comedian, who should represent him to the life, before one of the police offices.  We only consider the number of pleasant lights in which he puts certain foibles (the more pleasant as they are opposed to the received rules and necessary restraints of society) and do not trouble ourselves about the consequences resulting from them, for no mischievous consequences do result.  Sir John is old as well as fat, which gives a melancholy retrospective tinge to the character; and by the disparity between his inclinations and his capacity for enjoyment, makes it still more ludicrous and fantastical.

The secret of Falstaff’s wit is for the most part a masterly presence of mind, an absolute self-possession, which nothing can disturb.  His repartees are involuntary suggestions of his self-love; instinctive evasions of everything that threatens to interrupt the career of his triumphant jollity and self-complacency.  His very size floats him out of all his difficulties in a sea of rich conceits; and he turns round on the pivot of his convenience, with every occasion and at a moment’s warning.  His natural repugnance to every unpleasant thought or circumstance of itself makes light of objections, and provokes the most extravagant and licentious answers in his own justification.  His indifference to truth puts no check upon his invention, and the more improbable and unexpected his contrivances are, the more happily does he seem to be delivered of them, the anticipation of their effect acting as a stimulus to the gaiety of his fancy.  The success of one adventurous sally gives him spirits to undertake another:  he deals always in round numbers, and his exaggerations and excuses are ’open, palpable, monstrous as the father that begets them’.  His dissolute carelessness of what he says discovers itself in the first dialogue with the Prince.

Falstaff.  By the lord, thou say’st true, lad; and is not mine hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?

P. Henry.  As the honey of Hibla, my old lad of the castle; and is not a buff-jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?

Falstaff.  How now, how now, mad wag, what in thy quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff-jerkin?

P. Henry.  Why, what a pox have I to do with mine hostess of the tavern?

In the same scene he afterwards affects melancholy, from pure satisfaction of heart, and professes reform, because it is the farthest thing in the world from his thoughts.  He has no qualms of conscience, and therefore would as soon talk of them as of anything else when the humour takes him.

Falstaff.  But Hal, I pr’ythee trouble me no more with vanity.  I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought:  an old lord of council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir; but I mark’d him not, and yet he talked very wisely, and in the street too.

P. Henry.  Thou didst well, for wisdom cries out in the street, and no man regards it.