Commentaries on
Shakespeare’s History Plays
Shakespeare, William. The History of Henry the Fourth. Aka The First Part of Henry the Fourth. (The Norton Shakespeare: Histories, 3rd ed. 629-95.)
Of Interest: RSC Resources | ISE Resources | S-O Sources | 1623 Folio 370-95 (Folger) | Holinshed & Plays Compared: I Henry IV | Holinshed’s Chronicles on Henry IV | Hall’s Union of the Two Noble and Illustrious Families … (1580) | Daniel’s Civile Wars … III.86-114 (1595) | Stow’s Chronicles, Henry IV | Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth (1598) | “Owen Glendower” from A Mirror for Magistrates | ”Henry Percy” from A Mirror for Magistrates | English Monarchy Timeline | Kings & Queens of England | Edward III’s Family Tree | Hundred Years’ War (WHE) | Hundred Years’ War (1337-1453, Britannica)
ACT 1
Act 1, Scene 1 (629-32, King Henry IV insists to his counselors that he means to undertake a crusade to the Holy Land, but trouble is brewing at home: in Wales, the chieftain Owen Glendŵr has captured Mortimer; in the north, the English have bested the Scottish forces, but Harry Hotspur of the Percy clan won’t turn over his prisoners to King Henry; ruefully, the King postpones his long-desired crusade and schedules a meeting at Windsor.)
The play opens in the year 1402, with a shaken King Henry IV, “wan with care” (629, 1.1.1) and riddled with guilt over the murder of his cousin and predecessor King Richard II. The King looks back to his pledge at the end of Richard II to turn the engines of war away from home and towards foreign “infidels” in a smaller-scale, modern crusade aiming to retake the Kingdom of Jerusalem from Muslim rulers. [1]
Henry admits that he has been thinking of this enterprise for the last year or so, and he acknowledges that for now, it isn’t going to happen. As he says, “bootless ‘tis to tell you we will go” (630, 1.1.29). It may seem as if the King is admitting the whole quest is a fantasy, but that would be inaccurate. When Henry was stricken with his last illness in March 1413, he was on the eve of departing on an already-provisioned expedition to Jerusalem, so this desire on his part was both persistent and sincere. [2]
Even so, Henry IV understands that this is no time for idealistic violence. The King’s personal past is weighing upon him, and so are political and military matters at home in England.
Harry Hotspur (whom Shakespeare makes out to be much younger than he was—he was actually a few years older than King Henry) [3] has saved the day for the King, who faces rebellious noblemen in the wake of his taking the throne from Richard. Mortimer has been captured by the Welsh chief Owen Glyndŵr, with shameful things done to Englishmen’s corpses by Welsh women after the battle (630, 1.1.34-46). [4] But to balance out that distressing news comes word from Sir Walter Blount of the gallant Hotspur’s victory over the Scottish invaders led by the Earl of Douglas.
King Henry can’t help but compare the heroic member of the Percy clan, Hotspur, with his own rascally son Hal: he says, “Oh, that it could be proved / That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged / In cradle clothes our children where they lay / And called mine ‘Percy,’ his ‘Plantagenet’ …” (631, 1.1.85-88). [5] All the King sees in his son’s conduct, he says, is “riot and dishonor” (631, 1.1.84). Henry IV is at center stage of a violent, treacherous political theater, and his son is skipping about the kingdom, seemingly without a care in the world, like another Richard II in the making—a comparison that the King will later ruefully make to his son’s face.
The trouble with Hotspur, though, is that he’s prideful, and this pride is partly what’s causing him to withhold from the King nearly all of the prisoners he took while fighting the Scots. Only Murdoch, Earl of Fife is slated to be turned over. Hotspur himself will address the reason for his intransigence in Act 1, Scene 3, and we will have a closer look at the issue then.
Act 1, Scene 2 (632-36, Prince Hal and Sir John Falstaff trade jovial insults—the Prince tells the knight that one day he will hang for his crimes, though Falstaff thinks otherwise; Poins says there’s a robbery planned, which Hal declines to join; Poins convinces Hal to sign on to a plot to rob Falstaff’s band of robbers instead; in soliloquy, the Prince says his use for these unsavory friends is coming to a close, but also that he will be a better king because of his experiences with them.)
Act 1, Scene 2 starts with the prince in conversation with his companion, Sir John Falstaff. The back-and-forth is substantial and rollicking—no proceeding by stichomythic or “one-liner” volleys here, but robust prose passages. Hal’s humor with Falstaff is good-natured, but at times a bit edgy, as when he slips in a reference to the gallows at 633, 1.2.33-34. This edginess is most apparent when Falstaff says to Hal, “Do not thou, when thou art king, / hang a thief,” and Hal shoots back, “No, thou shalt” (633, 1.2.53-55). Falstaff misses the double entendre, but the audience won’t: Falstaff may well “hang [as] a thief,” not hang other thieves.
Falstaff’s Protean language and rhetorical skill are remarkable, as when he deftly redefines his vocation of thievery: “let not / us that are squires of the night’s body be called thieves of the / day’s beauty. Let us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the / shade, minions of the moon …” (632-33, 1.2.20-23). This is wonderful talking, and Hal is impressed.
At the same time, and even as we know that deception is one of the necessary Machiavellian arts for any savvy ruler, Falstaff’s brand of it tends to chaos and disorder, so it can’t be wholesome or permanently viable for Prince Hal as a model. In Elizabethan cosmology, the sublunary world from which Falstaff borrows his imagery is notoriously unstable, and he is deviously trying to stabilize it and render it respectable. [6]
It’s hilarious to hear Falstaff work himself up to blaming Hal for corrupting him: “Oh, thou hast damnable iteration and art indeed / able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me …” (634, 1.2.79-80). Falstaff is a lord of misrule similar to the ones we might find in late-medieval morality plays. We might call him a medieval Vice if he weren’t so three-dimensional and apt to leap right out of the play into real life. [7] Sir John is undeniably eloquent and charismatic, though by no means a good man, much less a Puritan “saint,” as he seems to insinuate. [8]
Poins tries to promote a major robbery to Falstaff and Prince Hal, but Hal won’t bite. He changes his tune, though, when Poins gets him alone and describes what he actually has in mind: a “jest” whereby he and the Prince will rob the robbers themselves (635, 1.2.141ff). And the payoff for this jest, if well executed? Poins has it: “The virtue of / this jest will be the incomprehensible lies that this same fat / rogue will tell us when we meet at supper …” (636, 1.2.161-63). In sum, they will expose Falstaff as the mendacious coward they already know he is.
Prince Hal will join in the fun, but he startles us with the self-possession that shines in his final speech of this scene: he explains that he “knows” his companions in a way that they do not know him. He comprehends their limited morality and lowborn status, and there can be no question of equality between such men as Poins, Falstaff, Peto, or Bardolph and the heir to the throne. We have seen the irresponsible jester in action, and now we see the king-to-be.
It may strike some of us that Hal is a bit ungenerous in the way he describes his commoner friends as being like “the base contagious clouds” that temporarily hide the brilliant aristocratic sun that he sees himself as being (636, 1.2.173, see 170-92 inclusive). But Hal is not being sentimental here. He is taking the measure of his father’s own lessons for protecting one’s public image.
King Henry IV has always possessed the skills of an excellent actor, and in spite of his difficulties as a ruler, continues to show a keen regard for “public relations.” [9] Prince Hal, too, demonstrates a clear grasp of this necessary aspect of kingship when he finishes his soliloquy with the rhyming gem, “I’ll so offend to make offense a skill, / Redeeming time when men think least I will” (636, 1.2.191-92). His virtues, he believes, will shine more brightly because of his youthful flaws. The young Prince of Wales is not the rash, silly adolescent that his father, and some of the realm’s subjects, have come to think he is.
