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Title: Gargantua and Pantagruel

Author: François Rabelais

Illustrator: Gustave Doré

Translator: Peter Anthony Motteux
Sir Thomas Urquhart

Release date: August 8, 2004 [eBook #1200]
Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1200

Credits: Produced by Sue Asscher and David Widger

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

The original Project Gutenberg edition of this ebook was a
text file
prepared by Sue Asscher in 1998, from:

"MASTER FRANCIS RABELAIS FIVE BOOKS OF THE
LIVES, HEROIC
DEEDS AND SAYINGS OF GARGANTUA AND HIS
SON PANTAGRUEL",
Translated into English by Sir Thomas Urquhart of Cromarty
and Peter Antony Motteux.

The publisher's name and location were not included.

Sue Asscher added the following information regarding the
printed book
she scanned:

"The text of the first Two Books of Rabelais has been
reprinted from the
first edition (1653) of Urquhart's translation. Footnotes
initialled
'M.' are drawn from the Maitland Club edition (1838); other
footnotes
are by the translator. Urquhart's translation of Book III.
appeared
posthumously in 1693, with a new edition of Books I. and
II., under
Motteux's editorship. Motteux's rendering of Books IV. and
V. followed
in 1708. Occasionally (as the footnotes indicate) passages
omitted by
Motteux have been restored from the 1738 copy edited by
Ozell."

In 2013 images obtained from Google Books were added by
David Widger in
the production of the present HTML file:

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id=Lvz_fCWaJf4C&printsec=frontcover&dq=inauthor:Rabe
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GARGANTUA
AND PANTAGRUEL ***

GARGANTUA AND HIS SON
PANTAGRUEL
Produced by Sue Asscher and David Widger TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
The original Project Gutenberg edition of this ebook was a text file prepared
by Sue Asscher in 1998, from: "MASTER FRANCIS RABELAIS FIVE
BOOKS OF THE LIVES, HEROIC DEEDS AND SAYINGS OF
GARGANTUA AND HIS SON PANTAGRUEL", Translated into English
by Sir Thomas Urquhart of Cromarty and Peter Antony Motteux. The
publisher's name and location were not included. Sue Asscher added the
following information regarding the printed book she scanned: "The text of
the first Two Books of Rabelais has been reprinted from the first edition
(1653) of Urquhart's translation. Footnotes initialled 'M.' are drawn from the
Maitland Club edition (1838); other footnotes are by the translator.
Urquhart's translation of Book III. appeared posthumously in 1693, with a

new edition of Books I. and II., under Motteux's editorship. Motteux's
rendering of Books IV. and V. followed in 1708. Occasionally (as the
footnotes indicate) passages omitted by Motteux have been restored from
the 1738 copy edited by Ozell." In 2013 images obtained from Google
Books were added by David Widger in the production of the present HTML
file: https://books.google.com/books?
id=Lvz_fCWaJf4C&printsec=frontcover&dq=inauthor:Rabelais&hl=en&sa
=X&ved=0ahUKEwjZoZizjJPeAhWLzFMKHVPSDqc4ChDoAQg0MAI#
v=onepage&q&f=false This ebook and many of the Project Gutenberg
ebooks are not taken from a single paper edition as noticed in the standard
legalize near the end of each Project Gutenberg Ebook. "Project Gutenberg-
tm eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are
confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright
notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance
with any particular paper edition." DW

MASTER FRANCIS RABELAIS

FIVE BOOKS OF THE LIVES,

HEROIC DEEDS AND SAYINGS OF

GARGANTUA AND HIS SON
PANTAGRUEL

BOOK I.

Translated into English by
Sir Thomas Urquhart of Cromarty
and
Peter Antony Motteux

The text of the first Two Books of Rabelais has been
reprinted from the first edition (1653) of Urquhart’s
translation. Footnotes initialled ‘M.’ are drawn from the
Maitland Club edition (1838); other footnotes are by the
translator. Urquhart’s translation of Book III. appeared
posthumously in 1693, with a new edition of Books I. and II.,
under Motteux’s editorship. Motteux’s rendering of Books IV.
and V. followed in 1708. Occasionally (as the footnotes
indicate) passages omitted by Motteux have been restored
from the 1738 copy edited by Ozell.

CONTENTS.
Introduction.
FRANCIS RABELAIS.
Chapter 1.I.—Of the Genealogy and Antiquity of Gargantua.
Chapter 1.II.—-The Antidoted Fanfreluches: or, a Galimatia of
extravagant Conceits found in an ancient Monument.
Chapter 1.III.—How Gargantua was carried eleven months in his
mother’s belly.
Chapter 1.IV.—-How Gargamelle, being great with Gargantua,
did eat a huge deal of tripes.
Chapter 1.V.—The Discourse of the Drinkers.
Chapter 1.VI.—How Gargantua was born in a strange manner.
Chapter 1.VII.—After what manner Gargantua had his name
given him, and how he tippled, bibbed, and curried the can.
Chapter 1.VIII.—How they apparelled Gargantua.
Chapter 1.IX.—The colours and liveries of Gargantua.
Chapter 1.X.—Of that which is signified by the colours white and
blue.
Chapter 1.XI.—Of the youthful age of Gargantua.
Chapter 1.XII.—Of Gargantua’s wooden horses.
Chapter 1.XIII.—How Gargantua’s wonderful understanding
became known to his father Grangousier, by the invention of a
torchecul or wipebreech.

Chapter 1.XIV.—How Gargantua was taught Latin by a
Sophister.
Chapter 1.XV.—How Gargantua was put under other
schoolmasters.
Chapter 1.XVI.—How Gargantua was sent to Paris, and of the
huge great mare that he rode on; how she destroyed the oxflies of
the Beauce.
Chapter 1.XVII.—How Gargantua paid his welcome to the
Parisians, and how he took away the great bells of Our Lady’s
Church.
Chapter 1.XVIII.—How Janotus de Bragmardo was sent to
Gargantua to recover the great bells.
Chapter 1.XIX.—The oration of Master Janotus de Bragmardo
for recovery of the bells.
Chapter 1.XX.—How the Sophister carried away his cloth, and
how he had a suit in law against the other masters.
Chapter 1.XXI.—The study of Gargantua, according to the
discipline of his schoolmasters the Sophisters.
Chapter 1.XXII.—The games of Gargantua.
Chapter 1.XXIII.—How Gargantua was instructed by Ponocrates,
and in such sort disciplinated, that he lost not one hour of the day.
Chapter 1.XXIV.—How Gargantua spent his time in rainy
weather.
Chapter 1.XXV.—How there was great strife and debate raised
betwixt the cake-bakers of Lerne, and those of Gargantua’s country,
whereupon were waged great wars.
Chapter 1.XXVI.—How the inhabitants of Lerne, by the
commandment of Picrochole their king, assaulted the shepherds of
Gargantua unexpectedly and on a sudden.

