view, and would doubtless have "blotted" much that we should have regretted submitting to his judgment. Yet, after all, the anecdote is not according to the fact. Shakspeare did "blot" thousands of lines, probably many more than Ben Jonson himself ever did; and of this we have the best evidence in whole plays almost re-written. Even in the single instance rare Ben gives of Shakspeare's incorrectness, published many years after the latter's death, the memory or hearing of the former either were at fault, or the line had been "blotted."
Absolute perfection is, of course, not to be looked for; there is no such thing in reference to human affairs, unless it be in constant and unobstructed growth and development. This is exhibited in Shakspeare's writing to a degree shown by no other writer. The shortcomings of Shakspeare are most evident when he is compared with himself,—the earlier with the later writer. But take his earliest work, so far as can be ascertained, in its earliest form, and the literature of the age cannot produce its equal.
Samuel Hickson.
"I knew there was but one way, for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and 'a babbled of green fields."—Shakspeare.
"I knew there was but one way, for his nose was as sharp as a pen on a table of green frieze."—Shakspeare corrected.
Some of the alterations in the manuscript corrections in Mr. Collier's old edition of Shakspeare's plays I agree with, but certainly not in this one, since we lose much and gain nothing by it. Shakspeare, in drawing a character such as Falstaff, loaded with every vice that flesh is heir to, and yet making him a favourite with the audience, must have been most anxious respecting his death, and therefore awakened our sympathy in his favour. In ushering in the account of the death-bed scene, he makes Bardolph say:
"Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is, either in heaven or in hell."
This expression Burns the poet considered the highest mark of regard that one man could pay to another, for in his poem on a departed friend, he says:
"With such as he, where'er he be,
May I be saved, or damn'd."
Mrs. Quickly, in describing the scene, says:
"He's in Arthur's (Abraham's) bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. 'A made a finer end, and went away, an it had been any christom child; for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his finger's ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and 'a babbled of green fields."
Mrs. Quickly, after describing the outward signs of decay and second childishness, tells us he babbled. Shakspeare, as the only means of gaining our forgiveness, makes him die in repentance for his sins, and seems to have had the Twenty-third Psalm in his mind, where David puts his trust in God's grace, when amongst other passages it says: "He maketh me lie down in green pastures," and further on, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me." I have endeavoured to give you a reason why I prefer the old reading of the text: if any of your correspondents will give a better for the new, I shall be glad to see it, as I am convinced the more we examine into the works of our wonderful bard, the more we shall be convinced of his superhuman genius; we are, therefore, all indebted to Mr. Collier for his searching investigations, as they set us in a reflective mood.
J. B.
Your just remarks on Theobald's "'a babbled of green fields" recalls to me a note which I find appended to the passage in the margin of my Shakspeare,
"'A babbled of green fields, i.e. singing snatches of the 23rd Psalm:
'In pastures green He feedeth me,' &c.
'And though I walk e'en at death's door,' &c."
This note I jotted down in my schoolboy days, and thirty years' experience at the beds of the dying only convinces me of its correctness. Again and again have I heard the same sweet strains hymned from the lips of the dying, and soothing with hope the sinking spirit, ay, even of great and grievous sinners. Indeed, I have come to stamp it as a sure mark of impending death, and have said with the dame, "I knew there was but one way, for 'a babbled of green fields;" though I trust with different doctrine than her's, viz. that religion is the business of none but the dying, and thence, that to talk of religion is a sure sign of approaching death.
When Falstaff "babbled of green fields," he was labouring under no "calenture." His heart was far away amid the early fresh pure scenes of childhood, and he was babbling forth snatches of hymns and holy songs, learned on his mother's knee, and now called up, in his hour of need, to cheer, as best they might, his parting spirit. Strange is it that Theobald, when he suggested so happy an emendation, missed half its beauty and its real bearing.
Throughout the whole passage it is evident that Falstaff was ejaculating scraps of long forgotten hymns and Scripture texts, which were utterly incomprehensible to those about him. "'A babbled of green fields,"—"he cried out of sack,"—"and of women,"—"incarnate,"—"whore of Babylon,"—all suggest holy ejaculations, perverted by the ignorance of the godless bystanders.
In all Shakspeare there is hardly to be found a more touching scene, or one more true to nature; it is most graphic and characteristic. The loneliness of the dying sinner, with none to stand by him but the godless companions of his riot and debauchery; the eagerness of the despairing man to catch at anything of the semblance of hope that he could recall from the lessons of his childhood, "He shall feed me in a green pasture," &c.—then—ere he could reach those assuring words, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff comfort me," the miserable consciousness that it is all too late, "So 'a cried out God, God, God;"—then—the utter want of religious sympathy in the bystanders, Nym, Quickly, Bardolph, Boy, in their misinterpretations, and perverse commentaries on his ejaculations, just such as we might expect from hearts gorged to the full with vice and sensuality;—then—the redeeming touch of tenderness in the Dame, beaming through all her benighted efforts to cheer, in her own way (awful to think on, the only way known to her), the last hours of her dear old roysterer, "Now I, to comfort him, bid him 'a should not think of God, I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet;" and the undying fondness with which she upholds his memory, and will not brook a word of ribaldry, or what she deems slander, against it, all evidencing that—
"The worst of sin had left her woman still."
Surely a scene more characteristic of all the parties in it, is not to be found in Shakspeare.
Nemo.