His sense of humor never deserted him. He died in the house of his publisher.
CHAPTER XIV
RABELAIS
Social upheavals make strange bed-fellows.
The name of Erasmus can be printed in a respectable book intended for the entire family. But to mention Rabelais in public is considered little short of a breach of good manners. Indeed, so dangerous is this fellow that laws have been passed in our country to keep his wicked works out of the hands of our innocent children and that in many states copies of his books can only be obtained from the more intrepid among our book-leggers.
This of course is merely one of the absurdities which have been forced upon us by the reign of terror of a flivver aristocracy.
In the first place, the works of Rabelais to the average citizen of the twentieth century are about as dull reading as “Tom Jones” or “The House of the Seven Gables.” Few people ever get beyond the first interminable chapter.
And in the second place, there is nothing intentionally suggestive in what he says. Rabelais used the common vocabulary of his time. That does not happen to be the common vernacular of our own day. But in the era of the bucolic blues, when ninety percent of the human race lived close to the soil, a spade was actually a spade and lady-dogs were not “lady-dogs.”
No, the current objections to the works of this distinguished surgeon go much deeper than a mere disapproval of his rich but somewhat outspoken collection of idioms. They are caused by the horror which many excellent people experience when they come face to face with the point of view of a man who point blank refuses to be defeated by life.
The human race, as far as I can make out, is divided into two sorts of people; those who say “yes” unto life and those who say “no.” The former accept it and courageously they endeavor to make the best of whatever bargain fate has handed out to them.