What needs to be said is that Belloc is an authentic child gotten of Rabelais.  I can never forget a lecture I heard him give in the famous Examination Schools at Oxford—­that noble building consecrated to human suffering, formerly housing the pangs of students and now by sad necessity a military hospital.  Ruddy of cheek, a burly figure in his academic gown, without a scrap of notes and armed only with an old volume of Rabelais in the medieval French, he held us spellbound for an hour and a half—­or was it three hours?—­with flashing extempore talk about this greatest figure of the Renaissance.

Rabelais, he told us, was the symbolic figure of the incoming tide of Europe’s rebirth in the sixteenth century.  Rabelais, the priest, physician, and compounder of a new fish sauce, held that life is its own justification, and need not be lived in doleful self-abasement.  Do what you wish, enjoy life, be interested in a thousand things, feel a perpetual inquisitive delight in all the details of human affairs! The gospel of exuberance—­that is Rabelais.  Is it not Belloc, too?

Rabelais came from Touraine—­the heart of Gaul, the island of light in which the tradition of civilization remained unbroken.  One understands Rabelais better if one knows the Chinon wine, Belloc added.  His writing is married to the soil and landscape from which he sprang.  His extraordinary volatility proceeds from a mind packed full of curiosity and speculation.  For an instance of his exuberance see his famous list of fools, in which all fools whatsoever that ever walked on earth are included.

Now no one who loves Belloc can paddle in Rabelais without seeing that he, too, was sired from Chinon.  Dip into Gargantua:  there you will find the oinolatrous and gastrolatrous catalogues that Belloc daily delights in; the infectious droll patter of speech, piling quip on quip.  Then look again into “The Path to Rome.”  How well does Mr. John Macy tell us “literature is not born spontaneously out of life.  Every book has its literary parentage, and criticism reads like an Old Testament chapter of ‘begats.’  Every novel was suckled at the breasts of older novels.”

III

In Belloc we find the perfect union of the French and English minds.  Rabelaisian in fecundity, wit, and irrepressible sparkle, he is also of English blood and sinew, wedded to the sweet Sussex weald.  History, politics, economics, military topography, poetry, novels, satires, nonsense rhymes—­all these we may set aside as the hundred curiosities of an eager mind. (The dons, by the way, say that in his historical work he generalizes too hastily; but was ever history more crisply written?) It is in the essays, the thousand little inquirendoes into the nature of anything, everything or nothing, that one comes closest to the real man.  His prose leaps and sparks from the pen.  It is whimsical, tender, biting, garrulous.  It is familiar and unfettered as open-air talk.  His passion for places—­roads, rivers, hills, and inns; his dancing persiflage and buoyancy; his Borrovian love of vagabondage—­these are the glories of a style that is quick, close-knit, virile, and vibrant.  Here Belloc ranks with Bunyan, Swift, and Defoe.