the difficulties inherent in the subject-matter of the scene;
too heavy as these might have been for another, we can conceive of none
too hard for the magnetic tact and intuitive delicacy of Shakespeare's
judgment and instinct. But it must fairly and honestly be admitted that
in this scene we find as little of the charm and humour inseparable from
the prince as of the courtesy and dignity to be expected from the king.

It should on the other hand be noted that the finest touch in the comic
scenes, if not the finest in the whole portrait of Falstaff, is
apparently an afterthought, a touch added on revision of the original
design. In the first scene of the second act Mrs. Quickly's remark that
"he'll yield the crow a pudding one of these days" is common to both
versions of the play; but the six words following are only to be found in
the revised edition; and these six words the very pirates could hardly
have passed over or struck out. They are not such as can drop from the
text of a poet unperceived by the very dullest and horniest of human
eyes. "The king has killed his heart." Here is the point in Falstaff's
nature so strangely overlooked by the man of all men who we should have
said must be the first to seize and to appreciate it. It is as grievous
as it is inexplicable that the Shakespeare of France--the most infinite
in compassion, in "conscience and tender heart," of all great poets in
all ages and all nations of the world--should have missed the deep
tenderness of this supreme and subtlest touch in the work of the greatest
among his fellows. Again, with anything but "damnable" iteration, does
Shakespeare revert to it before the close of this very scene. Even
Pistol and Nym can see that what now ails their old master is no such
ailment as in his prosperous days was but too liable to "play the rogue
with his great toe." "The king hath run bad humours on the knight": "his
heart is fracted, and corroborate." And it is not thus merely through
the eclipse of that brief mirage, that fair prospect "of Africa, and
golden joys," in view of which he was ready to "take any man's horses."
This it is that distinguishes Falstaff from Panurge; that lifts him at
least to the moral level of Sancho Panza. I cannot but be reluctant to
set the verdict of my own judgment against that of Victor Hugo's; I need
none to remind me what and who he is whose judgment I for once oppose,
and what and who am I that I should oppose it; th