he Saturnalia of wit, the riches and the
royalty, the health and long life. He is intoxicated with gaiety, mad
with folly. His animal spirits drown him in a flood of mirth: his blood
courses up and down his veins like wine. His thirst of enjoyment is as
great as his thirst of drink: his appetite for good things of all sorts
is unsatisfied, and there is a never-ending supply. _Discourse is dry_;
so they moisten their words in their cups, and relish their dry jests
with plenty of Botargos and dried neats' tongues. It is like Camacho's
wedding in Don Quixote, where Sancho ladled out whole pullets and fat geese
from the soup-kettles at a pull. The flagons are setting a running,
their tongues wag at the same time, and their mirth flows as a river.
How Friar John roars and lays about him in the vineyard! How Panurge
whines in the storm, and how dexterously he contrives to throw the
sheep overboard! How much Pantagruel behaves like a wise king! How
Gargantua mewls, and pules [sic], and slabbers his nurse, and demeans
himself most like a royal infant! what provinces he devours! what seas
he drinks up! How he eats, drinks, and sleeps--sleeps, eats, and
drinks! The style of Rabelais is no less prodigious than his matter. His
words are of marrow, unctuous, dropping fatness. He was a mad wag, the
king of good fellows, and prince of practical philosophers!

Rabelais was a Frenchman of the old school--Voltaire of the new.
The wit of the one arose from an exuberance of enjoyment--of the
other, from an excess of indifference, real or assumed. Voltaire had no
enthusiasm for one thing or another: he made light of every thing. In
his hands all things turn to chaff and dross, as the pieces of silver
money in the Arabian Nights were changed by the hands of the enchanter
into little dry crumbling leaves! He is a Parisian. He never
exaggerates, is never violent: he treats things with the most provoking
_sang froid_; and expresses his contempt by the most indirect hints, and
in the fewest words, as if he hardly thought them worth even his
contempt. He retains complete possession of himself and of his subject.
He does not effect his purpose by the eagerness of his blows, but by the
delicacy of his tact. The poisoned wound he inflicted was so fine, as
scarcely to be felt till it rankled and festered in its "mortal
consequences." His callousness was an excellent foil for the antagonists
he had mostly to deal with. He took knaves and