celebrated by Pantagruel's minstrel. Man prepares for
privation by satiety, and finishes his sin thoroughly before he begins to
repent.

Why, in all ages and among every people, do we meet with some one of
these mad festivals? Must we believe that it requires such an effort for
men to be reasonable, that the weaker ones have need of rest at
intervals? The monks of La Trappe, who are condemned to silence by their
rule, are allowed to speak once in a month, and on this day they all talk
at once from the rising to the setting of the sun.

Perhaps it is the same in the world. As we are obliged all the year to be
decent, orderly, and reasonable, we make up for such a long restraint
during the Carnival. It is a door opened to the incongruous fancies and
wishes that have hitherto been crowded back into a corner of our brain.
For a moment the slaves become the masters, as in the days of the
Saturnalia, and all is given up to the "fools of the family."

The shouts in the square redouble; the troops of masks increase--on foot,
in carriages, and on horseback. It is now who can attract the most
attention by making a figure for a few hours, or by exciting curiosity or
envy; to-morrow they will all return, dull and exhausted, to the
employments and troubles of yesterday.

Alas! thought I with vexation, each of us is like these masqueraders; our
whole life is often but an unsightly Carnival! And yet man has need of
holidays, to relax his mind, rest his body, and open his heart. Can he
not have them, then, with these coarse pleasures? Economists have been
long inquiring what is the best disposal of the industry of the human
race. Ah! if I could only discover the best disposal of its leisure! It
is easy enough to find it work; but who will find it relaxation? Work
supplies the daily bread; but it is cheerfulness that gives it a relish.
O philosophers! go in quest of pleasure! find us amusements without
brutality, enjoyments without selfishness; in a word, invent a Carnival
that will please everybody, and bring shame to no one.

Three o'clock.--I have just shut my window, and stirred up my fire. As
this is a holiday for everybody, I will make it one for myself, too. So I
light the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I make a cup of the
coffee that my portress's son brought from the Levant, and I look in my
bookcase for one of my favorite authors.

First, here is the amusing parson of Meudon; but his characters are too
fond