Chapter 1.XXVII.—How a monk of Seville saved the close of the
abbey from being ransacked by the enemy.
Chapter 1.XXVIII.—How Picrochole stormed and took by assault
the rock Clermond, and of Grangousier’s unwillingness and
aversion from the undertaking of war.
Chapter 1.XXIX.—The tenour of the letter which Grangousier
wrote to his son Gargantua.
Chapter 1.XXX.—How Ulric Gallet was sent unto Picrochole.
Chapter 1.XXXI.—The speech made by Gallet to Picrochole.
Chapter 1.XXXII.—How Grangousier, to buy peace, caused the
cakes to be restored.
Chapter 1.XXXIII.—How some statesmen of Picrochole, by
hairbrained counsel, put him in extreme danger.
Chapter 1.XXXIV.—How Gargantua left the city of Paris to
succour his country, and how Gymnast encountered with the enemy.
Chapter 1.XXXV.—How Gymnast very souply and cunningly
killed Captain Tripet and others of Picrochole’s men.
Chapter 1.XXXVI.—How Gargantua demolished the castle at the
ford of Vede, and how they passed the ford.
Chapter 1.XXXVII.—How Gargantua, in combing his head,
made the great cannon-balls fall out of his hair.
Chapter 1.XXXVIII.—How Gargantua did eat up six pilgrims in
a salad.
Chapter 1.XXXIX.—How the Monk was feasted by Gargantua,
and of the jovial discourse they had at supper.
Chapter 1.XL.—Why monks are the outcasts of the world; and
wherefore some have bigger noses than others.

Chapter 1.XLI.—How the Monk made Gargantua sleep, and of
his hours and breviaries.
Chapter 1.XLII.—How the Monk encouraged his fellow-
champions, and how he hanged upon a tree.
Chapter 1.XLIII.—How the scouts and fore-party of Picrochole
were met with by Gargantua, and how the Monk slew Captain
Drawforth (Tirevant.), and then was taken prisoner by his enemies.
Chapter 1.XLIV.—How the Monk rid himself of his keepers, and
how Picrochole’s forlorn hope was defeated.
Chapter 1.XLV.—How the Monk carried along with him the
Pilgrims, and of the good words that Grangousier gave them.
Chapter 1.XLVI.—How Grangousier did very kindly entertain
Touchfaucet his prisoner.
Chapter 1.XLVII.—How Grangousier sent for his legions, and
how Touchfaucet slew Rashcalf, and was afterwards executed by the
command of Picrochole.
Chapter 1.XLVIII.—How Gargantua set upon Picrochole within
the rock Clermond, and utterly defeated the army of the said
Picrochole.
Chapter 1.XLIX.—How Picrochole in his flight fell into great
misfortunes, and what Gargantua did after the battle.
Chapter 1.L.—Gargantua’s speech to the vanquished.
Chapter 1.LI.—How the victorious Gargantuists were
recompensed after the battle.
Chapter 1.LII.—How Gargantua caused to be built for the Monk
the Abbey of Theleme.
Chapter 1.LIII.—How the abbey of the Thelemites was built and
endowed.

Chapter 1.LIV.—The inscription set upon the great gate of
Theleme.
Chapter 1.LV.—What manner of dwelling the Thelemites had.
Chapter 1.LVI.—How the men and women of the religious order
of Theleme were apparelled.
Chapter 1.LVII.—How the Thelemites were governed, and of
their manner of living.
Chapter 1.LVIII.—A prophetical Riddle.

BOOK II.

Chapter 2.I.—Of the original and antiquity of the great
Pantagruel.
Chapter 2.II.—Of the nativity of the most dread and redoubted
Pantagruel.
Chapter 2.III.—Of the grief wherewith Gargantua was moved at
the decease of his wife Badebec.
Chapter 2.IV.—Of the infancy of Pantagruel.
Chapter 2.V.—Of the acts of the noble Pantagruel in his youthful
age.
Chapter 2.VI.—How Pantagruel met with a Limousin, who too
affectedly did counterfeit the French language.
Chapter 2.VII.—How Pantagruel came to Paris, and of the choice
books of the Library of St. Victor.
Chapter 2.VIII.—How Pantagruel, being at Paris, received letters
from his father Gargantua, and the copy of them.
Chapter 2.IX.—How Pantagruel found Panurge, whom he loved
all his lifetime.

Chapter 2.X.—How Pantagruel judged so equitably of a
controversy, which was wonderfully obscure and difficult, that, by
reason of his just decree therein, he was reputed to have a most
admirable judgment.
Chapter 2.XI.—How the Lords of Kissbreech and Suckfist did
plead before Pantagruel without and attorney.
Chapter 2.XII.—How the Lord of Suckfist pleaded before
Pantagruel.
Chapter 2.XIII.—How Pantagruel gave judgment upon the
difference of the two lords.
Chapter 2.XIV.—How Panurge related the manner how he
escaped out of the hands of the Turks.
Chapter 2.XV.—How Panurge showed a very new way to build
the walls of Paris.
Chapter 2.XVI.—Of the qualities and conditions of Panurge.
Chapter 2.XVII.—How Panurge gained the pardons, and married
the old women, and of the suit in law which he had at Paris.
Chapter 2.XVIII.—How a great scholar of England would have
argued against Pantagruel, and was overcome by Panurge.
Chapter 2.XIX.—How Panurge put to a nonplus the Englishman
that argued by signs.
Chapter 2.XX.—How Thaumast relateth the virtues and
knowledge of Panurge.
Chapter 2.XXI.—How Panurge was in love with a lady of Paris.
Chapter 2.XXII.—How Panurge served a Parisian lady a trick
that pleased her not very well.
Chapter 2.XXIII.—How Pantagruel departed from Paris, hearing
news that the Dipsodes had invaded the land of the Amaurots; and
the cause wherefore the leagues are so short in France.

Chapter 2.XXIV.—A letter which a messenger brought to
Pantagruel from a lady of Paris, together with the exposition of a
posy written in a gold ring.
Chapter 2.XXV.—How Panurge, Carpalin, Eusthenes, and
Epistemon, the gentlemen attendants of Pantagruel, vanquished and
discomfited six hundred and threescore horsemen very cunningly.
Chapter 2.XXVI.—How Pantagruel and his company were weary
in eating still salt meats; and how Carpalin went a-hunting to have
some venison.
Chapter 2.XXVII.—How Pantagruel set up one trophy in
memorial of their valour, and Panurge another in remembrance of
the hares. How Pantagruel likewise with his farts begat little men,
and with his fisgs little women; and how Panurge broke a great staff
over two glasses.
Chapter 2.XXVIII.—How Pantagruel got the victory very
strangely over the Dipsodes and the Giants.
Chapter 2.XXIX.—How Pantagruel discomfited the three
hundred giants armed with free-stone, and Loupgarou their captain.
Chapter 2.XXX.—How Epistemon, who had his head cut off, was
finely healed by Panurge, and of the news which he brought from
the devils, and of the damned people in hell.
Chapter 2.XXXI.—How Pantagruel entered into the city of the
Amaurots, and how Panurge married King Anarchus to an old
lantern-carrying hag, and made him a crier of green sauce.
Chapter 2.XXXII.—How Pantagruel with his tongue covered a
whole army, and what the author saw in his mouth.
Chapter 2.XXXIII.—How Pantagruel became sick, and the
manner how he was recovered.
Chapter 2.XXXIV.—The conclusion of this present book, and the
excuse of the author.

