Droll Stories, vol 3 | Page 4

youthful demon
named cuckoldom in the language of the Celts. I say health, because
this book incites that which was prescribed by the Church of Salerno,
for the avoidance of cerebral plethora. Can you derive a like proof in
any other typographically blackened portfolios? Ha! ha! where are the
books that make children? Think! Nowhere. But you will find a glut of
children making books which beget nothing but weariness.
But to continue. Now be it known that when ladies, of a virtuous nature
and a talkative turn of mind, converse publicly on the subject of these
volumes, a great number of them, far from reprimanding the author,
confess that they like him very much, esteem him a valiant man,
worthy to be a monk in the Abbey of Theleme. For as many reasons as
there are stars in the heavens, he does not drop the style which he has
adopted in these said tales, but lets himself be vituperated, and keeps
steadily on his way, because noble France is a woman who refuses to
yield, crying, twisting about, and saying,
"No, no, never! Oh, sir, what are you going to do? I won't let you; you'd
rumple me."
And when the volume is done and finished, all smiles, she exclaims,
"Oh, master, are there any more to come?"
You may take it for granted that the author is a merry fellow, who
troubles himself little about the cries, tears and tricks of the lady you
call glory, fashion, or public favour, for he knows her to be a wanton
who would put up with any violence. He knows that in France her
war-cry is, Mount Joy! A fine cry indeed, but one which certain writers
have disfigured, and which signifies, "Joy it is not of the earth, it is
there; seize it, otherwise good-bye." The author has this interpretation
from Rabelais, who told it to him. If you search history, has France
ever breathed a word when she was joyous mounted, bravely mounted,
passionately mounted, mounted and out of breath? She goes furiously
at everything, and likes this exercise better than drinking. Now, do you
not see that these volumes are French, joyfully French, wildly French,
French before, French behind, French to the backbone. Back then, curs!

strike up the music; silence, bigots! advance my merry wags, my little
pages, put your soft hands into the ladies' hands and tickle them in the
middle--of the hand of course. Ha! ha! these are high sounding and
peripatetic reasons, or the author knows nothing of sound and the
philosophy of Aristotle. He has on his side the crown of France and the
oriflamme of the king and Monsieur St. Denis, who, having lost his
head, said "Mount-my-Joy!" Do you mean to say, you quadrupeds, that
the word is wrong? No. It was certainly heard by a great many people
at the time; but in these days of deep wretchedness you believe nothing
concerning the good old saints.
The author has not finished yet. Know all ye who read these tales with
eye and hand, feel them in the head alone, and love them for the joy
they bring you, and which goes to your heart, know that the author
having in an evil hour let his ideas, /id est/, his inheritance, go astray,
and being unable to get them together again, found himself in a state of
mental nudity. Then he cried like the woodcutter in the prologue of the
book of his dear master Rabelais, in order to make himself heard by the
gentleman on high, Lord Paramount of all things, and obtain from Him
fresh ideas. This said Most High, still busy with the congress of the
time, threw to him through Mercury an inkstand with two cups, on
which was engraved, after the manner of a motto, these three letters,
/Ave/. Then the poor fellow, perceiving no other help, took great care
to turn over this said inkstand to find out the hidden meaning of it,
thinking over the mysterious words and trying to find a key to them.
First, he saw that God was polite, like the great Lord as He is, because
the world is His, and He holds the title of it from no one. But since, in
thinking over the days of his youth, he remembered no great service
rendered to God, the author was in doubt concerning this hollow
civility, and pondered long without finding out the real substance of the
celestial utensil. By reason of turning it and twisting it about, studying
it, looking at it, feeling it, emptying it, knocking it in an interrogatory
manner, smacking it down, standing it up straight, standing it on one
side, and turning it upside down, he read backwards /Eva/. Who is
/Eva/, if not all