In Shakespeare’s essentially upbeat history play I Henry IV, Prince Hal is certain that time is his friend, and in this regard his sunny expectations make for a strong contrast with his gloomy father, who with age and trouble has come to see time as his enemy, not his friend. For him, time brings not opportunity as it seemed to do for him in Richard II, but care and sorrow. “Bolingbroke” returned from exile to triumph over the feckless Richard, but those days are long past.
Act 1, Scene 3 (637-43, at a meeting with Hotspur, the young man’s father Northumberland, and his uncle Worcester, King Henry IV demands that all prisoners be turned over; Hotspur says he’ll do so if the King ransoms Mortimer, his brother-in-law; incensed at this demand, Henry stalks out of the meeting; Henry’s charge of treason against Mortimer infuriates Hotspur, who signs on to his father and uncle’s conspiracy to overthrow the King.)
In Act 1, Scene 3, King Henry has his hands full in trying to assert his dominance over the troublesome Percy clan. He admits that he has allowed his once-shining image to become dull; he has gone soft, and “lost that title of respect / Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud” (637, 1.3.8-9).
In Richard II, Henry’s royal cousin Richard had noted uneasily how beloved his newly banished rival was by the people, whose presence and admiration he so graciously acknowledged on his way out of England. [10] That is one thing, but Henry’s conduct among the nobility has not earned him many admirers. The Percy clan in particular hold themselves aggrieved at what they consider their sovereign’s high-handedness in his dealings with them. This is where we pick up Harry Hotspur’s rousing and audacious self-defense in the matter of withholding the Scottish prisoners he took while fighting Douglas.
After the King ejects the arrogant Worcester from the council, Hotspur says brazenly that he had intended to give up his prisoners, but then his sensibilities were offended by the effeminate “popinjay” (638, 1.3.50) whom the King sent to require that they be turned over. This “certain lord, neat and trimly dressed” (637, 1.3.33), says Hotspur, provoked him into neglecting his own manners.
Hotspur’s remark sounds disingenuous, and is therefore a slap in the face to Henry, who promptly points out the real reason why he continues to hold on to his Scottish prisoners: Henry has refused to satisfy Hotspur’s demand that his brother-in-law Mortimer be ransomed from captivity at the hands of the Welsh chieftain Owen Glendŵr. Henry considers Mortimer a traitor and fears his strong claim to the throne. [11]
The King has had enough of Hotspur, and threatens him along with his father, the Earl of Northumberland, saying, “Send us your prisoners, or you will hear of it” (639, 1.3.123). After his tense, lacerating argument with an angry, insecure King Henry IV, Hotspur unburdens himself still more fully to Worcester and Northumberland, and we begin to hear the language of rebellion.
Hotspur’s words are brutally frank: he is not minded to deny that what the Percys did to support Henry Bolingbroke was morally indefensible. His relatives have involved themselves, he says, in “murderous subornation” (640, 1.3.162) against a legitimate king. Is their present treatment, then, the reward for such damnable assistance?
Worcester tries to turn the fiery Hotspur’s attention to a rational plan of attack. That’s no easy matter, given Hotspur’s high-spiritedness: “By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap, / To pluck bright honor from the pale-fac’d moon, / Or dive into the bottom of the deep…” (641, 1.3.200-02), he exclaims, before Worcester is finally able to lay out a course of action that involves an alliance with the Archbishop of York and Mortimer.
Worcester explains to Hotspur the prickly general logic of a king’s relations with his great lords: “The King will always think him in our debt, / And think we think ourselves unsatisfied, / Till he hath found a time to pay us home” (643, 1.3.283-85). In so many words, “No good deed goes unpunished.” Worcester’s reasoning drives home the menace of a king’s need for security—the phrase “a time to pay us home” insinuates “kill.” Henry can’t pay the terrible debt Hotspur has described, so he would be glad to be rid of all those who helped him deceive, rebel, and murder his way to the crown. [12]
Between Henry IV and his “frenemy” lords, there is no settled, happy balance of power. There are only uneasy, shifting alliances. Apparently, that was a typical state of affairs in feudal Europe. Henry IV is a powerful king, but he came by his throne with help from others of no mean estate, and he will never feel secure in the loyalty of men who betrayed King Richard and who suppose they have as much right to rule as anyone they might place on the throne.
The scene ends with Hotspur eagerly looking forward to the groans of battle—he is to factional strife as eager a suitor as Romeo is to Juliet. Already, we begin to see a deep contrast between this hothead and the riotous, yet oddly self-possessed and adroit Prince Hal, whose jesting ways we may come to see as flowing from the calm center of a hurricane of violence, betrayal, guilt, and consequence.
ACT 2
Act 2, Scene 1 (643-45, In an innyard in Rochester, Kent, the scout Gadshill gathers information about some money-laden travelers from a couple of cargo-carriers and a compliant chamberlain so he can pass it along to Falstaff and his band.)
This is one of those scenes in the Henry plays where we are treated to a look at the seamy underbelly of Elizabethan life. Gadshill goes about his job, which is to act like a birddog and flush out “game” for his master—in this case Sir John Falstaff, thief and highwayman extraordinaire. So Gadshill gathers information from a few cargo-haulers (“carriers”) and a complicit chamberlain who will no doubt get a small cut of whatever is stolen. It’s hard to miss the sense of professionalism in the Gadshill and his chamberlain acquaintance. They’ve done this before, probably many times.
The chamberlain again passes along the news to Gadshill that “There’s a franklin in the / Weald of Kent hath brought three hundred marks with / him in gold” (644-45, 2.1.51-53). This freeman’s party, he says, “are up already and / call for eggs and butter. They will away presently” (645, 2.1.55-56). These people sound like easy pickings for a dedicated band of robbers, and such incidents were pretty common even in Shakespeare’s time. The roads were not safe, and there was no settled police force, no “highway patrol,” as we would say.
Act 2, Scene 2 (645-48, Falstaff complains about having to walk so far to his appointed location for the robbery, but he and his companions duly rob the travelers they know to be passing by; immediately, a disguised Prince Hal and Poins rob them and drive them away.)
Poins tells the crew that he has hidden Falstaff’s horse at a distance, the better to set him up for the trick they’re going to play. Falstaff now has to walk to his appointed location, and is easily winded—he has become a “weekend warrior criminal,” if indeed he was ever in shape. In terms of dramatic structure, we have cut from Hotspur’s deadly, vaulting ambition to this playful escapade on Gadshill. For Sir John, robbery turns out to be hard work, and frightening. He’s in quite a mood, declaring angrily, “A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another” (646, 2.2.24).
The Prince and Poins withdraw and hide themselves, donning their disguises, as Falstaff and the others set about robbing the hapless franklin and his fellow travelers. The robbery is accomplished, and just when Falstaff starts snickering about what cowards the absent Poins and Hal must be, they are set upon and robbed of their spoils. Falstaff makes a quick, pathetic attempt at self-defense, then runs away in terror. Prince Hal is delighted, and says of Falstaff, “Were’t not for laughing I should pity him” (648, 2.2.99).
Act 2, Scene 3 (648-50, Hotspur is upset when he reads the letter of a fellow nobleman who declines to join his rebellion against Henry IV; Lady Percy tries to pry from Hotspur the cause of his disturbed state of mind, but he doesn’t trust her enough to tell her military or political secrets.)
Hotspur shows his characteristic temperament as he performs a proto-YouTube-style read-through of a reply to him from a circumspect fellow lord who declines to take part in the coming rebellion. Hotspur can’t make contact with this man, and says to himself, “By the Lord, our plot is a good plot / as ever was laid, our friends true and constant …” (648, 2.3.14-15). He is angry with himself for even trying to stir such a “dish of / skim milk with so honorable an action” (649, 2.3.28-29). He recognizes the danger presented by such refusals, but casts it to the winds.