BOOK III.

Chapter 3.I.—How Pantagruel transported a colony of Utopians
into Dipsody.
Chapter 3.II.—How Panurge was made Laird of Salmigondin in
Dipsody, and did waste his revenue before it came in.
Chapter 3.III.—How Panurge praiseth the debtors and borrowers.
Chapter 3.IV.—Panurge continueth his discourse in the praise of
borrowers and lenders.
Chapter 3.V.—How Pantagruel altogether abhorreth the debtors
and borrowers.
Chapter 3.VI.—Why new married men were privileged from
going to the wars.
Chapter 3.VII.—How Panurge had a flea in his ear, and forbore to
wear any longer his magnificent codpiece.
Chapter 3.VIII.—Why the codpiece is held to be the chief piece
of armour amongst warriors.
Chapter 3.IX.—How Panurge asketh counsel of Pantagruel
whether he should marry, yea, or no.
Chapter 3.X.—How Pantagruel representeth unto Panurge the
difficulty of giving advice in the matter of marriage; and to that
purpose mentioneth somewhat of the Homeric and Virgilian
lotteries.
Chapter 3.XI.—How Pantagruel showeth the trial of one’s fortune
by the throwing of dice to be unlawful.
Chapter 3.XII.—How Pantagruel doth explore by the Virgilian
lottery what fortune Panurge shall have in his marriage.
Chapter 3.XIII.—How Pantagruel adviseth Panurge to try the
future good or bad luck of his marriage by dreams.

Chapter 3.XIV.—Panurge’s dream, with the interpretation thereof.
Chapter 3.XV.—Panurge’s excuse and exposition of the monastic
mystery concerning powdered beef.
Chapter 3.XVI.—How Pantagruel adviseth Panurge to consult
with the Sibyl of Panzoust.
Chapter 3.XVII.—How Panurge spoke to the Sibyl of Panzoust.
Chapter 3.XVIII.—How Pantagruel and Panurge did diversely
expound the verses of the Sibyl of Panzoust.
Chapter 3.XIX.—How Pantagruel praiseth the counsel of dumb
men.
Chapter 3.XX.—How Goatsnose by signs maketh answer to
Panurge.
Chapter 3.XXI.—How Panurge consulteth with an old French
poet, named Raminagrobis.
Chapter 3.XXII.—How Panurge patrocinates and defendeth the
Order of the Begging Friars.
Chapter 3.XXIII.—How Panurge maketh the motion of a return
to Raminagrobis.
Chapter 3.XXIV.—How Panurge consulteth with Epistemon.
Chapter 3.XXV.—How Panurge consulteth with Herr Trippa.
Chapter 3.XXVI.—How Panurge consulteth with Friar John of
the Funnels.
Chapter 3.XXVII.—How Friar John merrily and sportingly
counselleth Panurge.
Chapter 3.XXVIII.—How Friar John comforteth Panurge in the
doubtful matter of cuckoldry.

Chapter 3.XXIX.—How Pantagruel convocated together a
theologian, physician, lawyer, and philosopher, for extricating
Panurge out of the perplexity wherein he was.
Chapter 3.XXX.—How the theologue, Hippothadee, giveth
counsel to Panurge in the matter and business of his nuptial
enterprise.
Chapter 3.XXXI.—How the physician Rondibilis counselleth
Panurge.
Chapter 3.XXXII.—How Rondibilis declareth cuckoldry to be
naturally one of the appendances of marriage.
Chapter 3.XXXIII.—Rondibilis the physician’s cure of cuckoldry.
Chapter 3.XXXIV.—How women ordinarily have the greatest
longing after things prohibited.
Chapter 3.XXXV.—How the philosopher Trouillogan handleth
the difficulty of marriage.
Chapter 3.XXXVI.—A continuation of the answer of the
Ephectic and Pyrrhonian philosopher Trouillogan.
Chapter 3.XXXVII.—How Pantagruel persuaded Panurge to take
counsel of a fool.
Chapter 3.XXXVIII.—How Triboulet is set forth and blazed by
Pantagruel and Panurge.
Chapter 3.XXXIX.—How Pantagruel was present at the trial of
Judge Bridlegoose, who decided causes and controversies in law by
the chance and fortune of the dice.
Chapter 3.XL.—How Bridlegoose giveth reasons why he looked
upon those law-actions which he decided by the chance of the dice.
Chapter 3.XLI.—How Bridlegoose relateth the history of the
reconcilers of parties at variance in matters of law.

Chapter 3.XLII.—How suits at law are bred at first, and how they
come afterwards to their perfect growth.
Chapter 3.XLIII.—How Pantagruel excuseth Bridlegoose in the
matter of sentencing actions at law by the chance of the dice.
Chapter 3.XLIV.—How Pantagruel relateth a strange history of
the perplexity of human judgment.
Chapter 3.XLV.—How Panurge taketh advice of Triboulet.
Chapter 3.XLVI.—How Pantagruel and Panurge diversely
interpret the words of Triboulet.
Chapter 3.XLVII.—How Pantagruel and Panurge resolved to
make a visit to the oracle of the holy bottle.
Chapter 3.XLVIII.—How Gargantua showeth that the children
ought not to marry without the special knowledge and advice of
their fathers and mothers.
Chapter 3.XLIX.—How Pantagruel did put himself in a readiness
to go to sea; and of the herb named Pantagruelion.
Chapter 3.L.—How the famous Pantagruelion ought to be
prepared and wrought.
Chapter 3.LI.—Why it is called Pantagruelion, and of the
admirable virtues thereof.
Chapter 3.LII.—How a certain kind of Pantagruelion is of that
nature that the fire is not able to consume it.

BOOK IV.

Chapter 4.I.—How Pantagruel went to sea to visit the oracle of
Bacbuc, alias the Holy Bottle.
Chapter 4.II.—How Pantagruel bought many rarities in the island
of Medamothy.

