I am disposed, then, to maintain that, on this occasion, Sir John Falstaff entered Coventry more scantily, but more creditably attended than on the last; and took up his quarters at his favourite inn (the one where his bill was the shortest) with no intention of moving until the urgencies of war should absolutely compel him. Here he would be surrounded by old Cheylesford cronies, hangers-on to the palace--with their hangers-on and their hangers-on with the hangers-on of the latter--and so on dwindling into indefinite perspective. I can fancy Sir John, the true master of the situation--dispensing the last court scandal--retailing the last town jests--disposing of the rebellion, the King’s state of health, the Queen’s avarice and last rumoured act of sorcery, the Prince’s designs; in a word, laying down the law generally. I can conceive him fighting the battle of Shrewsbury over again,--killing Percy by the cruellest of deaths, after the most protracted of sanguinary encounters,--and inflicting upon the absent Earl of Douglas what that gallant warrior, throughout his life, had never been accustomed to receive wounds aimed at him from behind his back. The rare honours Sir John found awaiting him on his return to London--the feasts prepared for him--and the precious gifts of gold, jewels, and costly raiment, showered upon him--all these would doubtless be displayed to the minds’ eyes of an admiring audience; their original value multiplied an hundredfold by the compound-interest afforded by the exhaustless bank of Sir John Falstaff’s golden imagination--in the mint attached to which establishment most of them had, indeed, been fabricated. Plow he would strike envy to the souls of exiles from the court--palace intendants, stewards, gentlemen-at-arms, and the like, sent to Coventry, and kept there, by duty or difficulties,--men stagnating for lack of news, and fain to follow the fashions “afar off like spies,”--how would he overwhelm them with glowing accounts of the last Venetian sleeve, the newest Saracenic hood, (for our Crusading fathers robbed the Paynims not merely of their heads but also of their turbans!) and the last Ferrarese device in armour--many costly specimens of which he would carelessly allude to as following him at leisure, with the bulk of his baggage, to be worn when the wars should be concluded--rough homespun, tough leather, and British iron being good enough for blood-stains and battle-smoke! How would he silence Detraction--wishing to know whereby Sir John Falstaff, after all his brilliant achievements, had escaped court preferment--by frowns and sighs, and mysterious innuendoes! Who knows but that the name of Queen Joanna of Brittany--a comely dame, scarce past her middle age, still capable of inspiring the tender passion--may have been covertly mentioned in connection with this delicate subject? Was not the king old, ailing, and jealous? Had not Duke Edward of York been already