There’s a darker intimation in this otherwise almost comic moment: Hotspur’s time is running short—the dispensation of things is not on his side, as it already seems to be for Prince Hal. Hotspur’s correspondent has basically told him that some of the fellow lords he apparently thought he could trust find the rebels’ plot inadequate and hasty—too hasty to risk their own fortunes in sustaining. That spells trouble for Hotspur and his fellow conspirators. Rebellion against the King is not to be undertaken lightly or rashly, with little more than fantasies to back the effort.
When Lady Percy (aka “Kate”) enters, she tries to do what Portia later attempts with Brutus in Julius Caesar: she needles her husband to tell her what’s eating away at him and to make him recognize her as the partner of his closest counsels. “Some heavy business hath my lord in hand, / And I must know it, else he loves me not” (649, 2.3.58-59), she says.
Hotspur, notwithstanding, will have none of this Early Modern feminism, and he declines to fill Kate in on the details of the dangerous venture at hand: “I well believe / Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know, / And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate” (110-12). He does, however, promise that he will allow her to set out after him the day after he departs, saying, “Whither I go, thither shall you go too” (650, 2.3.107-08).
It seems clear that these two love each other dearly, but Hotspur’s notion of the general run of women simply isn’t generous enough to let him trust even his own Kate with his deepest secrets and counsel. He is unfailingly affectionate with her, but that’s as far as it goes.
Act 2, Scene 4 (651-62, in an Eastcheap tavern, Hal and Poins tease the inexperienced Francis the tapster as they wait for Falstaff; sure enough, Falstaff enters and tells a tall tale about how he fought valiantly against the band of robbers who attacked him; Prince Hal confronts Falstaff and forces him to address his lies; King Henry’s messenger brings news that Hal is summoned to court; the Prince and Falstaff act out mock scenes between Hal and King Henry; when the sheriff enters looking for Falstaff, Hal conceals him.)
Counterbalancing the grand action that is swirling all around them, the frequenters of Eastcheap’s tavern have a great time in this scene full of good humor and playacting, with a bit of truth and reckoning for good measure. Falstaff has some explaining to do after his Gadshill performance, or lack thereof.
While Hal and Poins wait for Falstaff and his associates to arrive at the tavern, the Prince first brags to Poins about how much he has learned by conversing with ordinary people, tapsters and tinkers in this case, and says that he’s impressed with the lot of them. He tells Poins, “I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour that I can / drink with any tinker in his own language during me life,” and even claims that Poins has “lost much honor” (651, 2.4.16-18) by not experiencing these conversations along with him.
To kill more time, Hal decides to play a trick on an apprentice tapster named Francis. On Hal’s instructions, Poins goes to another room and keeps shouting, “Francis!” while the boy tries to respond to the constant stream of Hal’s questions and comments. The upshot of this experiment is that Francis ends up practically immobilized, and can do nothing but repeat his plea for Poins to wait his turn, even when talking to Hal: “Anon, anon, sir!” (653, 2.4.90).
The point of Hal’s jest seems to be to show that Francis and his fellows are simple beings; their education and circumstances make them, as we would say today, “hard-wired” instead of supple and adaptable like the trickster-nobleman Hal. The Prince marvels “That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman!” (653, 2.4.91-92). The boy has only one role to play, and will most likely play it all through his life. Hal, by contrast, will need to play many roles convincingly.
Prince Hal then declares that he will take on the persona of Hotspur and question Falstaff in the role of Hotspur’s wife Kate, but this musing ends when Falstaff enters with his entourage of Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill. Sir John at once utters his most famous line, “A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too!” (653, 2.4.104).
Knowing what we know, we can see that this is a preemptive, projective curse on Falstaff’s part. He must know that his cowardice along the highway at Gadshill last night is about to be exposed, so he wants to get out front of it. Projection is a useful device for many deceivers, and Sir John is nothing if not a deceiver. He wants everyone to see him as possessing the “masculine” fortitude that, in truth, he continually and knowingly fails to demonstrate.
When Falstaff tries to explain what happened at Gadshill, “buckram men” multiply hilariously as his ruthless opponents, with the numbers jumping up and down wildly since he apparently can’t remember which one he made up last. “Tell the truth—it’s the easiest thing to remember” isn’t an adage that would ever appeal to Sir John, that’s certain. Hal roundly insults Falstaff, saying, “These lies are like their father that begets them, / gross as a mountain, open, palpable” (655, 2.4.206-07). The Prince can hardly wait to see how his devious friend is going to talk himself out of this Gadshill fiasco.
Hal soon confronts Sir John with evidence beyond even an un-reasonable doubt, saying, “Mark now how a plain tale shall / put you down. Then did we two set on your four, and, with a / word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it, yea, and can / show it you here in the house” (656, 2.4.233-36). Hal’s is an eyewitness, participatory account, with material evidence to nail the case shut. Whatever will the wily rascal Falstaff do in the face of what Hal correctly calls an “open and apparent shame” (656, 2.4.242)?
Falstaff is resourceful, even if his gambit fails. He immediately comes back with, “By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. / Why, hear you, my masters, was it for me to kill the heir appar- / ent? Should I turn upon the true prince?” (656, 2.4.244-46). This is just too much! Before he’s finished with this speech, Sir John makes himself out to be a “valiant lion” (656, 2.4.250) sworn to protect his true prince.
Hal seems satisfied with this performance, never mind its disconnection from reality. It may be, too, that he appreciates the creative, even Protean quality of Sir John’s attempt at recovering his alleged honor. In any event, Hal is delighted with Falstaff’s call for “a play extempore” (656, 2.4.255).
Mistress Quickly the Hostess brings word that there’s “a nobleman of the court” (657, 2.4.260) out front who wants to speak with Prince Hal. The man has been expressly sent by the King. Falstaff offers to go and speak with him, and as it turns out, it’s Sir John Bracy passing along King Henry’s order to attend at court in the morning. There’s ominous news about the Welsh leader Owen Glendŵr and the Scots. The kingdom is in distress.
Falstaff asks Prince Hal if he is terrified of the impending violence and the part he will be called upon to play in it: “Art thou not / horribly afraid? Doth not thy blood thrill at it?” (658, 2.4.337-38). The Percys and Owen Glendŵr are, after all, fierce enemies for any man, let alone a lad as young as Prince Hal, who would have been around 16 at the time. Perhaps, suggests Falstaff, it would be useful to play out an impromptu “mock interview” between Hal and his imposing royal father, who can’t be happy with what he has been hearing about his eldest son.
The interview goes along humorously enough so long as Falstaff plays the King since his main goal is to disseminate a positive image of himself as “a virtuous man” (659, 2.4.380) instead of admitting to being the rascal of long standing that he is. Things take a more foreboding turn, however, when Prince Hal plays the King, and Falstaff plays the Prince. Hal-as-Henry denounces the jolly knight as “that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox / with the pudding in his belly, that reverend Vice …” (660, 2.4.411-12) and many other similar things.
Faced with this onslaught, Falstaff-as-Hal tries to defend himself, saying plaintively, “Banish plump Jack and banish all the world” (660, 2.4.437; see 425-37 inclusive). To which plea, Hal-as-Henry says ominously, “I do; I will” (660, 2.4.438). Whether these last four words are spoken in a mock-serious tone or in a genuinely serious tone is an actor’s choice. But either way, it’s impossible to miss the threat underlying Prince Hal’s utterance, given who Falstaff is likely to remain, and who Hal himself will soon become.
