THE Boar’s Head Tavern, in Eastcheap—the head-quarters of our hero, and where he drew his last breath—like the Old Swan, near the Ebgate Stairs, where he uttered his first cry—like the church of St. Michael, Paternoster, where his mortal remains found honourable asylum—was utterly destroyed in the memorable fire of London. Authorities differ as to the exact site of this famous hostelry. Some maintain that it stood at a certain distance, in a given direction, from some part of the present Cannon Street—the immediate vicinity of the Old London Stone being, not improbably, the implied locality. Others are of a contrary opinion, and insist stoutly that it stood elsewhere. Many archaeological writers, whose verdict would have placed the matter beyond question, are silent on the subject. It is to be hoped that the antiquarian reader is satisfied.

Towards this establishment, on the night after the battle of Gadshill under the friendly cover of darkness, rode Sir John Falstaff—and the remains of his discomfited army. Do not be alarmed. No one had been killed. The only loss of numbers had been caused by the desertion of the Prince and Poins. But the march to London had been terrible. The troops were utterly without provisions. The exchequer was empty. Foraging excursions had been attempted, but in all cases had failed. To the horrors of war had succeeded those of famine—still worse of thirst. To give you an idea of the desperate condition to which they were reduced, it is actually on record that Esquire Bardolph was seen to drink water from a horse-trough near Deptford. Singular phenomena are said to have attended on this prodigy. It is asserted that, on the gallant officer bringing his face to a level with the noxious element, a hissing sound was heard, and a rapid cloud of steam ascended from the surface. The water, on the warlike gentleman’s withdrawal, was discovered to be lukewarm, as if a heated iron had been thrust into it. Sir John Falstaff is the authority for these remarkable occurrences—which probably were but the creations of a distempered fancy, the result of his own exhausted bodily condition. At any rate, it is certain that the Falstaff troops reached the metropolis sadder and lighter men.

Still I would not have my readers imagine that I have fallen into the common view with regard to the issue of the battle of Gadshill; namely, that Sir John Falstaff was utterly routed, discomfited, and bamboozled in that engagement; that he was made by it a butt, a laughing-stock, and a victim; that he lost fame, wealth, and standing by it; that he repented, and was ashamed of it for the rest of his days.

For much of this erroneous impression, we are, no doubt, indebted to certain players, who, taking advantage of the dramatic form of Shakspeare’s Chronicles, have attempted the personation of Sir John Falstaff on the public stage. I have frequently been moved almost to tears by the temerity of these people in daring to disport themselves in the lion skin of Falstaff. I have never been deceived by any one of them for a moment. Even before they have commenced braying, I have invariably recognised them by the patter of their hoofs, even though some of them have been the greatest ———— creatures of their species. These ———— creatures stuff themselves out with certain pounds of wadding, glue on a pair of white whiskers, ruddle their countenances, and say to themselves, “Now I’m Falstaff;” just as on the previous night they may have rolled an extra flannel waistcoat or so into a lump between their shoulders, and conceived themselves Richard; just as on the following night, in virtue of a goat-like beard, a long gown, and a stoop in the shoulders, they will constitute themselves Shylock! What is the Falstaff of which these libellers give you an idea? A bloated, ridiculous poltroon. Now, in the first place, cowards do not get fat. They are a nervous race—unquiet and dyspeptic. The stage Falstaff runs away from Gadshill like a boy from a turnip-ghost; not like a sensible man with a respect for his skin, having reason to believe the latter in some peril. He lies about his adventures as if he expected Prince Hal to believe him—or cared two pins whether he did or not. On being detected in his fictions, I have invariably observed the stage Falstaff conduct himself in the following manner. He covers his face with his shield, hides in a corner like a schoolgirl, and kicks out one leg behind him in a fashion peculiar to baffled old gentlemen on the stage. At Shrewsbury he behaves so like an arrant nincompoop, as to make it preposterous that he should ever have shown his face on a field of battle, let alone have been entrusted with the command of a troop. Altogether he appears before us a ridiculous, giggling, spluttering, snorting, inconsistent pantaloon,—a personage widely differing from the majestic figure faithfully copied, line for line, by my excellent friend George Cruikshank from the immortal full-length drawn by William Shakspeare,—and a man whose life I would no more condescend to write than that of the next potato-man who may become bankrupt through lack of brains to roast his merchandise properly for the market.

