CHAPTER VI. THE HIGH PRIEST OF SACK Thou art violently carried away from grace; there is a -HENRY IV. It is somewhat remarkable that, among all the topers and tipplers of Shakespeare, Sir John Falstaff stands alone in earnest commendation of wine and wassail; but, coming from this loud swaggerer, who usually had a "whole merchant's venture of Bordeaux stuff" in his hold, and was in a constant state of moral muddle, this praise might easily be regarded as censure, were the theater-goers disposed to consider the direct cause of his conduct. The scene of Falstaff's famous panegyric on the glorious operations of sherris-sack is in itself significant. Prince John of Lancaster, who suspected the fat knight's honesty as well as his claims of valor, upbraids him for tardiness on the battlefield. Sir John bridles at the reproof, and vaunts his prowess in capturing Sir John Colville, as arrant a coward as himself, who had surrendered to him without attempting a blow in self-defense. this service, Falstaff begs the prince to give him a good report at court. Deceived for the moment, Lancaster promises to speak better of him than he deserves. For There was an unpleasant note in this pledge which disturbed the equanimity of Sir John. "Good faith!" he exclaims, when the prince is out of hearing, "this same young, sober-blooded boy does not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh; but that's no marvel, he drinks no wine!" Then the corpulent knight delivers his solil oquy on the potent effects of good sherris-sack, which comprises in short space nearly all the virtues that the topers of today attribute to whisky. He speaks of its influence on the brain, how it warms the liver, and makes valiant the white-faced coward, whereas cooling of the blood with thin drink sends young men into a kind of male green-sickness, and makes them fools and coystrils. Then he proceeds: A good sherris-sack has a two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapors which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery and delectable shapes, which delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris is the warming of the blood, which before cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusilanimity and cowardice; but the sherris warms it, and makes it course from the inwards to the parts extreme; it illumineth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom man, to arm; and then the vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who great and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage; and this valor comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it awork; and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Henry is valiant; for the cold blood that he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile and bare land, manured, husbanded and tilled with excellent endeavor of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first humane principle I would teach them should be, to forswear thin potations, and to addict themselves to sack. This is the most that Shakespeare says anywhere in his plays in favor of drinking; and, as already noted, the eulogium is put in the mouth of a drunken braggart who is totally lacking in the very qualities which, according to his proclaimed philosophy, should spring from his own deep and thick potations. There seems little doubt, in view of all the circumstances, that the dramatist had a definite object in mind when he placed Falstaff on the stage. We are compelled to observe that Sir John, as he waddles through the vari a ous scenes, is an abominable "misleader of youth, companion of footpads, a man utterly bereft of honor, which he counts as "air and a mere scutcheon, an embodiment of "pure fear and cowardice," except in the presence of men like Nym, Bardolph and Pistol, who, though full of oaths and furious bombast, were also slanders of the heroic age in which they lived. But as the great High Priest of Sack, the master toper of the plays, a character rooted in the goodwill of all classes of playgoers, Falstaff is entitled to a careful review before he is "condemned to everlasting redemption. From the moment of his stage birth, Sir John has maintained a strong grip on popular affection. His rich, unctuous humor, easy conscience and fertility of invention, prove an endless source of entertainment. He boasts of his lack of honesty, and yet we laugh at his devious conduct, and applaud his sparkling repartee. He lies as unblushingly as Munchausen; and we approve his finesse and roguish ingenuity. He proclaims his trade to be that of a thief and footpad; and we sympathize with his creed that "tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation." He confesses that he is a coward by instinct; and we condone the mean, petty tricks by which he acquires the reputation of a man of war. A subtle sympathy, a kind of fellow feeling, spreads from that "huge bombard of sack," and blinds us to his vices, his total lack of principle, his destitution of morals. We are ever ready to take his own bombastic estimate of himself to accept him as "sweet Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and, therefore, more valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff." We feel harshly toward Prince Hal for heaping opprobrious epithets upon him. In spite of reason, we condemn his designation as "that reverend vice, that gray iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years." It was cruel and inhuman, we persuade ourselves, for the madcap prince to denounce his boon companion in this manner even though it were in jest. But apart from his fascinating personality, in a stage sense, a distinct method and purpose may be traced throughout the "humorous conceits of Sir John Falstaff." He not only represents the various forms of contemporary humor, but is a glaring example of the demoralizing effects of habitual drunkenness. A brief analysis of Falstaff's career will serve to illustrate this position. Sir John was undoubtedly a man of education and genteel breeding. In his youth he was page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. He was then of good promise and approved valor, for Justice Shallow "saw him break Skogan's head at the court gate, when a' was a crack thus high." The fact that he was knighted proves his parts and courage in early manhood. When introduced in "Henry IV." he is about 60 years old, an avowed highwayman, an habitual drunkard, a common cheat and cozener. All sense of honor seems to have deserted him. He sneers at every moral attribute. He sees no good in anything but lying and swindling, feasting and guzzling. Yet he has an abiding faith in his own skill and cunning. Constant boasting has enlarged his natural vanity and bolstered his bibulous egotism. In his distorted vision, vices assume the shape of virtues, and the wholesale consumption of sack becomes almost a religious duty, the neglect of which might endanger the welfare and safety of his precious soul. Falstaff discloses the cause of his degeneracy in a pregnant phrase: "Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me." In his brief intervals of sobriety, he has glimpses of the nobler relations of life. A twitch of conscience sometimes ruffles his sodden heart; but the qualm is only momentary, and is succeeded by stronger desire for more sack and more deviltry. He has a spasm of moral sense after he tries to rob Prince Hal of the honor of slaying Hotspur, but it springs from a mercenary hope of profit from the stolen service. "I'll follow for reward," he says. "He that rewards me, God reward him! If I do grow great, I'll grow less; for I'll purge and leave sack, and live cleanly as a nobleman should do." Sir John knows what a nobleman should do, but he is too firmly set in evil ways to adopt that mode of life. He cannot break up the old habits. Any occasion is a time for him to jest and dally. In the midst of carnage he plays a joke with his pocket pistol of wine; when the din of conflict has ceased, he lags behind to deliver his high-flown panegyric on the two-fold operations of good sherris-sack. And after the war is over he goes through Gloucestershire to visit Master Robert Shallow, whom he has long had tempering between his fingers and thumb, and swindles the foolish old justice out of a thousand pounds. Even in guiding the revels of Prince Hal the gross and supremely selfish nature of the man appears. He was ever working for a definite purpose. Throughout all his brusquery and waggery this design is kept to the fore. The aim is to get the youth completely in his power, so that Sir John may gain wealth and influence when his royal protege is king. He tries to compromise the prince in various ways. He suggests that the hostess of the tavern is "a most sweet wench." He extols roguery and suggests that even princes may profit by it. The "poor abuses of the time want countenance, and he urges Hal to make one of a party to rob pilgrims with rich offerings and traders with fat purses. |