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Rh In the history of famous fools—which ought to find a place in the library of every intelligent man—a conspicuous chapter is reserved for that wild cross-bowman who bears the name of William Tell. Much may be forgiven him for the single but valid reason that he is perhaps nothing more than a fiction of the chroniclers, clumsy even in their inventions. But myths are the unconscious revelation of peoples; and this Tell—I can see his green hat set on the bony cube of a head impermeable to thought—gives me the impression of a county-fair hero and a shooting-gallery champion: surely that bow of his never failed to win the goose. ’Twas but a gross and sluggish spirit that could so miss the profound irony of a bailiff content to receive a bow. When a monarch has become but a hat on top of a pole, what more can a free people ask or expect? Was it not indeed an honor that the imperial heir of the Cæsars should deign to govern those tribes of mountainous boors who, now that they are left to themselves, have come to the point of submitting, through the referendum, to the plebiscite of incompetence?

Even in the drama of his greatest champion, Tell cuts but a poor figure. When his more daring friends urge him to conspire for the liberation