are in any degree synonymous, as of old; for the merry fool, too
scarce, alas! even in the times when Jacke of Dover hunted for him in
the highways, has since then grown to be rarer than a phenix. He has
carried his cap and bells and jests and laughter elsewhere, and has
left us to the mercies of the serious fool, who is by no means so
seductive a companion. If the Cocquecigrues are in possession of the
land, and if they are tenants exceedingly hard to evict, it is
because of the encouragement they receive from those to whom we
innocently turn for help: from the poets, novelists and men of
letters whose duty it is to brighten and make glad our days.

"It is obvious," sighs Mr. Birrell dejectedly, "that many people
appear to like a drab-colored world, hung around with dusky shreds of
philosophy"; but it is more obvious still that, whether they like it
or not, the drapings grow a trifle dingier every year, and that no
one seems to have the courage to tack up something gay. What is much
worse, even those bits of wanton color which have rested generations
of weary eyes are being rapidly obscured by somber and intricate
scroll-work, warranted to oppress and fatigue. The great masterpieces
of humor, which have kept men young by laughter, are being tried in
the courts of an orthodox morality and found lamentably wanting; or
else, by way of giving them another chance, they are being subjected
to the _peine forte et dure_ of modern analysis, and are revealing
hideous and melancholy meanings in the process. I have always believed
that Hudibras owes its chilly treatment at the hands of critics--with
the single and most genial exception of Sainte-Beuve--to the absolute
impossibility of twisting it into something serious. Strive as we may,
we cannot put a new construction on those vigorous old jokes, and to
be simply and barefacedly amusing is no longer considered a sufficient
_raison d'etre_. It is the most significant token of our ever-