Still, for now, Hal remains faithful to Falstaff, and covers for him when the Sheriff arrives and tells the Prince, “A hue and cry / Hath followed certain men unto this house” (661, 2.4.461-62). The men who were robbed along Gadshill are hopping mad. The sum of 300 marks is a substantial loss. [13]
With war in the forecast, Prince Hal takes upon himself a bearing of command, and seems ready to accept responsibility for the disposition of the affairs nearest him. He says to the sleeping Falstaff and the still-awake Peto, “I’ll to the court in the morning. We must all to the wars, and / thy place shall be honorable. I’ll procure this fat rogue a / charge of foot, and I know his death will be a march of / twelve score” (662, 2.4.494-97). As for the Gadshill loot, all of it, says Henry, will be paid back with interest.
The heir to the throne has been trying out different styles, different perspectives and modes of conduct, but we can tell that his thoughts have taken a turn for the serious now that his father’s moment of peril has come. It’s put up or run away, with nothing in between. Harry Hotspur isn’t going to be wearing a buckram suit or wielding a dull-pointed leaden sword.
ACT 3
Act 3, Scene 1 (662-68, Owen Glendŵr meets with Hotspur and other rebels to finalize their plans and carve up the realm afterwards; Hotspur mocks the imposing Welshman’s mystic pretensions and is rebuked for it by Mortimer and Worcester; Glendŵr brings in the wives of Hotspur and Mortimer to say their goodbyes since the battle is coming.)
Hotspur’s charms are on display in this scene, but so are his flaws. He angers Owen Glendŵrby mocking the fellow’s penchant for mystical mutterings. Hotspur also quibbles about the amount of land allotted to him if the rebellion should prove successful, and even insists that the river Trent ‘s course be altered to aggrandize his holdings.
A few of Hotspur’s insults are quite funny, even if Glendŵr doesn’t think so. When Owen insists that “the earth did shake” (663, 3.1.20) on the day he was born, Hotspur angers him with the quip, “And I say the earth was not of my mind, / If you suppose as fearing you it shook” (663, 3.1.21-22). When Owen declares, “I can call spirits from the vasty deep” (663, 3.1.52), his younger compatriot jests, “Why, so can I, or so can any man, / But will they come when you do call for them?” (663, 3.1.53-54). Clearly, these two will never understand each other.
Hotspur’s comical “debate” with Owen Glendŵr over the existence of a spirit-world and humans’ relation to it should remind us that this business of metaphysical speculation can be found in several of Shakespeare’s plays. Characters such as Edmund in King Lear, Iago in Othello, and Cassius in Julius Caesar express a more or less materialist view—they don’t find talk about the influence of the stars over human conduct convincing. On the whole, though, many more of his characters express a conventional “believer’s” view about the stars or “heavens,” witchcraft, and other spirits. Belief in such forces was nearly ubiquitous in Shakespeare’s time and before it. [14]
Matters proceed to a discussion of how the kingdom the rebels suppose they’re about to conquer should be divided. Hotspur’s close sense of bargaining—and frankly his pride—lead him to insist that as part of the deal, the Trent river’s course must be altered to improve his portion of the spoils. Pointing at the map, Hotspur says, “I’ll have the current in this place dammed up, / And here the smug and silver Trent shall run / In a new channel fair and evenly” (664, 3.1.99-101).
With these negotiations being finalized in the background, Glendŵr brings in the wives of Mortimer and Hotspur to say their goodbyes now that the battle is coming soon, and we see two very different styles of marital relations in the respective couples. Mortimer’s wife is of course Welsh, and speaks no English. She sings for her husband and bids him sit down with his head on her lap, and the two give us a very romantic picture to contemplate.
Hotspur and Kate, by contrast, appear to have a feistier relationship, one grounded as much in witty comebacks or “repartee,” often with a bit of sexual innuendo thrown in, as anything else. Shakespeare’s purpose in letting us in on the relations between these two couples is probably to remind us that even “rebels”—whether they are right or wrong—are human beings, with personalities and desires like everyone else.
This is the same playwright who makes Henry V tell us in his play by that name, “I think the King is but a man, as I am.” [15] These rebel men are just men, and their women are just women. As Samuel Johnson said, “Shakespeare has no heroes ….” [16]
When Glendŵr exits, Mortimer explains to Hotspur how much restraint the Welsh chieftain has shown in the teeth of the younger man’s provocations, but Hotspur remains unimpressed, at least with Glendŵr’s claims to have a special relationship with “spirits of the deep.” Hotspur’s scoffing is perhaps a bit ironic, given that he, too, has insisted on the course of nature being upset to show everyone how superior and special he is. Both of these great, irascible lords, we might say today, have barely manageable “egos.”
Worcester’s assessment of Hotspur’s strengths and his critique of the same man’s defects seem spot on. Hotspur’s fault of “willful-blame” (“stubbornness,” as the Norton gloss has it), says Worcester, sometimes underscores his “greatness, courage, blood” (666, 3.1.172), but it also demonstrates “harsh rage, / Defect of manners, want of government, / Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain …” (666, 3.1.178-80). These faults all, says Worcester, take away much of the praise that would otherwise come Hotspur’s way. While Henry IV may at times idolize Harry Hotspur, it hardly sounds as if the man would make a competent king.
When the good-byes are done, it’s on to one last round of negotiations with King Henry IV, and then the fateful battle at Shrewsbury will come. The rebels and Henry alike will face their moment of consequence.
Act 3, Scene 2 (668-71, King Henry tells his son how he has managed his own image, and worries that the young man is coming to resemble the irresponsible Richard II; Prince Hal reawakens the King’s faith in him by promising to make war against Hotspur and the other rebels.)
At his London palace, King Henry now confronts his wayward son, laying bare the secrets of his success over the years: Henry says that when he was still “Bolingbroke” and Richard II was king, he carefully managed his image with the common people, appearing so seldom and so impressively that, as he says, “I could not stir / But like a comet I was wond’red at” (669, 3.2.46-47). Richard, by contrast, says Henry, “Grew a companion to the common streets” and “Enfeoffed himself to popularity …” (669, 3.2.68-69) to the point where people became sick of him.
Modern experts in corporate branding would surely agree that Henry Bolingbrook was quite skillful when it came to shepherding his image, his “brand.” He says that he did not allow it to become diluted the way Richard squandered the majesty of kingship for the fickle love of the common people.
In today’s terms, there is something cringeworthy about a politician who sells his or her image as “the person you’d want to have a beer with.” Should we really want a leader who is operating at the average person’s level? How about electing someone better than the national average, someone savvier and more professional, to high office?
Evidently, Hal’s habit of palling around with tapsters and pot-menders rubs Henry the wrong way. He does not see this as Hal does—an opportunity to get to know his subjects so he can lead them effectively. For Henry IV, beset as he is by the guilt and insecurity owing to his usurpation of the throne, “image” is a precious commodity, and not something to be tossed away on an extended lark.
King Henry bitterly compares his own son with Richard II at his worst, saying, “For all the world, / As thou art to this hour was Richard then / When I from France set foot at Ravenspur, / And even as I was then is Percy now” (670, 3.2.93-96). It is hard to escape the thought that Henry may be giving Hotspur too much credit since we have seen and heard enough of him to know that for all his merits, he is a hothead and an egotist who would order the course of a major river altered to make a point about his own exalted status. [17]
The King is pleasantly surprised at Prince Hal’s strong reply: “I will redeem all this on Percy’s head, / And in the closing of some glorious day / Be bold to tell you that I am your son …” (670-71, 3.2.132-34). Hal also assures the anxious King that he understands the public relations lecture just delivered, saying, “Percy is but my factor, good my lord, / To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf …” (671, 3.2.147-48). “A hundred thousand rebels die in this” says the heartened King (671, 3.2.160). Hal will soon have his chance to make good, as troops are on the move, and battle-time is near.
