And while others felt his pulse and looked at his tongue, they all
wrote prescriptions for him like men mad. "For thy eating," cried

he that seemed to be their leader, "No soup!" "No soup!" quoth
Brother John; and those cheeks of his, whereat you might have warmed

your two hands in the winter solstice, grew white as lilies. "Nay!
and no salmon, nor any beef nor mutton! A little chicken by times,

pericolo tuo! Nor any game, such as grouse, partridge, pheasant,
capercailzie, wild duck; nor any cheese, nor fruit, nor pastry, nor

coffee, nor eau de vie; and avoid all sweets. No veal, pork, nor
made dishes of any kind." "Then what may I eat?" quoth the good

Brother, whose valour had oozed out of the soles of his sandals. "A
little cold bacon at breakfast--no eggs," quoth the leader of the

strange folk, "and a slice of toast without butter." "And for thy
drink"--("What?" gasped Brother John)--"one dessert-spoonful of

whisky, with a pint of the water of Apollinaris at luncheon and
dinner. No more!" At this Brother John fainted, falling like a

great buttress of a hill, such as Taygetus or Erymanthus.
While they were busy with him, others of the frantic folk had built

great platforms of wood, whereon they all stood and spoke at once,
both men and women. And of these some wore red crosses on their

garments, which meaneth "Salvation;" and others wore white crosses,
with a little black button of crape, to signify "Purity;" and others

bits of blue to mean "Abstinence." While some of these pursued
Panurge others did beset Pantagruel; asking him very long questions,

whereunto he gave but short answers. Thus they asked:-
Have ye Local Option here?--Pan.: What?

May one man drink if his neighbour be not athirst?--Pan.: Yea!
Have ye Free Education?--Pan.: What?

Must they that have, pay to school them that have not?--Pan.: Nay!
Have ye free land?--Pan.: What?

Have ye taken the land from the farmer, and given it to the tailor
out of work and the candlemaker masterless?--Pan.: Nay!

Have your women folk votes?--Pan.: Bosh!
Have ye got religion?--Pan.: How?

Do you go about the streets at night, brawling, blowing a trumpet
before you, and making long prayers?--Pan.: Nay!

Have you manhood suffrage?--Pan.: Eh?
Is Jack as good as his master?--Pan.: Nay!

Have you joined the Arbitration Society?--Pan.: Quoy?
Will you let another kick you, and will you ask his neighbour if you

deserve the same?--Pan.: Nay!
Do you eat what you list?--Pan.: Ay!

Do you drink when you are athirst?--Pan.: Ay!
Are you governed by the free expression of the popular will?--Pan.:

How?
Are you servants of priests, pulpits, and penny papers?--Pan.: NO!

Now, when they heard these answers of Pantagruel they all fell, some
a weeping, some a praying, some a swearing, some an arbitrating,

some a lecturing, some a caucussing, some a preaching, some a faith-
healing, some a miracle-working, some a hypnotising, some a writing

to the daily press; and while they were thus busy, like folk
distraught, "reforming the island," Pantagruel burst out a laughing;

whereat they were greatly dismayed; for laughter killeth the whole
race of Coqcigrues, and they may not endure it.

Then Pantagruel and his company stole aboard a barque that Panurge
had ready in the harbour. And having provisioned her well with

store of meat and good drink, they set sail for the kingdom of
Entelechy, where, having landed, they were kindly entreated; and

there abide to this day; drinking of the sweet and eating of the
fat, under the protection of that intellectualsphere which hath in

all places its centre and nowhere its circumference.
Such was their destiny; there was their end appointed, and thither

the Coqcigrues can never come. For all the air of that land is full
of laughter, which killeth Coqcigrues; and there aboundeth the herb

Pantagruelion. But for thee, Master Francoys, thou art not well
liked in this island of ours, where the Coqcigrues are abundant,

very fierce, cruel, and tyrannical. Yet thou hast thy friends, that
meet and drink to thee, and wish thee well wheresoever thou hast

found thy grand peut-etre.
LETTER--To Jane Austen

Madam,--If to the enjoyments of your present state be lacking a view
of the minor infirmities or foibles of men, I cannot but think (were

the thought permitted) that your pleasures are yet incomplete.
Moreover, it is certain that a woman of parts who has once meddled

with literature will never wholly lose her love for the discussion
of that delicious topic, nor cease to relish what (in the cant of

our new age) is styled "literary shop." For these reasons I attempt
to convey to you some inkling of the present state of that agreeable

art which you, madam, raised to its highest pitch of perfection.
As to your own works (immortal, as I believe), I have but little

that is wholly cheering to tell one who, among women of letters, was
almost alone in her freedom from a lettered vanity. You are not a

very popular author: your volumes are not found in gaudy covers on
every bookstall; or, if found, are not perused with avidity by the

Emmas and Catherines of our generation. 'Tis not long since a blow
was dealt (in the estimation of the unreasoning) at your character

as an author by the publication of your familiar letters. The
editor of these epistles, unfortunately, did not always take your

witticisms, and he added others which were too unmistakably his own.
While the injudicious were disappointed by the absence of your

exquisite style and humour, the wiser sort were the more convinced
of your wisdom. In your letters (knowing your correspondents) you

gave but the small personal talk of the hour, for them sufficient;
for your books you reserved matter and expression which are

imperishable. Your admirers, if not very numerous, include all
persons of taste, who, in your favour, are apt somewhat to abate the

rule, or shake off the habit, which commonly confines them to but
temperate laudation.

'Tis the fault of all art to seem antiquated and faded in the eyes
of the succeeding generation. The manners of your age were not the

manners of to-day, and young gentlemen and ladies who think Scott
"slow," think Miss Austen "prim" and "dreary." Yet, even could you

return among us, I scarcely believe that, speaking the language of
the hour, as you might, and versed in its habits, you would win the

general admiration. For how tame, madam, are your characters,
especially your favourite heroines! how limited the life which you

knew and described! how narrow the range of your incidents! how
correct your grammar!

As heroines, for example, you chose ladies like Emma, and Elizabeth,
and Catherine: women remarkable neither for the brilliance nor for

the degradation of their birth; women wrapped up in their own and
the parish's concerns, ignorant of evil, as it seems, and

unacquainted with vain yearnings and interesting doubts. Who can
engage his fancy with their match-makings and the conduct of their

affections, when so many daring and dazzling heroines approach and
solicit his regard?

Here are princesses dressed in white velvet stamped with golden
fleurs-de-lys --ladies with hearts of ice and lips of fire, who

count their roubles by the million, their lovers by the score, and
even their husbands, very often, in figures of some arithmetical

importance. With these are the immaculate daughters of itinerant
Italian musicians--maids whose souls are unsoiled amidst the

contaminations of our streets, and whose acquaintance with the art
of Phidias and Praxiteles, of Daedalus and Scopas, is the more

admirable, because entirely derived from loving study of the
inexpensive collections vended by the plaster-of-Paris man round the

corner. When such heroines are wooed by the nephews of Dukes, where
are your Emmas and Elizabeths? Your volumes neither excite nor

satisfy the curiosities provoked by that modern and scientific
fiction, which is greatly admired, I learn, in the United States, as

well as in France and at home.
You erred, it cannot be denied, with your eyes open. Knowing Lydia

and Kitty so intimately as you did, why did you make of them almost
insignificant characters? With Lydia for a heroine you might have

gone far; and, had you devoted three volumes, and the chief of your
time, to the passions of Kitty, you might have held your own, even