Those who wish to have my opinion of Gadshill in the abstract and in its upshot, as proving Sir John Falstaff the real master of the situation after all, are requested to accompany me critically through a chapter in the great Universal History of Shakspeare, section Falstaff. Refer to the Chronicle of King Henry the Fourth, part the first, act the second.

The scene is the Old Boar’s Head (interior). The time midnight, succeeding the Gadshill engagement. The persons first present are the Prince of Wales and Mr. Poins, his obsequious companion in infamy. (It is quite right to abuse the Prince at this period of his life, when it was his own wish to be thought a scoundrel. When he becomes a great man, I hope I shall know how to conduct myself towards him with becoming respect.) They have been in London some hours. There are no travelling difficulties for princes.

His Royal Highness has been amusing himself for a quarter of an hour or so by a series of practical jokes on a harmless waiter, which the Prince himself appears to have thought excessively clever, but which Shakspeare and the present writer have agreed to consider excessively stupid. Even the obliging Poins has not been able to see the jest. He is trying his hardest to discover it; and is determined to be convulsed with laughter, or perish in the attempt, when the landlord makes his appearance in the room, announcing the arrival of Sir John Falstaff and his followers.

A word as to this landlord,—though, indeed, he is scarcely worth it. This is the first and last we hear of him. In the course of a few weeks we find his wife a perfectly reconciled widow, and sole mistress of the establishment. There are two hypotheses as to the sudden disappearance of her husband from the scene. The first—which I have already formally adopted—is, that, at the period alluded to, he was ailing,—probably from the fatal facility of the bar-parlour;—that he died soon afterwards; that he was a fool, and not worth regretting or remembering. The second is, that his fair helpmate (of whom we shall have much to say hereafter) being a credulous woman, with a defective sense of legal obligation, had been entrapped into a fragile marriage,—whereof the only consolation existed in its fragility. It is not of the slightest consequence: the vintner has made his sole appearance, and has been sent about his business to introduce Sir John Falstaff. Neither you nor I need care two-pence what became of him. At any rate, I don’t;—you, reader, being a free-born Englishman, are at liberty to do as you please.

And now I will save myself the trouble of writing the next three or four pages, by allowing Shakspeare to speak for me without interruption. I shall be happy to hear anybody find fault with the substitution, and will even go so far as to consider it a compliment.

Mr. Poins.—Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been?

Sir John Falstaff.—A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! marry, and amen!—Give me a cup of sack, boy.—Ere I lead this life long, I’ll sew nether-stocks, and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards!—Give me a cup of sack, rogue.—Is there no virtue extant? [He drinks The Prince of Wales.]—Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun! if thou didst, then behold that compound.

Sir John Falstaff.—You rogue, here’s lime in this sack too: There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man: Yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it; a villainous coward.—Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat, and grows old: God help the while! a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or any thing: A plague of all cowards, I say still.

The Prince of Wales.—How now, wool-sack! what mutter you?

Sir John Falstaff.—A king’s son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I’ll never wear hair on my face more. You prince of Wales!

Prince of Wales.—Why, you abominable round man! what’s the matter?

Sir John Falstaff.—Are you not a coward? answer me to that; and Poins there?

Mr. Poins.—‘Zounds! ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I’ll stab thee.

Sir John Falstaff.—I call thee coward! I’ll see thee damned ere I call thee coward: but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your back. Call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing! give me them that will face me.—Give me a cup of sack:—I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day.

The Prince of Wales.—O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk’st last.

Sir John Falstaff.—All’s one for that. [He drinks.] A plague of all cowards, still say I.

The Prince of Wales.—What’s the matter?

Sir John Falstaff.—What’s the matter? there be four of us here have ta’en a thousand pound this day morning.

The Prince of Wales.—Where is it, Jack? where is it?

Sir John Falstaff.—Where is it? Taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us.

The Prince of Wales.—What, a hundred, man?

Sir John Falstaff.—I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have ‘scap’d by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a handsaw, ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a man; all would not do. A plague of all cowards!—Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of darkness.

The Prince of Wales.—Speak, sirs; how was it?

Mr. Babdolph.—We four set upon some dozen,—— *

Sir John Falstaff.—Sixteen, at least, my lord.