Act 3, Scene 3 (672-76, Falstaff quarrels over his bill with the Hostess, Mistress Quickly; Hal tells an unenthusiastic Falstaff he has procured for him a company of infantrymen.)
Back in Eastcheap, Falstaff is feeling small because of the shame he incurred from his cowardly actions at Gadshill. He asks Bardolph, “am I not fallen away vilely since this / last action? Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle?” (672, 3.3.1-2). Sir John even serves up a false reformation narrative, saying, “Well, I’ll repent, and that suddenly, / while I am in some liking” (672, 3.3.4-5). But he’s never entirely serious when he talks this wa y, which we can easily tell from his mocking asseverations a few lines later: he has, he says, “diced not above seven / times—a week …” (3.3.13-14), and so forth. [18]
But Falstaff is also quarreling with Mistress Quickly, Hostess of the Boar’s Head Tavern. Sir John’s charge that the Hostess stole his wallet is clearly false, and it’s intended to hide the fact that—as she points out—he owes her money. The Prince himself soon shows up and schools Falstaff harshly, calling him a “whoreson, impudent, embossed rascal” (675, 3.3.144), and his false claim leads Hal to confess that he is the one who made himself acquainted with the worthless contents of the knight’s wallet.
Sir John’s maudlin response is instructive: “Thou knowest in the state of / innocency Adam fell, and what should poor Jack Falstaff / do in the days of villainy?” (675, 3.3.151-53). Truly, this is not much of an argument. “But officer, everyone else was driving even faster!” is of approximately the same quality. This is a man who conducts himself in a willful and often criminal manner, and yet plays the helpless victim when someone challenges him.
Hal now informs Falstaff of the good news that he has procured him “a charge of foot” (675, 3.3.170); i.e., as the Norton gloss says, a company of infantrymen. Sir John’s response indicates anything but enthusiasm. He can’t see why the doings of the upper orders should inconvenience him. The aristocratic rebels, he says, “offend none but the virtuous” (675, 3.3.174-75). Falstaff certainly doesn’t belong in that category.
As Hal sends letters to necessary commanders and says stirringly, “The land is burning, Percy stands on high, / And either we or they must lower lie” (676, 3.3.186-87), Falstaff cheers him on, but his real feelings come through in the scene-ending words, “Oh, I could wish this tavern were my drum!” (676, 3.3.189). The Norton editor is right to point out that this turn of phrase is debatable, but it sounds as if the speaker would much prefer to stay where he is, not go marching off merrily to war.
Falstaff’s place is in the Tavern, and that’s where he would prefer to stay, knightly status notwithstanding. The old knight’s orientation towards time is not Providential, as Hal’s is, but is instead a form of denial: where T. S. Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock measures out his life in coffee spoons, Falstaff measures his with swigs of cheap liquor, or “sack.” But Sir John’s options for denial and delay are narrowing, running out, and he is sitting scared.
ACT 4
Act 4, Scene 1 (676-79, Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas find out that Northumberland is too ill to take part in the rebellion; they learn as well that King Henry and Prince Hal are coming againsts them with an impressive army and that Glendŵr’s troops have run into a long delay.)
Things are going badly for the rebels since Hotspur’s father, Northumberland (Henry Percy), is ill. Northumberland encourages the rebels to keep on going anyway. As he puts the case, “there is no quailing now, / Because the King is certainly possessed / Of all our purposes” (677, 4.1.39-41). Worcester is very worried since he thinks Percy’s absence will cause their confederates to think twice about supporting the rebels.
Hotspur is not slow to recognize how perilous the news is, saying, “This sickness doth infect / The very life blood of our enterprise” (676, 4.1.28-29). But soon his focus turns to the epic confrontation he means to have with “The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales” (678, 4.1.94), even if Sir Richard Vernon has nothing but high praise for that same prince. As the scene closes, the news that Owen Glendŵr will be unable to put together his forces for two weeks scarcely makes a dent in Hotspur’s almost reckless enthusiasm. He says, “Come, let us take a muster speedily. / Doomsday is near. Die all; die merrily” (679, 4.1.132-33).
Hotspur is spirited and noble, but he doesn’t possess the practical regard for facts that a ruler must: a man who doesn’t care whether thirty thousand or forty thousand soldiers will oppose him is unlikely to win his battles. To be fair, Prince Hal will later, as Henry V in France, fight some successful battles at very long odds, the most famous one at Agincourt in October 1415. Even so, he did not proceed in sheer disregard of his circumstances.
Act 4, Scene 2 (679-80, Falstaff admits to the audience that he has made a scam of his infantry commission, raking in money from wealthier draft avoiders and filling their places with men unfit for service; Prince Hal and Westmorland catch up with him and tell him to make his way towards the fighting.)
What has Sir John Falstaff done with his infantry commission? Predictably, he has pulled a deadly scam on the Prince Hal and the King, threatening with conscription only those men he knows will pay good money to get out of their service. As Falstaff himself puts it, “I have misused the King’s press damnably. I have / got in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred / and odd pounds” (679, 4.2.11-13). To replace the men who have bought their way out of conscription, he has drafted poor ragged fools who have no money and therefore no way to escape military service.
When Prince Hal drops by, he can hardly believe his eyes, and calls Falstaff’s soldiers “pitiful rascals” (680, 4.2.58). “Tut, Tut,” says Sir John unconscionably, “good enough to toss; food for powder, food / for powder. . . . Tush, man: mor- / tal men, mortal men” (680, 4.2.59-61). The callousness of this wayward knight is truly astonishing, but the truth is, the sort of corruption to which Falstaff so breezily admits was common. [19]
Falstaff is beginning to appear as the parasite he really is, and his jests will end in the death of many poor men who have done him no harm, but whom he literally thinks of as nothing more than cannon fodder. At least at this point, it is difficult not to question the Prince’s judgment: he has freely given an irresponsible rogue the authority to command soldiers, and what makes it worse is that Falstaff didn’t even ask him to do it.
Act 4, Scenes 3-4 (680-84, in Scene 3, Sir Walter Blount calls upon Hotspur and his commanders with a request from King Henry to render him their complaints, with the understanding that if the King agrees, they will find redress and pardon; Hotspur agrees to send Worcester to Henry to continue the negotiations; in Scene 4, the Archbishop of York and Sir Michael discuss their estimation of the rebels’ chances of victory.)
While Vernon counsels delay to Hotspur since so many of their soldiers are either not yet in place or not rested enough to fight, Sir Walter Blount visits the rebels with what he calls “gracious offers from the King …” (681, 4.3.30). In simple terms, King Henry is willing to hear their grievances and redress them to the extent that he can. A pardon is also on offer if they will cease their attacks.
Hotspur has no shortage of specific complaints to rehearse with Sir Walter, but what seems to cut him and the other great medieval lords aligned with him most is that they supported Henry when he was desperate for their help, and now he treats them with disdain and disfavor. As Hotspur states the case, “My father and my uncle and myself / Did give him that same royalty he wears …” (682, 4.3.54-55).
Hotspur also claims that his father, Northumberland, only cast in his lot with Henry Bolingbroke because he “heard him swear and vow to God / He came but to be Duke of Lancaster, / To sue his livery and beg his peace / With tears of innocency and terms of zeal …” (682, 4.3.60-63). Perhaps Northumberland and his fellow lords believed Henry when he said this, but it seems naïve to have treated such an oath as anything but situational rhetoric. A nobleman can’t return unbidden from exile, attack his sovereign with an armed force, and expect to be treated with anything but savagery in return.
