est translator? But the reason of this
is, almost every part of it alludes to particular incidents. The clergy
are there made the principal object of ridicule, which is understood but
by few among the laity. To explain this a commentary would be requisite,
and humour when explained is no longer humour. Whoever sets up for a
commentator of smart sayings and repartees is himself a blockhead. This
is the reason why the works of the ingenious Dean Swift, who has been
called the English Rabelais, will never be well understood in France.
This gentleman has the honour (in common with Rabelais) of being a
priest, and, like him, laughs at everything; but, in my humble opinion,
the title of the English Rabelais which is given the dean is highly
derogatory to his genius. The former has interspersed his unaccountably-
fantastic and unintelligible book with the most gay strokes of humour;
but which, at the same time, has a greater proportion of impertinence. He
has been vastly lavish of erudition, of smut, and insipid raillery. An
agreeable tale of two pages is purchased at the expense of whole volumes
of nonsense. There are but few persons, and those of a grotesque taste,
who pretend to understand and to esteem this work; for, as to the rest of
the nation, they laugh at the pleasant and diverting touches which are
found in Rabelais and despise his book. He is looked upon as the prince
of buffoons. The readers are vexed to think that a man who was master of
so much wit should have made so wretched a use of it; he is an
intoxicated philosopher who never wrote but when he was in liquor.

Dean Swift is Rabelais in his senses, and frequenting the politest
company. The former, indeed, is not so gay as the latter, but then he
possesses all the delicacy, the justness, the choice, the good taste, in
all which particulars our giggling rural Vicar Rabelais is wanting. The
poetical numbers of Dean Swift are of a singular and almost inimitable
taste; true humour, whether in prose or verse, seems to be his peculiar
talent; but whoever is desirous of understanding him perfectly must visit
the island in which he was born.

It will be much easier for you to form an idea of Mr. Pope's works. He
is, in my opinion, the most elegant, the most correct poet; and, at the
same time, the most harmonious (a circumstance which redounds very much
to the honour of this muse) that England ever gave birth to. He has
mellowed the harsh sounds of the