The Life of Sir John Falstaff

by Robert B. Brough

* 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.”