Chapter 4.III.—How Pantagruel received a letter from his father
Gargantua, and of the strange way to have speedy news from far
distant places.
Chapter 4.IV.—How Pantagruel writ to his father Gargantua, and
sent him several curiosities.
Chapter 4.V.—How Pantagruel met a ship with passengers
returning from Lanternland.
Chapter 4.VI.—How, the fray being over, Panurge cheapened one
of Dingdong’s sheep.
Chapter 4.VII.—Which if you read you’ll find how Panurge
bargained with Dingdong.
Chapter 4.VIII.—How Panurge caused Dingdong and his sheep to
be drowned in the sea.
Chapter 4.IX.—How Pantagruel arrived at the island of Ennasin,
and of the strange ways of being akin in that country.
Chapter 4.X.—How Pantagruel went ashore at the island of
Chely, where he saw King St. Panigon.
Chapter 4.XI.—Why monks love to be in kitchens.
Chapter 4.XII.—How Pantagruel passed by the land of
Pettifogging, and of the strange way of living among the
Catchpoles.
Chapter 4.XIII.—How, like Master Francis Villon, the Lord of
Basche commended his servants.
Chapter 4.XIV.—A further account of catchpoles who were
drubbed at Basche’s house.
Chapter 4.XV.—How the ancient custom at nuptials is renewed
by the catchpole.
Chapter 4.XVI.—How Friar John made trial of the nature of the
catchpoles.

Chapter 4.XVII.—How Pantagruel came to the islands of Tohu
and Bohu; and of the strange death of Wide-nostrils, the swallower
of windmills.
Chapter 4.XVIII.—How Pantagruel met with a great storm at sea.
Chapter 4.XIX.—What countenances Panurge and Friar John
kept during the storm.
Chapter 4.XX.—How the pilots were forsaking their ships in the
greatest stress of weather.
Chapter 4.XXI.—A continuation of the storm, with a short
discourse on the subject of making testaments at sea.
Chapter 4.XXII.—An end of the storm.
Chapter 4.XXIII.—How Panurge played the good fellow when
the storm was over.
Chapter 4.XXIV.—How Panurge was said to have been afraid
without reason during the storm.
Chapter 4.XXV.—How, after the storm, Pantagruel went on shore
in the islands of the Macreons.
Chapter 4.XXVI.—How the good Macrobius gave us an account
of the mansion and decease of the heroes.
Chapter 4.XXVII.—Pantagruel’s discourse of the decease of
heroic souls; and of the dreadful prodigies that happened before the
death of the late Lord de Langey.
Chapter 4.XXVIII.—How Pantagruel related a very sad story of
the death of the heroes.
Chapter 4.XXIX.—How Pantagruel sailed by the Sneaking
Island, where Shrovetide reigned.
Chapter 4.XXX.—How Shrovetide is anatomized and described
by Xenomanes.

Chapter 4.XXXI.—Shrovetide’s outward parts anatomized.
Chapter 4.XXXII.—A continuation of Shrovetide’s countenance.
Chapter 4.XXXIII.—How Pantagruel discovered a monstrous
physeter, or whirlpool, near the Wild Island.
Chapter 4.XXXIV.—How the monstrous physeter was slain by
Pantagruel.
Chapter 4.XXXV.—How Pantagruel went on shore in the Wild
Island, the ancient abode of the Chitterlings.
Chapter 4.XXXVI.—How the wild Chitterlings laid an
ambuscado for Pantagruel.
Chapter 4.XXXVII.—How Pantagruel sent for Colonel Maul-
chitterling and Colonel Cut-pudding; with a discourse well worth
your hearing about the names of places and persons.
Chapter 4.XXXVIII.—How Chitterlings are not to be slighted by
men.
Chapter 4.XXXIX.—How Friar John joined with the cooks to
fight the Chitterlings.
Chapter 4.XL.—How Friar John fitted up the sow; and of the
valiant cooks that went into it.
Chapter 4.XLI.—How Pantagruel broke the Chitterlings at the
knees.
Chapter 4.XLII.—How Pantagruel held a treaty with Niphleseth,
Queen of the Chitterlings.
Chapter 4.XLIII.—How Pantagruel went into the island of Ruach.
Chapter 4.XLIV.—How small rain lays a high wind.
Chapter 4.XLV.—How Pantagruel went ashore in the island of
Pope-Figland.

Chapter 4.XLVI.—How a junior devil was fooled by a
husbandman of Pope-Figland.
Chapter 4.XLVII.—How the devil was deceived by an old
woman of Pope-Figland.
Chapter 4.XLVIII.—How Pantagruel went ashore at the island of
Papimany.
Chapter 4.XLIX.—How Homenas, Bishop of Papimany, showed
us the Uranopet decretals.
Chapter 4.L.—How Homenas showed us the archetype, or
representation of a pope.
Chapter 4.LI.—Table-talk in praise of the decretals.
Chapter 4.LII.—A continuation of the miracles caused by the
decretals.
Chapter 4.LIII.—How by the virtue of the decretals, gold is
subtilely drawn out of France to Rome.
Chapter 4.LIV.—How Homenas gave Pantagruel some bon-
Christian pears.
Chapter 4.LV.—How Pantagruel, being at sea, heard various
unfrozen words.
Chapter 4.LVI.—How among the frozen words Pantagruel found
some odd ones.
Chapter 4.LVII.—How Pantagruel went ashore at the dwelling of
Gaster, the first master of arts in the world.
Chapter 4.LVIII.—How, at the court of the master of ingenuity,
Pantagruel detested the Engastrimythes and the Gastrolaters.
Chapter 4.LIX.—Of the ridiculous statue Manduce; and how and
what the Gastrolaters sacrifice to their ventripotent god.

Chapter 4.LX.—What the Gastrolaters sacrificed to their god on
interlarded fish-days.
Chapter 4.LXI.—How Gaster invented means to get and preserve
corn.
Chapter 4.LXII.—How Gaster invented an art to avoid being hurt
or touched by cannon-balls.
Chapter 4.LXIII.—How Pantagruel fell asleep near the island of
Chaneph, and of the problems proposed to be solved when he
waked.
Chapter 4.LXIV.—How Pantagruel gave no answer to the
problems.
Chapter 4.LXV.—How Pantagruel passed the time with his
servants.
Chapter 4.LXVI.—How, by Pantagruel’s order, the Muses were
saluted near the isle of Ganabim.
Chapter 4.LXVII.—How Panurge berayed himself for fear; and
of the huge cat Rodilardus, which he took for a puny devil.

BOOK V.

Chapter 5.I.—How Pantagruel arrived at the Ringing Island, and
of the noise that we heard.
Chapter 5.II.—How the Ringing Island had been inhabited by the
Siticines, who were become birds.
Chapter 5.III.—How there is but one pope-hawk in the Ringing
Island.
Chapter 5.IV.—How the birds of the Ringing Island were all
passengers.
Chapter 5.V.—Of the dumb Knight-hawks of the Ringing Island.

