fortunately, did not think so. In fact, there is little or nothing
which it has not meant in its time; and now, having attained that
deep spiritual inwardness which we have been recently told is lacking
in poor Goldsmith, we are requested by Mr. Shorthouse to refrain from
all brutal laughter, but, with a shadowy smile and a profound
seriousness, to attune ourselves to the proper state of receptivity.
Old-fashioned, coarse-minded people may perhaps ask, "But if we are
not to laugh at 'Don Quixote,' at whom are we, please, to laugh?"—a
question which I, for one, would hardly dare to answer. Only, after r
eading the following curious sentence, extracted from a lately
published volume of criticism, I confess to finding myself in a state
of mental perplexity utterly alien to mirth. "How much happier," its
author sternly reminds us, "was poor Don Quixote in his energetic
career, in his earnest redress of wrong, and in his ultimate triumph
over self, than he could have been in the gnawing reproach and
spiritual stigma which a yielding to weakness never failingly
entails!" Beyond this point it would be hard to go. Were these things
really spoken of the "ingenious gentleman" of La Mancha or of John
Howard or George Peabody or perhaps Elizabeth Fry—or is there no
longer such a thing as recognized absurdity In the world?

   Another gloomy indication of the departure of humor from our midst is
the tendency of philosophical writers to prove by analysis that, if
they are not familiar with the thing itself, they at least know of
what it should consist. Mr. Shorthouse's depressing views about "Don
Quixote" are merely introduced as illustrating a very scholarly and
comfortless paper on the subtle qualities of mirth. No one could deal
more gracefully and less humorously with his topic than does Mr.
Shorthouse, and we are compelled to pause every now and then and
reassure ourselves as to the subject matter of his eloquence.
Professor Everett has more recently and more cheerfully defined for
us the Philosophy of the Comic, in a way which, if it does not add to
our gaiety, cannot be accused of plunging us deliberately into gloom.
He thinks, indeed—and small wonder—that there is "a genuine
difficulty in distinguishing between the comic and the tragic," and
that what we need is some formula which shall accurately interpret
the precise qualities of each, and he is disposed to illustrate his
theory by dwelling on the tragic side of Falstaff, which is, of all
injuries, the grimmest and hardest to forgive. Falstaff is now the
forlorn hope of those who love to laugh, and when he is taken away

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