ith flowers, and smile upon
his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as
sharp as a pen, and a' babbled of green fields. "How now, Sir John!"
quoth I: "what, man! be of good cheer!" So a' cried out, "God, God,
God!" three or four times: now I, to comfort him, bid him a' should not
think of God; I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such
thoughts yet. So a' bade me lay more clothes on his feet; I put my hand
into the bed, and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone; then I
felt to his knees, and so upward, and upward, and all was as cold as any
stone.'

[Footnote 6: _Account of the Life and Writings of Shakespeare._]

It is an incredible tale. Falstaff to die, to be cold, to call
mournfully upon his God ... it is pitiful, and as he died he played
with flowers, those things nearest to his beloved earth. For he loved
the earth; he had the traits of the peasant, his lusts, his simplicity,
his coarseness and his unquestioning faith. His guide was a rough and
jovial Epicureanism, which rated equally with pleasure the avoidance of
pain; Falstaff loved pleasure but was too simple to realise that
pleasure must be paid for; the giant wanted or the giant did not want,
and there was an end of the matter. He viewed life so plainly that he
was ready to juggle with words and facts, so as to fit it to his
desires; thus, when honour offended him, he came to believe there was no
honour, to refuse God the death he owed him because of honour: 'Yea, but
how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honour set a
leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour
hath no skill in surgery then? No. Who hath it? he that died o'
Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. It is insensible
then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why?
Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it; honour is a
mere scutcheon; and so ends my catechism.'

Casuist! But he was big enough to deceive himself. Such casuistry was
natural to the Englishman of Falstaff's day, who took his Catholicism as
literally as any Sicilian peasant may take his to-day. Of Falstaff's
unquestioning faith there is no doubt at all; his familiar modes of
address of the Deity, his appeal when dying, his probable capacity for
robbing a friar and demanding of him absolution, all these are
indications of a simplicity so great that casuistry alone could rescue
him from the