Mr. Bardolph.—And bound them.

Mr. Peto.—No, no, they were not bound.

Sir John Falstaff.—You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.

Mr. Bardolph.—As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us,——

Sir John Falstaff.—And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.

The Prince of Wales.—What, fought ye with them all?

Sir John Falstaff.—All? I know not what ye call, all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish: if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack then am I no two-legged creature.

Mr. Poins.—Pray God you have not murdered some of them.

Sir John Falstaff.—Nay, that’s past praying for: I have peppered two of them: two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal,—if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward;—here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me,—

The Prince of Wales.—What, four? thou saidst but two, even now?

Sir John Falstaff—Four, Hal; I told thee four.

Mr. Poins.—Ay, ay, he said four.

Sir John Falstaff.—These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

The Prince of Wales.—Seven? why, there were but four, even now.

Sir John Falstaff.—In buckram.

Mr. Poins.—Ay, four, in buckram suits.

Sir John Falstaff.—Seven by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

The Prince of Wales.—Pr’ythee, let him alone; we shall have more anon.

Sir John Falstaff.—Dost thou hear me, Hal?

The Prince of Wales.—Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Sir John Falstaff.—Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram, that I told thee of,—

The Prince of Wales.—So, two more already.

Sir John Falstaff.—Their points being broken,—

Mr. Poins.—Down fell their hose.

Sir John Falstaff.—Began to give me ground; but I followed me close, came in foot and hand; and with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.

The Prince of Wales—O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!

Sir John Falstaff.—But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me;—for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

The Prince of Wales.—These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou villainous, obscene, greasy tallow-keech,—

Sir John Falstaff.—What! art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth, the truth?

The Prince of Wales.—Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come tell us your reason: what sayest thou to this?

Mr. Poins.—Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

Sir John Falstaff.—What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion!

The Prince of Wales.—I’ll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh.

Sir John Falstaff.—Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat’s tongue, you stock-fish,—O, for breath to utter what is like thee!—you tailor’s yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck;—

The Prince of Wales.—Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again: and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.

Mr. Poins.—Mark, Jack.

The Prince or Wales.—We two saw you four set on four; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth.—Mark now, how plain a tale shall put you down.—Then did we two set on you four, and, with a word, out-faced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house:—and Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done; and then say, it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

Mr. Poins.—Come, let’s hear, Jack; What trick hast thou now?

Sir John Falstaff.—By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters: Was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules: but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee, during my life. I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money__Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow.—Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What! shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore?

The Prince of Wales.—Content;—and the argument shall be thy running away.

Sir John Falstaff.—Ah! no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me.

Now, reader, do you know the opinion I have formed, after a careful study of the above historic dialogue? Perhaps you will not guess, as it is widely remote from the common one. It is, that Sir John Falstaff did know it was the Prince. I don’t mean to say in the heat of battle, when the outside of the knight’s head monopolised all his attention; but I believe, on after reflection, by calmly putting that and that together, he would have more than a shrewd guess at the character of his assailants. Why, then, all the lies and subterfuges? Why the hacking of the Falstaffian sword with the Falstaffian dagger? Why the tickling of the noses with spear grass to draw blood? and the subsequent “beslubbering” of their garments therewith, under pretence of its being the blood of true men (a stratagem somewhat unworthily betrayed by Lieutenant Bardolph)? Wherefore all these devices, with the certainty of detection?

The answer is very simple.

It was Sir John Falstaff’s object to make the Prince of Wales believe himself a much cleverer fellow than he really was; and I maintain that he succeeded most triumphantly in the present instance.

Well, the money was safe. The Prince was satisfied—Falstaff perfectly contented. Credit was unlimited—sack abundant. Nothing remained but to make a night of it. A night was accordingly manufactured; the principal ingredient in its composition being the first specimen of a now popular class of entertainment on record,—namely, an amateur play, in which Sir John Falstaff, with much dignity, sustained the character of King Henry the Fourth, the Prince of Wales being represented (on that occasion, and by particular desire), by His Royal Highness in person. The two leading comedians subsequently exchanged parts. The performance was received with thunders of applause by a select, if unfashionable, audience. For the libretto of this highly successful production, the reader is referred to the collected works of the able dramatist who has already met with such frequent and encouraging notice in these pages.

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