* The “Cooks’ Quarter,” or assemblage of public eating-
houses by the River Thames, existed in flourishing vigour as
early as the reign of Henry the Second, and is
affectionately described by Fitzstephen. A good idea of the
barbarity of the times, and the utter ignorance of the first
principles of commercial reciprocity, may be gleaned from a
fact mentioned by that old writer, namely, that “the public
cooks sold no wine, while the taverners dressed no meat.”
This unnatural state of things existed for more than three
centuries, during which time it was impossible to obtain a
glass of ale with your ham sandwich, or a chop with your
pint of claret. It was not till the reign of Richard the
Second that a reform was effected. Then, the great discovery
was made, that it was possible to supply all the component
parts of a meal, solid as well as fluid, in one
establishment. In the simple words of Stowe, “since then the
cooks have sold wine, and the taverners dressed meat.”
Surely this triumph over the habits and prejudices of ages
must have originated in a master mind. Who so likely to feel
the evil, so powerful to remedy it, as Sir John Falstaff?
Assuming him to have been the Man of the Hour (that is, the
dinner hour), in addition to his other claims to
immortality, the hero of these pages must be ever revered as
the inventor of the noble Art and custom of Dining in the
City ‘.—Vide Fitzstephen and Stowe; Annals and Survey.
“Madam,—You doubtless never thought to hear of me again. Myself never thought to trouble you more with knowledge of my existence. I speak not of paltry money debts. You will do me the kindness (I may not say justice) to believe that I have not injured only to affront you.
“I am an old man, madam—fifty-three in birthdays, and I may not say how much in suffering and wickedness. Nay, I must put wickedness first. You, madam,—I am in no mood for flattery,—are not young. You were a widow with three prattling children—Robin, Davy, and Maudlin (they have ne’er a thought for old Uncle Jack now, I warrant me)—when I first knew you eighteen years ago. Would for your sake that time had never been! No matter! I would say you have approached that calm, sober lifetime—and there is so little left to love or sorrow for in me—that you may hear what I have to say without heartrending.
“I write, madam, to bid you a last farewell. I am for the wars, from which my chance to return alive is one to a thousand; and that one I will cast from me. You will think at my age,—having so well proved my courage,—I might be let to sleep on my laurels. They will not have it so. They will have courage like charity; wherefore a man, to keep his good name, shall not give his groat to one or two beggars and rest niggard ever after. He must be giving to his death. All’s one for that. Duty to honour and my sovereign apart, I must to the wars, having naught left to live for save the earning a soldier’s grave.
“I will speak the truth as a dying man speaks it, though it be to own himself villain. I have wronged you, but you know not how deeply. For eighteen years have I paid court to you—ever putting off our marriage upon some pretext, or earning your displeasure by some offence—but ever renewing the tie by fresh oaths and blandishments. All this time, madam, I was a married man. You knew it not—the world knew it not—but it was so. Blame me as you will, but pity me. As a headstrong youth, I contracted a foolish marriage with one who—well, she is no more; let her faults perish with her.
“This woman has made me what I am: she has been my blight and ruin. I concealed her, like an ugly wound, down on my father’s old estate; and like a wound in the flesh did she prey upon my heart and purse; for Lollard, witch, worse, as I knew her to be, was she not my wife? Happily, we had no children.
* * * *
“Can you wonder then that without hope or aim in life—without a being to love me in the world—debarred from forming domestic ties, that the very hopelessness of my state should make me regard you with your beauty (it is sore faded now; I flatter not, you see), your loving heart and your tranquil home, as the fallen spirits must regard paradise? What could I do but hover round the celestial gates? And yet bitterly have I striven to be more than myself—more than mortal man. And here, suspect me not of the vanity of hoping to exculpate myself in your eyes, if I tell you things that may make you set down some of my offences to a cause less gross than you have done. Many a time, even when I have felt raised and purified by your love, have I sought to degrade myself in your esteem: that you might cast me from your heart. It has been at such times I have brought my riotous comrades to your house—have affronted your sober guests—have robbed you of your savings, and shown myself to you a sot, a glutton, a swash-buckler, and a cheat. Had you known the pangs it caused me! Well, well! I have omitted duties enough in my life, to be allowed the solace of remembering this one performed at—oh! how great a cost!
* * * *
“This I must say, that when I first wooed you the woman was ailing, and I had hopes of her death. It has now come too late; for, even if I should escape the rebels’ swords, I cannot hope that you would forgive me so many years’ duplicity and frequent ill-treatment, which, after all, I have no right to believe you will set down to its real motives. Moreover, compared to me, you are still young. To my eyes, you would be ever fair; but that is nothing. You are wealthy, and what should I have to offer you but an old man’s love, backed only by a noble name and a soldier’s renown?