But as yet we have dealt principally in parole and circumstantial evidence, and have referred to _Fact_ only incidentally. But _Facts_ have a much more operative influence: They may be produced, not as arguments only, but Records; not to dispute alone, but to decide.—It is time then to behold _Falstaff_ in actual service as a soldier, in danger, and in battle. We have already displayed one fact in his defence against the censure of _Lancaster_; a fact extremely unequivocal and decisive. But the reader knows I have others, and doubtless goes before me to the action at _Shrewsbury_. In the midst and in the heat of battle we see him come forwards;—what are his words? “_I have led my Rag-o-muffians where they are peppered; there’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive._” But to _whom_ does he say this? To himself only; he speaks _in soliloquy_. There is no questioning the fact, _he had_ led _them_; _they were peppered_; _there were not __THREE__ left alive._ He was in luck, being in bulk equal to any two of them, to escape unhurt. Let the author answer for that, I have nothing to do with it: He was the Poetic maker of the whole _Corps_, and he might dispose of them as he pleased. Well might the Chief justice, as we now find, acknowledge _Falstaff_’s services in this day’s battle; an acknowledgment which amply confirms the fact. A Modern officer, who had performed a feat of this kind, would expect, not only the praise of having done his duty, but the appellation of a hero. But poor _Falstaff_ has too much wit to thrive: In spite of probability, in spite of inference, in spite of fact, he must be a Coward still. He happens unfortunately to have more Wit than Courage, and therefore we are maliciously determined that he shall have no Courage at all. But let us suppose that his modes of expression, even _in soliloquy_, will admit of some abatement;—how much shall we abate? Say that he brought off _fifty_ instead of _three_; yet a Modern captain would be apt to look big after an action with two thirds of his men, as it were, in his belly. Surely _Shakespeare_ never meant to exhibit this man as a Constitutional coward; if he did, his means were sadly destructive of his end. We see him, after he had expended his Rag-o-muffians, with sword and target in the midst of battle, in perfect possession of himself, and replete with humour and jocularity. He was, I presume, in some immediate personal danger, in danger also of a general defeat; too corpulent for flight; and to be led a prisoner was probably to be led to execution; yet we see him laughing and easy, offering a bottle of sack to the Prince instead of a pistol, punning, and telling him, “_there was that which would __SACK__ a city._”—“_What, is it a time_,” says the Prince “_to jest and dally now?_” No, a sober character would not jest on such an occasion, but a Coward could not; he would neither have the inclination, or the power. And what