ir loathing of the excremental side
of life. Swift was one of these. The "disgusting" in his writing is a
pathological form, not at all unusual, of such a loathing. But
Rabelais is no Dean Swift--nor is there the remotest resemblance
between them. Rabelais may really save us from our loathing by the
huge all-embracing friendliness of his sense of humor.

There are certain people, no doubt, who would prefer the grave
enthusiasm of Whitman in regard to this matter to the freer
Rabelaisian touch. I cannot say that my personal experience agrees
with this view.

I have found both great men invaluable; but I think as far as dealing
with the Cloaca Maxima side of things is concerned, Rabelais has
been the braver in inspiration. In these little matters one can only say,
"some are born Rabelaisian, and some require to have Rabelais
thrust upon them!"

Surely it is wisdom, in us terrestrial mortals, to make what
imaginative use we can of _every phase_ of our earthly condition?

Imagination has a right to play with everything that exists; and
humor has a right to laugh at everything that exists. Everything in
life is sacred and everything is a huge jest.

It is the association of this excremental aspect of life, with those
high sacraments of meat and drink and sex, which some find so hard
to endure. Be not afraid my little ones! The great and humorous
gods have arranged for this also; and have seen to it that no brave,
generous, amorous "sunburnt" emotion shall ever be hurt by such
associations! If a person _is_ hurt by them, that is only an indication
that they are in grievous need of the wholesome purgative medicine
of the great doctor! When one comes to speak of the actual contents
of these books criticism itself must borrow Gargantua's mouth.

What characters! The three great royal giants, Graugousier,
Gargantua and Pantagruel--have there ever been such kings? And
the noble servants of such noble masters! The whole atmosphere is
so large, so genial, so courteous, so sweet-tempered, so entirely
what the life of man upon earth should be.

Even the military exploits of Friar John, even the knavish tricks of
Panurge, cannot spoil our tenderness for these dear bully-boys, these
mellow and magnanimous rogues! Certain paragraphs in Rabelais
recur to one's mind daily. That laudation of Socrates at the
beginning, and the description of the "little boxes called _Silent"_
that outside have so grotesque an adornment, but within a