Rabelais.—­If the garb which it wore was not as mean, I am certain it was sometimes as dirty as mine.

Lucian.—­It was not always nicely clean; yet, in comparison with you, he was decent and elegant.  But whether there was not in your compositions more fire, and a more comic spirit, I will not determine.

Rabelais.—­If you will not determine it, e’en let it remain a matter in dispute, as I have left the great question, Whether Panurge should marry or not?  I would as soon undertake to measure the difference between the height and bulk of the giant Gargantua and his Brobdignagian Majesty, as the difference of merit between my writings and Swift’s.  If any man takes a fancy to like my book, let him freely enjoy the entertainment it gives him, and drink to my memory in a bumper.  If another likes Gulliver, let him toast Dr. Swift.  Were I upon earth I would pledge him in a bumper, supposing the wine to be good.  If a third likes neither of us, let him silently pass the bottle and be quiet.

Lucian.—­But what if he will not be quiet?  A critic is an unquiet creature.

Rabelais.—­Why, then he will disturb himself, not me.

Lucian.—­You are a greater philosopher than I thought you.  I knew you paid no respect to Popes or kings, but to pay none to critics is, in an author, a magnanimity beyond all example.

Rabelais.—­My life was a farce; my death was a farce; and would you have me make my book a serious affair?  As for you, though in general you are only a joker, yet sometimes you must be ranked among grave authors.  You have written sage and learned dissertations on history and other weighty matters.  The critics have therefore an undoubted right to maul you; they find you in their province.  But if any of them dare to come into mine, I will order Gargantua to swallow them up, as he did the six pilgrims, in the next salad he eats.

Lucian.—­Have I not heard that you wrote a very good serious book on the aphorisms of Hippocrates?

Rabelais.—­Upon my faith I had forgot it.  I am so used to my fool’s coat that I don’t know myself in my solemn doctor’s gown.  But your information was right; that book was indeed a very respectable work.  Yet nobody reads it; and if I had writ nothing else, I should have been reckoned, at best, a lackey to Hippocrates, whereas the historian of Panurge is an eminent writer.  Plain good sense, like a dish of solid beef or mutton, is proper only for peasants; but a ragout of folly, well dressed with a sharp sauce of wit, is fit to be served up at an emperor’s table.

Lucian.—­You are an admirable pleasant fellow.  Let me embrace you.  How Apollo and the Muses may rank you on Parnassus I am not very certain; but, if I were Master of the Ceremonies on Mount Olympus, you should be placed, with a full bowl of nectar before you, at the right hand of Momus.