Chapter 5.VI.—How the birds are crammed in the Ringing
Island.
Chapter 5.VII.—How Panurge related to Master Aedituus the
fable of the horse and the ass.
Chapter 5.VIII.—How with much ado we got a sight of the pope-
hawk.
Chapter 5.IX.—How we arrived at the island of Tools.
Chapter 5.X.—How Pantagruel arrived at the island of Sharping.
Chapter 5.XI.—How we passed through the wicket inhabited by
Gripe-men-all, Archduke of the Furred Law-cats.
Chapter 5.XII.—How Gripe-men-all propounded a riddle to us.
Chapter 5.XIII.—How Panurge solved Gripe-men-all’s riddle.
Chapter 5.XIV.—How the Furred Law-cats live on corruption.
Chapter 5.XV.—How Friar John talks of rooting out the Furred
Law-cats.
Chapter 5.XVI.—How Pantagruel came to the island of the
Apedefers, or Ignoramuses, with long claws and crooked paws, and
of terrible adventures and monsters there.
Chapter 5.XVII.—How we went forwards, and how Panurge had
like to have been killed.
Chapter 5.XVIII.—How our ships were stranded, and we were
relieved by some people that were subject to Queen Whims (qui
tenoient de la Quinte).
Chapter 5.XIX.—How we arrived at the queendom of Whims or
Entelechy.
Chapter 5.XX.—How the Quintessence cured the sick with a
song.

Chapter 5.XXI.—How the Queen passed her time after dinner.
Chapter 5.XXII.—How Queen Whims’ officers were employed;
and how the said lady retained us among her abstractors.
Chapter 5.XXIII.—How the Queen was served at dinner, and of
her way of eating.
Chapter 5.XXIV.—How there was a ball in the manner of a
tournament, at which Queen Whims was present.
Chapter 5.XXV.—How the thirty-two persons at the ball fought.
Chapter 5.XXVI.—How we came to the island of Odes, where
the ways go up and down.
Chapter 5.XXVII.—How we came to the island of Sandals; and
of the order of Semiquaver Friars.
Chapter 5.XXVIII.—How Panurge asked a Semiquaver Friar
many questions, and was only answered in monosyllables.
Chapter 5.XXIX.—How Epistemon disliked the institution of
Lent.
Chapter 5.XXX.—How we came to the land of Satin.
Chapter 5.XXXI.—How in the land of Satin we saw Hearsay,
who kept a school of vouching.
Chapter 5.XXXII.—How we came in sight of Lantern-land.
Chapter 5.XXXIII.—How we landed at the port of the Lychnobii,
and came to Lantern-land.
Chapter 5.XXXIV.—How we arrived at the Oracle of the Bottle.
Chapter 5.XXXV.—How we went underground to come to the
Temple of the Holy Bottle, and how Chinon is the oldest city in the
world.

Chapter 5.XXXVI.—How we went down the tetradic steps, and
of Panurge’s fear.
Chapter 5.XXXVII.—How the temple gates in a wonderful
manner opened of themselves.
Chapter 5.XXXVIII.—Of the Temple’s admirable pavement.
Chapter 5.XXXIX.—How we saw Bacchus’s army drawn up in
battalia in mosaic work.
Chapter 5.XL.—How the battle in which the good Bacchus
overthrew the Indians was represented in mosaic work.
Chapter 5.XLI.—How the temple was illuminated with a
wonderful lamp.
Chapter 5.XLII —How the Priestess Bacbuc showed us a
fantastic fountain in the temple, and how the fountain-water had the
taste of wine, according to the imagination of those who drank of it.
Chapter 5.XLIII.—How the Priestess Bacbuc equipped Panurge
in order to have the word of the Bottle.
Chapter 5.XLIV.—How Bacbuc, the high-priestess, brought
Panurge before the Holy Bottle.
Chapter 5.XLV.—How Bacbuc explained the word of the
Goddess-Bottle.
Chapter 5.XLVI.—How Panurge and the rest rhymed with poetic
fury.
Chapter 5.XLVII.—How we took our leave of Bacbuc, and left
the Oracle of the Holy Bottle.

List of Illustrations
He Did Cry Like a Cow—frontispiece
Titlepage
Rabelais Dissecting Society—portrait2
Francois Rabelais—portrait
Prologue1
All Stiff Drinkers—1-05-006
One of the Girls Brought Him Wine—1-07-018
On the Road to The Castle—1-11-026
Led Them up the Great Staircase—1-12-028
He Went to See the City—1-16-036
Gargantua Visiting the Shops—1-17-038
He Did Swim in Deep Waters—1-23-048
The Monks Knew Not—1-27-060
How Gargantua Passed the Ford—1-36-076
Valiant Champions on Their Adventure—1-42-086
I Hear the Enemy, Let Us Rally—1-43-088

BOOK II.

He Did Cry Like a Cow—frontispiece
Titlepage

Rabelais Dissecting Society—portrait2
Francois Rabelais—portrait
With This I Ran Away—2-13-159
When the Dogs Have You—2-14-164
Laid a Train of Gunpowder—2-16-168
After Dinner Panurge Went to See Her—2-21-184
Horseman Very Cunningly Vanquished—2-25-192
Striking Them Down As a Mason Does—2-29-204
Epictetus There Making Good Cheer—2-30-208
Seeking of Rusty Pins and Old Nails—2-30-210

BOOK III.

He Did Cry Like a Cow—frontispiece
Titlepage
Rabelais Dissecting Society—portrait2
Francois Rabelais—portrait
Panurge Seeks the Advice of Pantagruel—3-08-240
Found the Old Woman Sitting Alone—3-17-225
The Chamber is Already Full of Devils—3-23-294
Rondibilus the Physician—3-30-322
Altercation Waxed Hot in Words—3-37-346
Bridlegoose—3-39-352
Relateth the History of The Reconcilers—3-41-356

Sucking Very Much at the Purses of The Pleading Parties—3-42-
360
Serving in the Place of a Cravat—3-51-386

BOOK IV.

He Did Cry Like a Cow—frontispiece
Titlepage
Rabelais Dissecting Society—portrait2
Francois Rabelais—portrait
Prologue4
My Hatchet, Lord Jupeter—4-00-400
He Comes to Chinon—4-00-406
Cost What They Will, Trade With Me—4-07-420
All of Them Forced to Sea and Drowned—4-08-422
Messire Oudart—4-12-430
Friar John—4-23-452
Two Old Women Were Weeping and Wailing—4-19-446
Physetere Was Slain by Pantagruel—4-35-472
Pantagruel Arose to Scour the Thicket—4-36-474
Cut the Sausage in Twain—4-41-482
The Devil Came to the Place—4-48-496
Appointed Cows to Furnish Milk—4-51-500
We Were All out of Sorts—4-63-524

BOOK V.