In Act 4, Scene 4, the Archbishop of York, Richard Scrope, determines in conversation with Sir Michael at York Castle that he had better take precautions against King Henry, who by now is aware of his being in league with the rebels. Things aren’t looking good for the rebels, but there’s no going back now.
ACT 5
Act 5, Scene 1 (684-87, Worcester and Vernon go to King Henry’s camp, and make their complaints to him; Prince Hal challenges Hotspur to single combat, and King Henry says he’ll pardon the rebels and make peace with them if they surrender.)
In his camp at Shrewsbury, King Henry asks Worcester the key question, though with an interesting figure: will this lord “move in that obedient orb again / Where you did give a fair and natural light, / And be no more an exhaled meteor, / A prodigy of fear …? (684, 5.1.17-20). [20] As for Worcester, his claims are grounded in his and his fellow rebels’ supposed belief that when Bolingbroke returned early from exile, he only did so to restore good government under Richard II and, of course, to demand what was his: the dukedom of Lancaster from his departed father, John of Gaunt.
Most historians of the period appear to believe that Henry did, in fact, swear an oath to that effect at Doncaster (in South Yorkshire) in July 1399. [21] But then, according to Worcester, he forgot all about it when Richard became vulnerable thanks to his extended military campaign in Ireland, so Henry turned full-scale invader and took the crown. This is hard to believe, for the reason stated in commentary on Act 4, Scene 3: Henry’s actions were openly disobedient, so Richard is hardly likely to have been interested in a rapprochement.
That seems especially true when we consider that in Henry Bolingbroke, we are talking about a man who had been among the so-called Lords Appellant, a group of high-ranking noblemen who had given Richard II a great deal of grief from 1387-89. [22] If Worcester and the others are the savvy political operators they consider themselves, would they have failed to perceive the hollowness—or at least the instability—of Henry’s “promise”?
Well, Prince Hal offers to settle the increasingly ominous dispute by single combat with Hotspur, but this chivalric gesture goes nowhere, and Hal in turn points out that the King’s offer of reconciliation with the rebels stands no chance of being accepted.
As for Falstaff, he is already sick of the whole affair, and complains to the Prince, “I would ‘twere bedtime, Hal, and all well” (686, 5.1.125). The chilly response from Hal is, “Why, thou owest God a death” (686, 5.1.126). This response is followed by Prince Hal’s departure, and it inspires Falstaff to utter one of the most famous of his pronouncements, his so-called “catechism” [23] on the concept of honor. The sum of it is, in Falstaff’s view, that honor is no more than “A word” (687, 5.1.133), and an empty word at that. It conceals an infinity of suffering and death, and really offers nothing in return.
The jolly knight, in his lighter moments, stands for what we might call a “life principle.” He’s for a life filled with pleasure and free of responsibility. Falstaff’s scene-ending observation is “Honor is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism” (687, 5.1.138-39). The Norton editor’s footnote 2 on pg. 687 explains that a scutcheon is a “Heraldic shield exhibited at funerals displaying the deceased person’s coat of arms.” As such, it’s an honorific device that has no power to revivify the individual who has paid the ultimate price to have his or her name associated with it. Falstaff sees no value in that.
Shakespeare’s play by no means sides with Falstaff in supposing that honor is a hollow emblem or an aristocratic scam, but his anti-heroic view is acknowledged as a counter-narrative to keep the heroics of the history cycle in perspective. It is an ancient view or creed—one has only to think of Homer’s Thersites in The Iliad to gauge its impressive pedigree. [24] Falstaff’s catechism, as he calls it, lays bare to us the dark underside of his zest for life—his unheroic creed is the cost of the pleasures that he spends his life seeking.
Act 5, Scene 2 (687-89, Worcester lies to Hotspur, claiming that King Henry did not offer a pardon but instead wants to fight; Hotspur defies King Henry via Douglas as his messenger; when Douglas returns, Hotspur and his troops ready themselves for battle.)
Worcester insists on what seems obvious to him: the King will not stick to his promise of clemency for all of the rebels. He says, “it cannot be / The King should keep his word in loving us” (687, 5.2.4-5). Hotspur may be forgiven as he is young, explains Worcester to a dubious Vernon, but not his elders: “We did train him on / And, his corruption being ta’en from us, / We as the spring of all shall pay for all” (687, 5.2.21-23). With this selfish argument, Worcester prevails upon Vernon to withhold this part of the negotiations from Hotspur.
The news as Hotspur receives it is welcome to him, as he is ready and eager to fight. This is especially so because Vernon also relays to him Prince Hal’s challenge to single combat. Hotspur is a little piqued by the boyish enthusiasm Vernon displays in relaying that challenge, as if it were his own, but it spurs him on all the same.
Act 5, Scene 3 (689-91, the battle starts; Douglas kills Sir Walter Blount in disguise as the King; Falstaff informs the audience that he has led his infantrymen to their deaths needlessly; Prince Hal requests that Falstaff give him a sword, but Falstaff hands him a bottle of sack, which provokes the Prince to anger; Falstaff remains steadfastly unimpressed with martial valor, taking the dead Sir Walter Blount as his example.)
Sir Walter Blount has bravely died in the King’s stead, as Douglas, his killer, finds when Hotspur arrives on the scene and recognizes the slain man’s face. Sending forth a number of “false kings” was a common mode of deception in medieval warfare, which makes sense because in those times, political leaders tended to spearhead their own military actions, risking their lives along with their troops. [25]
While the Prince, Hotspur and many others fight, Falstaff shirks and reflects on the knavery he has practiced. In soliloquy, he offers this stunning confession: “I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered; there’s / not three of my hundred and fifty left alive, and they are for / the town’s end to beg during life” (690, 5.3.35-37). What a stark picture of the prospects of the poorer grades of soldiers during the Middle Ages! And how callous is Falstaff’s almost casual description of what he has done?
Sooner than Falstaff could have wished, Prince Hal comes by, asking the devious shirker to lend him a sword. Falstaff is already claiming to have “paid Percy” (690, 5.3.45), but when the request for a weapon comes his way, in lieu of even a pistol he hands the Prince a bottle of sack, with the quip, “There’s that will sack a city” (690, 5.3.51). Hal is not amused. He throws the bottle at Falstaff and scolds, “What, is it a time to jest and dally now?” (690, 5.3.52).
Hal has had enough of Falstaff’s cowardly behavior, but when the Prince leaves to rejoin the fighting, Falstaff is nonplussed, and declares to himself and us that he willingly forgoes all opportunities to win “such grinning / honor as Sir Walter [Blount] hath” (691, 5.3.55-56). His view is that honor sometimes comes to a man in the fury and fog of war: “Give me life, which if I can save, / so; if not, honor comes unlooked for, and there’s an end” (691, 5.3.56-57). A man may get some taste of the Classical Greek and Roman afterlife, which is glory after death, in spite of his deficiencies.
Act 5, Scene 4 (691-94, Prince Hal rescues the King from Douglas, who had assailed him; Hal and Hotspur encounter each other at last; Falstaff plays dead to get out of a sword fight with the fierce Douglas; Hal finally vanquishes Hotspur, and they exchange final words; Hal catches sight of the “dead” Falstaff and grieves; Falstaff gets up after Hal leaves, and seeing Hotspur safely dead, stabs him and snatches up the body so he can claim the kill; Hal returns with his younger brother, Lord John, and agrees to “grace” Falstaff’s ridiculous lie.)
Earlier in the play, Prince Hal had said he would end up “Redeeming time when men think least I will.” [26] As we near the end of I Henry IV, that process begins in earnest. Disdaining help for his slight wound, Hal rescues his father from the smoking sword of the rebel Douglas. The “time” that needs redeeming is not only the Prince’s unruly past but his father’s usurpation of a kingdom that did not belong to him.
