Is not that great and magnificent, and could one better detach poetry from the gross reality? And, note, too, how classic, how traditional, how ample are Baudelaire's lines. For myself, no one will ever persuade me to regard this poet as the author of all the ills from which literature is suffering to-day. Baudelaire had great intellectual vices and moral perversities, which disfigure the greater part of his work. I agree that the Baudelairean spirit is hateful, but the Fleurs du Mal are and will remain a delight to all those who are capable of feeling the influence of a luminous imagery borne upon the wings of

verse.

As a man, I agree that he is detestable. But he is a poet and therefore divine.

Return, perfumed by an odour of wine-casks,
Followed by companions, hoary with battle,
Whose moustache hangs like old flags
-The banners, flowers and triumphal arches

Rise before them, a solemn enchantment!
And in the bewildering and luminous orgy
Of trumpets and sunlight, of shouts and drums,
They bring glory to a people drunk with love.

RABELAIS *

AS it ever been your lot to visit some old and splendid monument in company with a scholar, who was, by chance, a man of wit and taste, capable of thought, sight, feeling,

and imagination? Have you, for

instance, ever wandered through the great ruins of the Château de Coucy with M. Anatole de Montaiglon, who makes songs out of archæology, and archæology out of songs, knowing all the while that all is vanity?

Have you ever listened to the friends of M. Cherbuliez, whilst they maintained a learned and familiar conversation round one of Phidias' horses, or some statue in the Cathedral of Chartres? If you have partaken of these pleasures, you will find a reflection of them when you read M. Paul Stapfer's new book, which is really a saunter round Rabelais, a pleasant, scholarly, and charming saunter. The work of Rabelais is a cathedral, placed under the patronage of the Humanities, free thought and tolerance; but built in a flamboyant style, lacking neither the gargoyles, the monsters nor the grotesque scenes so dear to the sculptors of the Middle Ages; where one runs a risk

*Rabelais, sa personne, son génie, son œuvre, by Paul Stapfer, professor in the faculty of Letters at Bordeaux, I vol.

of losing oneself in a maze of steeples and turrets, in the jumble of pinnacles which shelter a medley of fools and sages, men, animals, and monks.

And, to make confusion worse confounded, this Gothic church is, like that of St. Eustache, adorned with masks, shells, and little figures in the charming manner of the Renaissance. One certainly runs every risk of getting lost, and few, as a matter of fact, have attempted it. But with a guide like M. Stapfer, after an infinity of amusing wanderings, one always finds oneself again.

M. Paul Stapfer knows his Rabelais. This, alone, would not be enough: he loves him, and that is the great point. His is no bigoted affection. He admits that his dim cathedral is built without order or plan, and that it is impossible to see clearly through half the arches. But he loves it as it is, and he is quite right to do so. "My delightful Rabelais!" he cries, just as Dante used to sigh: "My beautiful St. John!"

In the same city where M. Stapfer lectures upon literature, side by side with the exquisite poet and Latinist, M. Frédéric Plessis, in rich and laughing Bordeaux, I visited last year the crypt of SaintSeurin. The sacristan who accompanied me thither made me see how touching it was in its antiquity, and how its barbarism spoke to the heart. He added, "Sir, a great danger is threatening; it is richly endowed, and they are about to embellish it!"

That sacristan belongs to the school of M. Paul Stapfer, who is unwilling that Rabelais should be embellished by wonderful illustrations and fantastic commentaries. Naturally M. Stapfer, who had studied his author deeply, did not find therein all that was discovered by those who have scarcely

read him. For instance, he never saw that Rabelais had predicted the French Revolution. I shall not examine his book in detail, and I shall refrain from criticizing his criticism. To be truthful, I should find it rather awkward, as I have investigated Rabelais a great deal less than he has. God be thanked, I have pantagruelized like the rest of the world. Frère Jean is no stranger to me, and I owe him some happy hours. But M. Stapfer has lived for two years in the greatest intimacy with him, and it savours of impertinence to argue unprepared with such a complete Rabelaisian.

I acknowledge, however, that what strikes him most in Rabelais has never been very obvious to me. The author appears to him, above all, extremely light-hearted. He judges him as his contemporaries did, and it is probable that he is not mistaken. But I must confess that the incongruities of Pantagruel make me smile no more than do the gargoyles of the fourteenth century. Doubtless I am wrong, but it is better to confess it. I will be completely frank. What bores me in the curé of Meudon is that he always remained a monk, and a churchman; his jests are too innocent; they offend against sensuality, and this is their greatest fault.

As for morality, I acquit him; his books are those of an honest man, and I, with M. Stapfer, find therein a breezy robustness of humanity and benevolence. Yes, Rabelais was good; he had a natural detestation of "les hypocrites, les traîtres qui regardent par un pertuys, les cagots, escargots, matagots, hypocrites, caffars, empantouflés, papelards, chattemites, pattes pelues, et autres telles sectes de gens qui se sont desguisés comme masques pour tromper le monde."

D

"Flee from them," he said, "abhor and hate them as I do."

His free, laughing, open temperament held fanaticism and violence in abhorrence. Herein again he was an excellent man. Like the King's sister, the good Marguerite of Navarre, he never took the part of the executioners, while he avoided that of the martyrs. He maintained his opinions, but not up to the burning point, reckoning in advance of and with Montaigne, that to die for an idea is to put a very high value on one's opinions. Far from blaming him, I praise him. Martyrdom must be left to those who, not knowing how to doubt, have in their very simplicity the excuse for their pig-headedness. It seems presumptuous to get burnt for an opinion. Like the Serenus of M. Jules Lemaître, one is shocked that men should be so positive about things, when one has sought so long without finding, and when in the end one remains in doubt. Martyrs are lacking in irony; it is an unpardonable fault, for without irony the world would be like a forest without birds; irony is the gaiety of meditation and the joy of wisdom. What further? I charge the martyrs with fanaticism I suspect a kind of natural kinship between them and their executioners, and I fancy that, were they the stronger, they would take the place of the executioners. Doubtless I am wrong. Still, I am supported by history. It shows me Calvin between the faggots prepared for him, and those that he kindles; it shows me Henry Estienne, who was at great pains to escape the executioners of the Sorbonne, denouncing Rabelais as deserving the whole range of torments.

And why should Rabelais have surrendered