The Theater (1720) | Page 3

of admiring references; and from his repeated remarks about Spain and Spanish literature, both in _The Anti-Theatre_ and in The Theatre, we may probably conclude that he had some special knowledge of that country and its literature. But all of this can be but speculation. We know nothing positively about Falstaffe except that he wrote a series of engaging essays.
Falstaffe's Theatre is reproduced, with permission, from the papers in the Folger Shakespeare Library.
John Loftis Princeton University

Numb. XVI
THE
THEATRE.
By Sir JOHN FALSTAFFE.
To be Continued every Tuesday and Saturday.
Price Two-pence.
_I am Myself, but call me What you please._
South. in Oroon.
Saturday, _April 9. 1720._
Men, that like myself, set up for being Wits, and dictating to the World in a censorial Way, should like Oracles endeavour to be barely heard, but never have it distinguish'd from whence the Voice comes. Faith and Reputation have ever been built on Doubt and Mystery, and sometimes the Art of being unintelligible does not a little advance the Credit of a Writer. There are many Reasons why we, who take upon Us the Task of Diurnal or Weekly Lucubrations, should be like the River Nilus, sending abroad fertile Streams to every Quarter, and still keeping our Heads undiscover'd. But why should I be compell'd to give Reasons for every thing? Were Reasons as plenty as Blackberries, as my worthy Ancestor was wont to say, I would not give a Reason upon Compulsion.
I have confess'd to the World I am a Knight (nor am I asham'd to own it, tho' 'tis a Condescension as Knighthood goes;) and my Name is _John Falstaffe_; must they have too a Tree of my Pedigree, and a Direction to my Lodgings? 'Tis ill-Manners to pluck the Masque off, when we would not be known: besides that, Curiosity has lost Men many a Blessing, and plung'd the Discoverers into signal Calamities; as witness Oedipus, and the Oracle, _Lot's_ Wife, Orpheus and Eurydice, and several other true and ancient Histories, which I have something else to do than think of at present.
It was an Opinion growing apace in the Town, that Sir John Edgar and I were one and the same Man: but from what Tract or Circumstance this Notion sprung, I can neither learn nor guess. I mounted the Stage as the Adversary, and he accepted my Challenge: upon which I attack'd him with such Weapons as Men of Learning commonly use against one another, yet he declin'd the Combat. I was by This in Generosity compell'd to desist from pursuing him, yet every now and then I took upon me to reprimand him, when I observ'd him too free in the Use of certain Figures in Rhetorick, which are the common Dialect of a Part of the Town famous for good Fish and Female Orators. Thus he continued his Course of Writing, sometimes very obscure, sometimes too plain: according as either Vapours, or Spleen, or Love, or Resentment, or French Wine predominated; which I, by my Skill in Natural Philosophy observing, thought it advisable to leave him to himself, till the Court of Chancery should appoint him a proper Guardian. I cannot deny, but that we shook Hands behind the Curtain, and have been very good Friends for these eight Papers last, have been merry without any Gall, he regarding me as a Gentleman Philosopher, and I looking upon him as an inoffensive Humorist.
I confess that it contributes much to my Peace of Soul, that we were reconcil'd before his Departure from this Stage of Business and of Life. The Reader will hereby understand that Sir John is dead: It is for this Reason that I appear in his Dress, that I assume his Habit de Guerre, for Sir John chose me, from among all Men living, to be his sole Executor. The Printer had no black Letter by him, otherwise this Paper (as in Decency it ought) should have appear'd in Mourning: however I shall use as much Ceremony as the Time will allow; and, as Hob did in the Farce by the Man that hang'd himself, _I take up his Cloak, and am chief Mourner_.
We never can do the Memory of a Great Man more Justice, than by being particular in his Conduct and Behaviour at the Point of Death. Sir John, tho' a Wit, took no Pains to shew it at his latest Hour, that is, he did not dye like one of those prophane Wits, who bid the Curtains be drawn, and said the Farce of Life was ended. This is making our Warfare too slight and ludicrous: He departed with more Grace, and, like the memorable Type of his Prudence, Don Quixote de la Mancha, where he perceiv'd his Sand was running out, he repented the Extravagance of his _Knight-Errantry_, and ingenuously confess'd his Family Name. He seem'd entirely