He Did Cry Like a Cow—frontispiece
Titlepage
Rabelais Dissecting Society—portrait2
Francois Rabelais—portrait
The Master of Ringing Island—5-03-544
Furred Law Cats Scrambling After the Crowns—5-13-564
Friar John and Panurge—5-28-600
Humbly Beseech Your Lanternship—5-35-618

Introduction.
Had Rabelais never written his strange and marvellous romance, no one
would ever have imagined the possibility of its production. It stands outside
other things—a mixture of mad mirth and gravity, of folly and reason, of
childishness and grandeur, of the commonplace and the out-of-the-way, of
popular verve and polished humanism, of mother-wit and learning, of
baseness and nobility, of personalities and broad generalization, of the
comic and the serious, of the impossible and the familiar. Throughout the
whole there is such a force of life and thought, such a power of good sense,
a kind of assurance so authoritative, that he takes rank with the greatest; and
his peers are not many. You may like him or not, may attack him or sing his
praises, but you cannot ignore him. He is of those that die hard. Be as
fastidious as you will; make up your mind to recognize only those who are,
without any manner of doubt, beyond and above all others; however few the
names you keep, Rabelais’ will always remain.
We may know his work, may know it well, and admire it more every time
we read it. After being amused by it, after having enjoyed it, we may return
again to study it and to enter more fully into its meaning. Yet there is no
possibility of knowing his own life in the same fashion. In spite of all the
efforts, often successful, that have been made to throw light on it, to bring
forward a fresh document, or some obscure mention in a forgotten book, to
add some little fact, to fix a date more precisely, it remains nevertheless full
of uncertainty and of gaps. Besides, it has been burdened and sullied by all
kinds of wearisome stories and foolish anecdotes, so that really there is
more to weed out than to add.
This injustice, at first wilful, had its rise in the sixteenth century, in the
furious attacks of a monk of Fontevrault, Gabriel de Puy-Herbault, who
seems to have drawn his conclusions concerning the author from the book,
and, more especially, in the regrettable satirical epitaph of Ronsard, piqued,
it is said, that the Guises had given him only a little pavillon in the Forest of
Meudon, whereas the presbytery was close to the chateau. From that time
legend has fastened on Rabelais, has completely travestied him, till, bit by

bit, it has made of him a buffoon, a veritable clown, a vagrant, a glutton,
and a drunkard.
The likeness of his person has undergone a similar metamorphosis. He
has been credited with a full moon of a face, the rubicund nose of an
incorrigible toper, and thick coarse lips always apart because always
laughing. The picture would have surprised his friends no less than himself.
There have been portraits painted of Rabelais; I have seen many such. They
are all of the seventeenth century, and the greater number are conceived in
this jovial and popular style.
As a matter of fact there is only one portrait of him that counts, that has
more than the merest chance of being authentic, the one in the Chronologie
collee or coupee. Under this double name is known and cited a large sheet
divided by lines and cross lines into little squares, containing about a
hundred heads of illustrious Frenchmen. This sheet was stuck on pasteboard
for hanging on the wall, and was cut in little pieces, so that the portraits
might be sold separately. The majority of the portraits are of known persons
and can therefore be verified. Now it can be seen that these have been
selected with care, and taken from the most authentic sources; from statues,
busts, medals, even stained glass, for the persons of most distinction, from
earlier engravings for the others. Moreover, those of which no other copies
exist, and which are therefore the most valuable, have each an individuality
very distinct, in the features, the hair, the beard, as well as in the costume.
Not one of them is like another. There has been no tampering with them, no
forgery. On the contrary, there is in each a difference, a very marked
personality. Leonard Gaultier, who published this engraving towards the
end of the sixteenth century, reproduced a great many portraits besides from
chalk drawings, in the style of his master, Thomas de Leu. It must have
been such drawings that were the originals of those portraits which he alone
has issued, and which may therefore be as authentic and reliable as the
others whose correctness we are in a position to verify.
Now Rabelais has here nothing of the Roger Bontemps of low degree
about him. His features are strong, vigorously cut, and furrowed with deep
wrinkles; his beard is short and scanty; his cheeks are thin and already
worn-looking. On his head he wears the square cap of the doctors and the
clerks, and his dominant expression, somewhat rigid and severe, is that of a

physician and a scholar. And this is the only portrait to which we need
attach any importance.
This is not the place for a detailed biography, nor for an exhaustive study.
At most this introduction will serve as a framework on which to fix a few
certain dates, to hang some general observations. The date of Rabelais’ birth
is very doubtful. For long it was placed as far back as 1483: now scholars
are disposed to put it forward to about 1495. The reason, a good one, is that
all those whom he has mentioned as his friends, or in any real sense his
contemporaries, were born at the very end of the fifteenth century. And,
indeed, it is in the references in his romance to names, persons, and places,
that the most certain and valuable evidence is to be found of his intercourse,
his patrons, his friendships, his sojournings, and his travels: his own work is
the best and richest mine in which to search for the details of his life.
Like Descartes and Balzac, he was a native of Touraine, and Tours and
Chinon have only done their duty in each of them erecting in recent years a
statue to his honour, a twofold homage reflecting credit both on the
province and on the town. But the precise facts about his birth are
nevertheless vague. Huet speaks of the village of Benais, near Bourgeuil, of
whose vineyards Rabelais makes mention. As the little vineyard of La
Deviniere, near Chinon, and familiar to all his readers, is supposed to have
belonged to his father, Thomas Rabelais, some would have him born there.
It is better to hold to the earlier general opinion that Chinon was his native
town; Chinon, whose praises he sang with such heartiness and affection.
There he might well have been born in the Lamproie house, which belonged
to his father, who, to judge from this circumstance, must have been in easy
circumstances, with the position of a well-to-do citizen. As La Lamproie in
the seventeenth century was a hostelry, the father of Rabelais has been set
down as an innkeeper. More probably he was an apothecary, which would
fit in with the medical profession adopted by his son in after years. Rabelais
had brothers, all older than himself. Perhaps because he was the youngest,
his father destined him for the Church.
The time he spent while a child with the Benedictine monks at Seuille is
uncertain. There he might have made the acquaintance of the prototype of
his Friar John, a brother of the name of Buinart, afterwards Prior of
Sermaize. He was longer at the Abbey of the Cordeliers at La Baumette,
half a mile from Angers, where he became a novice. As the brothers Du

