nd sense which has been fastened
upon reality--"realism"--show that, in the opinion of many people at
least, reality is _not_ gracious? The Foozles of this world who "despise
all your kickshaws," the Dry-as-dusts who point out--not in the least
seeing the real drift of their argument--that the fifteenth century was,
in the greater part of Europe if not the whole, at a new point of morals
and manners, may urge these things. But the best part of _Petit Jehan_
remains a gracious sort of dream for gracious dreamers--a picture of a
kind of Utopia of Feminism, when Feminism did not mean votes or anything
foolish, but only adoration of the adorable.

[Sidenote: _Jehan de Paris._]

It would be impossible to find or even to imagine anything more
different than the not much later _Jehan de Paris_, an evident
folk-tale[88] of uncertain origin, which very quickly became a popular
chapbook and lasted long in that condition. Although we Englishmen
provide the fun, he is certainly no Englishman who resents the fact or
fails to enjoy the result, not to mention that we "could tell them tales
with other endings." It is, for instance, not quite historically
demonstrable that in crossing a river many English horsemen would be
likely to be drowned, while all the French cavaliers got safe through;
nor that, in scouring a country, the Frenchmen would score all the game
and all the best beasts and poultry, while the English bag would consist
of starvelings and offal. But no matter for that. The actual tale tells
(with the agreeable introductory "How," which has not yet lost its zest
for the right palates in chapter-headings) the story of a King and Queen
of Spain who have, in recompense for help given them against turbulent
barons, contracted their daughter to the King of France for his son; how
they forgot this later, and betrothed her to the King of England, and
how that King set out with his train, through France itself, to fetch
his bride. As soon as the Dauphin (now king, for his father is dead)
hears of their coming, he disguises himself under the name of John of
Paris, with a splendid train of followers, much more gorgeous than the
English (the "foggy islander" of course cannot make this out), and sets
of _quiproquos_ follow, in each of which the Englishman is outdone and
baffled generally, till at last "John of Paris" enters Burgos in state,
reveals himself, and carries off the Englishman's bride, with the
natural effect of making him