King Henry’s actions since 1399 have brought his son to this moment—they have led him here to a confused, deadly struggle at Shrewsbury in 1403, against determined foes who mean to end his father’s questionable reign. The redemptive answer to this threat is the Prince of Wales himself. Henry’s ultimate legitimacy, we might say, is none other than Hal, who, as we know, will go on to become King Henry V, whose brief reign would bring glory to England against the French at Agincourt in 1415.
We learn in this scene that some had said Hal wished his father dead, and now that ugly slander is put to rest. But the Prince has more work to do, and he soon finds himself facing his nemesis Hotspur. Hal is more than ready for this moment, saying, “think not, Percy, / To share with me in glory any more. / Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere …” (692, 5.4.62-64).
The two “stars” do battle, and Hal emerges the winner. Hotspur utters his last words, and Hal finds himself moved to exalt his opponent and bid him an affectionate farewell: “Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven. / Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave / But not remembered in thy epitaph” (693, 5.4.98-100).
Falstaff, in spite of his principles, is also in the thick of battle, and just before the Prince kills Hotspur, Falstaff saves his own skin by playing dead when the fierce Douglas challenges him. The knight is offended when Hal notices him and sets him forth as he really is: “Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day, / Though many dearer in this bloody fray” (693, 5.4.106-07).
It isn’t even so much the insult that gets to Falstaff as the certainty that he is dead. To be dead, says he, is to be “a counterfeit” (693, 5.4.114), and then comes the immortal line, “The better part of valor is discretion” (693, 5.4.117-18), which sounds like a twisted variation on Aristotle’s definition of virtue as the mean between cowardice and foolhardiness. [27] Falstaff has developed quite a skill in codifying his own deficiencies into speciously reasonable verbal forms.
To make matters still more absurd, the knight decides he might as well claim he killed the already dead Percy, and abuses his corpse with by slashing the thigh with his sword. Caught in the act by Lancaster and the Prince, Falstaff can only lie through his teeth to the man who actually did kill Hotspur. From this tepid sendoff, we sense that Hal is already moving his affections away from his onetime close companion and mentor.
Strangely, then, even before he hears the horn blast that signals the enemy’s retreat, Hal agrees to go along with Falstaff’s ludicrous pretension, saying, “For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, / I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have” (5.4.151-52). This indulgence may seem odd when we consider how intently Hal had come to look forward to this defining moment. Killing Hotspur all but completes the redemptive project Hal has promised the king, and the act should be trumpeted across the kingdom, not dissembled to serve the private interests of a rogue.
Perhaps, it has sometimes been suggested, this moment is a nod on Shakespeare’s part to the messiness or fogginess of the chronicles themselves. How difficult it is to know what happened during history’s great events! It’s also true that now Hal knows, within himself, what he’s made of, and even though a prince is a public figure, perhaps that inner knowledge is most important to him. Hal’s actions may also flow from a deep sense of English history with which Shakespeare has endowed him. In any event, Prince Hal seems secure in his triumph now, and in his readiness to defend the kingdom.
As for Falstaff, when alone, he gives us another of his promises to reform his conduct: “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” (694, 5.4.156-58). We’ll believe that when we see it. [28]
Act 5, Scene 5 (694-95, now that the King’s army has won a major battle, he sentences Worcester and Vernon to execution; Prince Hal releases Douglas for his valor; Henry and Hal will march against Glendŵr and the Earl of March, while Lord John and Westmorland will fight the rest of the rebel forces.)
King Henry sends Worcester and Vernon to their deaths for lying about his offer of clemency; Prince Hal magnanimously pardons Douglas for his valor in battle. There’s still more fighting to do before the rebels are entirely vanquished. Lord John and Westmorland will go to fight Northumberland and Scrope at York. The King himself, along with Prince Hal, will proceed to Wales, there to face Glendŵr and the Earl of March. The King says, “Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway / Meeting the check of such another day …” (695, 5.5.41-42).
Edition. Greenblatt, Stephen et al., editors. The Norton Shakespeare: Histories + Digital Edition. 3rd ed. W. W. Norton, 2016. ISBN-13: 978-0-393-93859-3.
Copyright © 2025 Alfred J. Drake
Document Timestamp: 8/22/2025 7:47 AM
ENDNOTES
*To return to exact part of the text referenced by the endnotes below, left-click on the endnote’s numbered link. By contrast, the blue scroll-up button at the bottom right of the page returns to the top of the document.
[1] With regard to the major Crusades, they were mostly an earlier phenomenon, with the several main events happening from 1096 through 1291, when the city of Acre fell out of Christian control. Henry IV’s planned Crusade seems unlikely to have actually reconquered the Holy Land for Christianity. See Prof. Andrew Latham’s “The Crusades: A Very Brief History, 1095-1500.” Medievalists.net. Accessed 8/15/2025.
[2] One way of explaining ideology, after all, is that it allows us to maintain an idealistic understanding of whatever practical or materially savvy thing we are doing. In this way, Henry could plan to embark on a latter-day crusade both from a genuine desire to restore Christian sovereignty to the Holy Land and because it helped take the pressure off of the domestic dissent that plagued him in England. His desire to participate in a crusade also seems to have stemmed from the value of the endeavor as a means of assuaging his guilty conscience over the deposition and murder of Richard II.
[3] See Bullough, Geoffrey, editor. Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. Vol. IV. Later English History Plays: King John, Henry IV, Henry V, Henry VIII. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul; New York: Columbia UP, 1966, first pub. 1962. Pg. 166. Bullough points out that Samuel Daniel makes Hotspur out to be a younger man, so Shakespeare may have borrowed this idea from Daniel. See The First Fowre Bookes of the Civile Wars … III.86-114 (1595). The fiery son of Henry Percy, “Hotspur,” provides a stark contrast with the supposed wastrel Prince Hal.
[4] The Norton editor’s footnote 6 on pg. 630 explains the obscenity of the women’s post-battle acts, which combined mutilation with sexual insult.
[5] How ill-behaved was “Prince Hal,” in historical truth? It’s hard to be precise, but we can look to the Holinshed Chronicles and Stow’s Chronicles for some hints about the Prince’s behavior as a young man of 15-16 years of age at the time I Henry IV is set, which is 1402-03. (He was born on August 9, 1387.) See Bullough, Geoffrey, editor. Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. Vol. IV. Later English History Plays: King John, Henry IV, Henry V, Henry VIII. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul; New York: Columbia UP, 1966, first pub. 1962. Pp. 159-60. Bullough lists six things Stow claims the Prince is supposed to have done: “(1) the robbing of the Receivers; (2) the riot in Eastcheap; (3) the striking of the Lord Chief Justice and the committal of the Prince to prison; (4) the Prince’s coming to Court strangely dressed and carrying a dagger; (5) the Prince’s visit to his dying father during which he took away the Crown; (6) his dismissal of his former companions after the Coronation.”
In footnote 2 for pg. 141, Boswell-Stone cites Stow as follows: “being accompanied with some of his Yong Lords and gentlemen, he would waite in disguised aray for his owne receiuers, and distresse them of their money; and sometimes at such enterprises both he and his company were surely beaten …” (557). But Stow goes on to point out that if anyone complained, the Prince made sure to pay them back the money he and his men had stolen. That’s very similar behavior to what Shakespeare describes.
Boswell-Stone also cites Holinshed for the story arc that Shakespeare follows, which has the new king giving over his dissolute friendships: “he determined to put on him the shape of a new man. For whereas aforetime he had made himselfe a companion vnto misrulie mates of dissolute order and life, he now banished them all from his presence (but not vnrewarded, or else vnpreferred) …” (164). See Bullough, Geoffrey, editor. Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. Vol. IV. Later English History Plays: King John, Henry IV, Henry V, Henry VIII. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul; New York: Columbia UP, 1966, first pub. 1962. Pg. 164. See also Shakespeare’s Holinshed by George W. Boswell-Stone: Henry IV, Pt. 1 and Henry IV, Pt. 2.