Bellay, who were later his Maecenases, were then studying at the University
of Angers, where it is certain he was not a student, it is doubtless from this
youthful period that his acquaintance and alliance with them should date.
Voluntarily, or induced by his family, Rabelais now embraced the
ecclesiastical profession, and entered the monastery of the Franciscan
Cordeliers at Fontenay-le-Comte, in Lower Poitou, which was honoured by
his long sojourn at the vital period of his life when his powers were
ripening. There it was he began to study and to think, and there also began
his troubles.
In spite of the wide-spread ignorance among the monks of that age, the
encyclopaedic movement of the Renaissance was attracting all the lofty
minds. Rabelais threw himself into it with enthusiasm, and Latin antiquity
was not enough for him. Greek, a study discountenanced by the Church,
which looked on it as dangerous and tending to freethought and heresy, took
possession of him. To it he owed the warm friendship of Pierre Amy and of
the celebrated Guillaume Bude. In fact, the Greek letters of the latter are the
best source of information concerning this period of Rabelais’ life. It was at
Fontenay-le-Comte also that he became acquainted with the Brissons and
the great jurist Andre Tiraqueau, whom he never mentions but with
admiration and deep affection. Tiraqueau’s treatise, De legibus
connubialibus, published for the first time in 1513, has an important bearing
on the life of Rabelais. There we learn that, dissatisfied with the incomplete
translation of Herodotus by Laurent Valla, Rabelais had retranslated into
Latin the first book of the History. That translation unfortunately is lost, as
so many other of his scattered works. It is probably in this direction that the
hazard of fortune has most discoveries and surprises in store for the lucky
searcher. Moreover, as in this law treatise Tiraqueau attacked women in a
merciless fashion, President Amaury Bouchard published in 1522 a book in
their defence, and Rabelais, who was a friend of both the antagonists, took
the side of Tiraqueau. It should be observed also in passing, that there are
several pages of such audacious plain-speaking, that Rabelais, though he
did not copy these in his Marriage of Panurge, has there been, in his own
fashion, as out spoken as Tiraqueau. If such freedom of language could be
permitted in a grave treatise of law, similar liberties were certainly, in the
same century, more natural in a book which was meant to amuse.
The great reproach always brought against Rabelais is not the want of
reserve of his language merely, but his occasional studied coarseness, which

is enough to spoil his whole work, and which lowers its value. La Bruyere,
in the chapter Des ouvrages de l’esprit, not in the first edition of the
Caracteres, but in the fifth, that is to say in 1690, at the end of the great
century, gives us on this subject his own opinion and that of his age:
'Marot and Rabelais are inexcusable in their habit of scattering filth about
their writings. Both of them had genius enough and wit enough to do
without any such expedient, even for the amusement of those persons who
look more to the laugh to be got out of a book than to what is admirable in
it. Rabelais especially is incomprehensible. His book is an enigma,—one
may say inexplicable. It is a Chimera; it is like the face of a lovely woman
with the feet and the tail of a reptile, or of some creature still more
loathsome. It is a monstrous confusion of fine and rare morality with filthy
corruption. Where it is bad, it goes beyond the worst; it is the delight of the
basest of men. Where it is good, it reaches the exquisite, the very best; it
ministers to the most delicate tastes.’
Putting aside the rather slight connection established between two men of
whom one is of very little importance compared with the other, this is
otherwise very admirably said, and the judgment is a very just one, except
with regard to one point—the misunderstanding of the atmosphere in which
the book was created, and the ignoring of the examples of a similar
tendency furnished by literature as well as by the popular taste. Was it not
the Ancients that began it? Aristophanes, Catullus, Petronius, Martial, flew
in the face of decency in their ideas as well as in the words they used, and
they dragged after them in this direction not a few of the Latin poets of the
Renaissance, who believed themselves bound to imitate them. Is Italy
without fault in this respect? Her story-tellers in prose lie open to easy
accusation. Her Capitoli in verse go to incredible lengths; and the
astonishing success of Aretino must not be forgotten, nor the licence of the
whole Italian comic theatre of the sixteenth century. The Calandra of
Bibbiena, who was afterwards a Cardinal, and the Mandragola of
Machiavelli, are evidence enough, and these were played before Popes, who
were not a whit embarrassed. Even in England the drama went very far for a
time, and the comic authors of the reign of Charles II., evidently from a
reaction, and to shake off the excess and the wearisomeness of Puritan
prudery and affectation, which sent them to the opposite extreme, are not
exactly noted for their reserve. But we need not go beyond France. Slight

indications, very easily verified, are all that may be set down here; a formal
and detailed proof would be altogether too dangerous.
Thus, for instance, the old Fabliaux—the Farces of the fifteenth century,
the story-tellers of the sixteenth—reveal one of the sides, one of the veins,
so to speak, of our literature. The art that addresses itself to the eye had
likewise its share of this coarseness. Think of the sculptures on the capitals
and the modillions of churches, and the crude frankness of certain painted
windows of the fifteenth century. Queen Anne was, without any doubt, one
of the most virtuous women in the world. Yet she used to go up the staircase
of her chateau at Blois, and her eyes were not offended at seeing at the foot
of a bracket a not very decent carving of a monk and a nun. Neither did she
tear out of her book of Hours the large miniature of the winter month, in
which, careless of her neighbours’ eyes, the mistress of the house, sitting
before her great fireplace, warms herself in a fashion which it is not
advisable that dames of our age should imitate. The statue of Cybele by the
Tribolo, executed for Francis I., and placed, not against a wall, but in the
middle of Queen Claude’s chamber at Fontainebleau, has behind it an
attribute which would have been more in place on a statue of Priapus, and
which was the symbol of generativeness. The tone of the conversations was
ordinarily of a surprising coarseness, and the Precieuses, in spite of their
absurdities, did a very good work in setting themselves in opposition to it.
The worthy Chevalier de La-Tour-Landry, in his Instructions to his own
daughters, without a thought of harm, gives examples which are singular
indeed, and in Caxton’s translation these are not omitted. The Adevineaux
Amoureux, printed at Bruges by Colard Mansion, are astonishing indeed
when one considers that they were the little society diversions of the
Duchesses of Burgundy and of the great ladies of a court more luxurious
and more refined than the French court, which revelled in the Cent
Nouvelles of good King Louis XI. Rabelais’ pleasantry about the woman
folle a la messe is exactly in the style of the Adevineaux.
A later work than any of his, the Novelle of Bandello, should be kept in
mind—for the writer was Bishop of Agen, and his work was translated into
French—as also the Dames Galantes of Brantome. Read the Journal of
Heroard, that honest doctor, who day by day wrote down the details
concerning the health of Louis XIII. from his birth, and you will understand
the tone of the conversation of Henry IV. The jokes at a country wedding
are trifles compared with this royal coarseness. Le Moyen de Parvenir is

