And when Petruchio, who is not half so much of a gentleman in this scene as Sartorius, calls the latter “thimble,” “flea,” “skein of thread,” “remnant,” and flings at him a whole vocabulary of vituperation, the gentle _schneider_ still simply asserts that the gown was made according to direction, and that the latter came from Grumio himself. Now Grumio, being a household servant, lies according to the manner of his vocation; and where he does not lie, he equivocates most basely; and where he neither lies nor equivocates, he bullies; and finally, he falls into an argument, which has not the logical conclusion of annihilating his adversary. The latter, with quiet triumph, produces Grumio’s note containing the order; but it costs the valet no breath, and as little hesitation, to pronounce the note a liar too. But a worm will turn; and the tailor, touched to the quick on a point of honour, brings his bold heart upon his lips, and valiantly declares, “This is true that I say; an I had thee in place where, thou shouldst know it;” and thereupon Grumio falls into bravado and uncleanness, and the tailor is finally dismissed with scant courtesy, and the very poor security of Hortensio’s promise to pay for what Petruchio owed. The breach of contract was flagrant, and the only honest man in the party was the tailor. So much for honesty; as for bravery, commend me to forcible Francis Feeble. He too was but a “woman’s tailor;” but what an heroic soul was in that transparent frame! He reminds me of Sir Charles Napier. When the latter hero was complimented by the Mayor of Portsmouth, he simply undertook to do his best, and counselled his worship not to expect too much. Sir Charles must have taken the idea of his speech from Francis Feeble; and what an honour is that for the entire profession, not of sailors, but of tailors! “Wilt thou make me,” asks Falstaff, “as many holes in an enemy’s battle, as thou hast done in a woman’s petticoat?” “I will do my good will, Sir,” answereth gallant Feeble, adding, with true conclusiveness, “you can have no more.” Well might Sir John enthusiastically hail him as “courageous Feeble,” and compare his valour to that of the wrathful dove and most magnanimous mouse,—two animals gentle by nature, but being worked upon not void of spirit. Indeed, Feeble is the only gallant man of the entire squad of famished recruits. Bullcalf offers “good master corporate Bardolph” a bribe of “four Harry ten shillings in French crowns,” to be let off. Not that Bullcalf is afraid! Not he, the knave; he simply does not care to go! He is not curious in things strategic; he seeth no attraction in stricken fields; but he would fain be out of harm’s way, because, in his own words,—“because I am unwilling, and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with my friends; else, Sir, I did not care, for mine own part, so much.” To no such craven tune runneth the song of stupendous Feeble! Mouldy urges affection for his old dame as ground