[6] Tillyard, E. M. W. The Elizabethan World Picture: A Study of the Idea of Order in the Age of Shakespeare, Donne and Milton. Vintage, 1959. ISBN-13: 978-0394701622. On the sublunary realm, see 52-54.
[7] Bloom, Harold. Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human. Riverhead Books, 1999. ISBN-13: 978-1573227513. For Bloom’s thoughts on Falstaff, see 271-314.
[8] While there are antecedents for the Falstaff character, he seems to be in large part Shakespeare’s own creation. In particular, there’s the historical figure Sir John Oldcastle as represented in the 1594 play The Famous Victories of Henry V. Oldcastle (1378-1417) married well and gained the title “Baron Cobham,” but he was ultimately martyred for his Lollard religious beliefs. Oldcastle was a controversial figure, and as Bullough points out, ultimately a tragic figure.
Bullough reminds us that there is also a John Fastolf in Shakespeare’s I Henry VI, 3.2.104-09, who is mentioned by Hall and Holinshed, and this man shared at least some of “Sir John Falstaff’s” unsavory characteristics. But in the end, as mentioned above, “Falstaff” probably owes a lot more to the playwright’s imagination than he does to any actual historical personage. See Bullough, Geoffrey, editor. Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. Vol. IV. Later English History Plays: King John, Henry IV, Henry V, Henry VIII. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul; New York: Columbia UP, 1966, first pub. 1962. Pp. 168-71.
[9] The term “public relations” is in quotation marks because it’s obviously anachronistic. Modern democratic bourgeois-normative societies have a much stronger sense of the public as a group of individuals, while identity in the Middle Ages and even somewhat later was a function of one’s duties towards others. Still, that need not obscure the point that in some sense or other, rulers have always needed to “take the temperature,” so to speak, of their citizens or subjects. Not to do so is to risk being blindsided and destroyed by some huge movement, some set of desires or grievances, welling up among the people.
[10] Richard II comments on how skillful a politician Bolingbroke is, how deftly he exercises his common touch. See Shakespeare, William. Shakespeare, William. The Life and Death of King Richard the Second. Folio. The Norton Shakespeare: Histories, 3rd ed. 488-548. 501, 1.4.23-36.
[11] The Norton editor’s footnote 3 for pg. 638 informs us that Shakespeare follows Holinshed’s Chronicles in conflating two different “Mortimers” here. Sir Edmund Mortimer IV is the man Henry accuses of turning traitor and joining up with Glendŵr, and marrying his Welsh daughter. This Mortimer is the uncle of the other, Edmund Mortimer the 5th Earl of March, son of the late Roger Mortimer, 4th Earl of March. The 5th Earl’s claim to the throne is what Henry seems to be referring to when he admits to his fear of Mortimer: the young man presents a threat to his hold on power.
[12] Recall the words of Richard III when he ascends the throne. Newly crowned, the latter asks Buckingham, “But shall we wear these honors for a day, / Or shall they last and we rejoice in them?” The Norton Shakespeare, Histories, Richard III 439, 4.2.4-5.
[13] According to the U of Nottingham’s Manuscripts and Special Collections site’s page on English money, “A ‘mark’ was worth two-thirds of a pound, or 13s 4d. This was never a physical amount of money represented by a coin, but was a common amount used for accounting purposes.”
[14] See Tillyard, E. M. W. The Elizabethan World Picture: A Study of the Idea of Order in the Age of Shakespeare, Donne and Milton. Vintage, 1959. ISBN-13: 978-0394701622.
[15] Shakespeare, William. The Life of Henry the Fifth. Folio. In The Norton Shakespeare: Histories, 3rd ed. 790-857. See 830, 4.1.98.
[16] See Samuel Johnson. “Preface to Shakespeare.” Johnson writes that “Shakespeare has no heroes; his scenes are occupied only by men ….” Gutenberg e-text. Accessed 8/15/2025.
[17] As many commentators have pointed out, too, Hotspur or Harry Percy was actually a few years older than the King himself, and old enough to be Prince Hal’s father. Shakespeare has changed the chronological record to dramatize the valor-competition between these two sons of famous politicians. Henry “Hotspur” Percy was born on May 20, 1364. Henry Bolingbroke was born in April 1367, and his son “Hal” came along in September 1386. Lord John, Hal’s younger brother, was born in September 1389.
[18] Falstaff makes a very similar statement in The Merry Wives of Windsor. When he thinks about how much mockery his current behavior and standing would earn him at court, he says, he almost wants to repent: “Well, if my wind were / but long enough, I would repent” Norton Shakespeare: Comedies, 3rd ed.650, 4.5.84-85.
[19] With regard to recruitment and conscription during the Medieval Era, see Sandra Alvarez’s essay “The recruitment of armies in the early middle ages: what can we know?” De Re Militari Blog, June 30, 2014. Accessed 8/14/2025.
[20] On such correspondences, see Tillyard, E. M. W. The Elizabethan World Picture: A Study of the Idea of Order in the Age of Shakespeare, Donne and Milton. Vintage, 1959. ISBN-13: 978-0394701622.
[21] For an interesting discussion of this “Doncaster oath,” see David Clewett’s Dec. 22, 2021 article “Deconstructing monarchical legitimacy: Lancastrian depositional propaganda and the language of political opposition, c. 1399–1405.” Midlandshistoricalreview.com. Accessed 8/15/2025.
[22] Henry Bolingbrook was close to Richard when they were children, but later, he was among the Lords Appellant who came to oppose Richard, much to his anger and chagrin—his reign as king began when he was 10 years old, and he spent much of that reign trying to wrest control of power mostly from older lords who thought they knew better than him how to govern. On Henry’s role in the rebellion of the Appellants, see Helen Castor’s The Eagle and the Hart: The Tragedy of Richard II and Henry IV. Avid Reader Press/Simon & Schuster, 2024. ISBN-13: 978-1982139209. Pp. 133-54.
[23] A catechism is a religious heuristic device—a summation of key points of religious belief. Falstaff’s question-and-answer format is common.
[24] Shakespeare, William. All’s Well That Ends Well. In The Norton Shakespeare: Comedies, 3rd ed. 971-1033. One of the character Paroles’s key statements is, “Simply the thing I am / Shall make me live” (1020, 4.3.316-17).
[25] On the general practice of deception in medieval warfare, listen to this June 8, 2022 Medieval Podcast episode: “Deception in Medieval Warfare, with James Titterton.” Accessed 8/15/2025.
[26] See present edition, 636, 1.2.191-92.
[27] See Aristotle. Nichomachean Ethics. Becker 1106a26–b28. The basic point is that a “virtue” is to be located at the mean or mid-point between excess of a quality and deficiency. Excessive courage amounts to foolhardiness, for example, and deficiency of it amounts to cowardice. The “golden mean” indicates just the right amount of courage in one’s actions.
[28] It’s possible that these continual promises of reform are connected to Sir John Oldcastle, Baron Cobham’s religious faith as a Lollard or his participation in a conspiracy against Henry V. Shakespeare had been pressured into changing the original character’s name to Falstaff based on objections from Oldcastle’s descendant William Brooke, 7th Lord Cobham, who also happened to be the Lord Chamberlain for part of 1596-97. See Bullough, Geoffrey, editor. Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. Vol. IV. Later English History Plays: King John, Henry IV, Henry V, Henry VIII. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul; New York: Columbia UP, 1966, first pub. 1962. Pp. 169-72.