ng an
excellent 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