ckery of the fairies in Windsor Park; himself
it is acknowledges that he is 'made an ass.' We laugh, and again we
laugh when, in silly terror and credulity, he allows the Merry Wives to
pack him in the foul linen basket; where Falstaff is, there is also
rubicund pleasantry.

In the same spirit we make merry over his cowardice; the cowardice
itself is not comic, indeed it would be painful to see him stand and
deliver to Gadshill, if the surrender were not prefaced by the deep
grumbles of a man who suspects that Hal and Poins have captured his
affections with drugs, who acknowledge that 'eight yards of uneven
ground is threescore and ten miles afoot' with him. The burlesque
conceals the despicable, and we fail to sneer because we laugh; we
forgive his acceptance of insult at the hands of the Chief Justice's
servant: it is not well that a knight should allow a servant to tell him
that he lies in his throat, but if leave to do so can be given in jest
the insult loses its sting. Falstaff is more than a coward, he is the
coward-type, for he is (like Pistol) the blustering coward. The mean,
cringing coward is unskilled at his trade: the true coward is the fat
knight who, no sooner convicted of embellishing his fight with
highwaymen, of having forgone his booty rather than defend it, can roar
that he fears and will obey no man, and solemnly say: ''Zounds! an' I
were at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell
you upon compulsion.' The attitude is so simple, so impudent, that we
laugh, forgive. And we forgive because such an attitude could not be
struck with confidence save by a giant.

A giant he is, this comic and transparent man. There is nothing
unobtrusive in Falstaff's being; his feelings and his motives are large
and unmistakable. His jolly brutality and mummery of pride are in
themselves almost enough to ensure him the crown of Goliath, but add to
these the poetry wrapped in his lewdness, the idealistic gallantry which
follows hard upon his crudity, add that he is lawless because he is
adventurous, add simplicity, bewilderment, and cast over this
temperament a web of wistful philosophy: then Falstaff stands forth
enormous and alone.

Falstaff is full of gross, but artistic glee; for him life is epic and
splendid, and his poetic temperament enables him to discover the beauty
that is everywhere. It may be that Henry IV. rightly says: 'riot and
dishonour stain the brow of my young Harry,' but it may