fat, witty, and luxurious knight, and every syllable is equally applicable. A great deal has been written pro and con, on the question of Falstaff's cowardice, and it now seems agreed by the learned, not "the commentators on Shakespeare,"
"Deep-vers'd in books and shallow in themselves;
Crude and intoxicate, collecting toys
And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge:"
But, by those who have some knowledge of the human mind and its operations, that Falstaff is no coward: while he avows "discretion to be the better part of valour," he only avoids situations of danger, not from constitutional fear of them, but because his strong sense revolts at incurring peril were it is needless. As one of our old translators of Horace shrewdly says, in reference to that poet's disappearance at the battle of Philippi, "a soldier is no more bound to fight when he is out of his humour, than an orator to speak when he is out of his wits; nor is it prudent for a man of wit and learning to have his brains beaten out by one that has none."[1] Such is precisely the "discretion," which Falstaff commends. Punch, however, is less prudent than Falstaff, and, in some instances, may perhaps, be almost charged with being a little fool-hardy. He is more amorous; and in seeking to gratify this propensity, he must, of course, be sometimes prepared, like Don Juan, (whom in this respect he resembles,) "to run upon the very edge of hazard." If, in the course of his adventures, Punch be now and then guilty of ridiculous extravagancies, apparently inconsistent with part of the character we have drawn of him, let it be remembered in the words of Pascal, "l'extreme esprit est accusée de la folie, comme l'extreme défaut."
We have it upon very high and ancient authority, that "no bad man can be happy,"[2] and, if this maxim be true, the character of Punch is so far out of nature: he hardly knows a moment's unhappiness, from the beginning to the