nothing but a tissue and a mass of filth, and the too celebrated Cabinet
Satyrique proves what, under Louis XIII., could be written, printed, and
read. The collection of songs formed by Clairambault shows that the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were no purer than the sixteenth.
Some of the most ribald songs are actually the work of Princesses of the
royal House.
It is, therefore, altogether unjust to make Rabelais the scapegoat, to
charge him alone with the sins of everybody else. He spoke as those of his
time used to speak; when amusing them he used their language to make
himself understood, and to slip in his asides, which without this sauce
would never have been accepted, would have found neither eyes nor ears.
Let us blame not him, therefore, but the manners of his time.
Besides, his gaiety, however coarse it may appear to us—and how rare a
thing is gaiety!—has, after all, nothing unwholesome about it; and this is
too often overlooked. Where does he tempt one to stray from duty? Where,
even indirectly, does he give pernicious advice? Whom has he led to evil
ways? Does he ever inspire feelings that breed misconduct and vice, or is he
ever the apologist of these? Many poets and romance writers, under cover
of a fastidious style, without one coarse expression, have been really and
actively hurtful; and of that it is impossible to accuse Rabelais. Women in
particular quickly revolt from him, and turn away repulsed at once by the
archaic form of the language and by the outspokenness of the words. But if
he be read aloud to them, omitting the rougher parts and modernizing the
pronunciation, it will be seen that they too are impressed by his lively wit as
by the loftiness of his thought. It would be possible, too, to extract, for
young persons, without modification, admirable passages of incomparable
force. But those who have brought out expurgated editions of him, or who
have thought to improve him by trying to rewrite him in modern French,
have been fools for their pains, and their insulting attempts have had, and
always will have, the success they deserve.
His dedications prove to what extent his whole work was accepted. Not
to speak of his epistolary relations with Bude, with the Cardinal
d’Armagnac and with Pellissier, the ambassador of Francis I. and Bishop of
Maguelonne, or of his dedication to Tiraqueau of his Lyons edition of the
Epistolae Medicinales of Giovanni Manardi of Ferrara, of the one addressed
to the President Amaury Bouchard of the two legal texts which he believed

antique, there is still the evidence of his other and more important
dedications. In 1532 he dedicated his Hippocrates and his Galen to
Geoffroy d’Estissac, Bishop of Maillezais, to whom in 1535 and 1536 he
addressed from Rome the three news letters, which alone have been
preserved; and in 1534 he dedicated from Lyons his edition of the Latin
book of Marliani on the topography of Rome to Jean du Bellay (at that time
Bishop of Paris) who was raised to the Cardinalate in 1535. Beside these
dedications we must set the privilege of Francis I. of September, 1545, and
the new privilege granted by Henry II. on August 6th, 1550, Cardinal de
Chatillon present, for the third book, which was dedicated, in an eight-lined
stanza, to the Spirit of the Queen of Navarre. These privileges, from the
praises and eulogies they express in terms very personal and very
exceptional, are as important in Rabelais’ life as were, in connection with
other matters, the Apostolic Pastorals in his favour. Of course, in these the
popes had not to introduce his books of diversions, which, nevertheless,
would have seemed in their eyes but very venial sins. The Sciomachie of
1549, an account of the festivities arranged at Rome by Cardinal du Bellay
in honour of the birth of the second son of Henry II., was addressed to
Cardinal de Guise, and in 1552 the fourth book was dedicated, in a new
prologue, to Cardinal de Chatillon, the brother of Admiral de Coligny.
These are no unknown or insignificant personages, but the greatest lords
and princes of the Church. They loved and admired and protected Rabelais,
and put no restrictions in his way. Why should we be more fastidious and
severe than they were? Their high contemporary appreciation gives much
food for thought.
There are few translations of Rabelais in foreign tongues; and certainly
the task is no light one, and demands more than a familiarity with ordinary
French. It would have been easier in Italy than anywhere else. Italian, from
its flexibility and its analogy to French, would have lent itself admirably to
the purpose; the instrument was ready, but the hand was not forthcoming.
Neither is there any Spanish translation, a fact which can be more easily
understood. The Inquisition would have been a far more serious opponent
than the Paris’ Sorbonne, and no one ventured on the experiment. Yet
Rabelais forces comparison with Cervantes, whose precursor he was in
reality, though the two books and the two minds are very different. They
have only one point in common, their attack and ridicule of the romances of
chivalry and of the wildly improbable adventures of knight-errants. But in

Don Quixote there is not a single detail which would suggest that Cervantes
knew Rabelais’ book or owed anything to it whatsoever, even the starting-
point of his subject. Perhaps it was better he should not have been
influenced by him, in however slight a degree; his originality is the more
intact and the more genial.
On the other hand, Rabelais has been several times translated into
German. In the present century Regis published at Leipsic, from 1831 to
1841, with copious notes, a close and faithful translation. The first one
cannot be so described, that of Johann Fischart, a native of Mainz or
Strasburg, who died in 1614. He was a Protestant controversialist, and a
satirist of fantastic and abundant imagination. In 1575 appeared his
translation of Rabelais’ first book, and in 1590 he published the comic
catalogue of the library of Saint Victor, borrowed from the second book. It
is not a translation, but a recast in the boldest style, full of alterations and of
exaggerations, both as regards the coarse expressions which he took upon
himself to develop and to add to, and in the attacks on the Roman Catholic
Church. According to Jean Paul Richter, Fischart is much superior to
Rabelais in style and in the fruitfulness of his ideas, and his equal in
erudition and in the invention of new expressions after the manner of
Aristophanes. He is sure that his work was successful, because it was often
reprinted during his lifetime; but this enthusiasm of Jean Paul would hardly
carry conviction in France. Who treads in another’s footprints must follow
in the rear. Instead of a creator, he is but an imitator. Those who take the
ideas of others to modify them, and make of them creations of their own,
like Shakespeare in England, Moliere and La Fontaine in France, may be
superior to those who have served them with suggestions; but then the new
works must be altogether different, must exist by themselves. Shakespeare
and the others, when they imitated, may be said always to have destroyed
their models. These copyists, if we call them so, created such works of
genius that the only pity is they are so rare. This is not the case with
Fischart, but it would be none the less curious were some one thoroughly
familiar with German to translate Fischart for us, or at least, by long
extracts from him, give an idea of the vagaries of German taste when it
thought it could do better than Rabelais. It is dangerous to tamper with so
great a work, and he who does so runs a great risk of burning his fingers.
England has been less daring, and her modesty and discretion have
brought her success. But, before speaking of Urquhart’s translation, it is but

right to mention the English-French Dictionary of Randle Cotgrave, the first
edition of which dates from 1611. It is in every way exceedingly valuable,
and superior to that of Nicot, because instead of keeping to the plane of
classic and Latin French, it showed an acquaintance with and mastery of the
popular tongue as well as of the written and learned language. As a
foreigner, Cotgrave is a little behind in his information. He is not aware of
all the changes and novelties of the passing fashion. The Pleiad School he
evidently knew nothing of, but kept to the writers of the fifteenth and the
first half of the sixteenth century. Thus words out of Rabelais, which he
always translates with admirable skill, are frequent, and he attaches to them
their author’s name. So Rabelais had already crossed the Channel, and was
read in his own tongue. Somewhat later, during the full sway of the
Commonwealth—and Maitre Alcofribas Nasier must have been a surprising
apparition in the midst of Puritan severity—Captain Urquhart undertook to
translate him and to naturalize him completely in England.
Thomas Urquhart belonged to a very old family of good standing in the
North of Scotland. After studying in Aberdeen he travelled in France, Spain,
and Italy, where his sword was as active as that intelligent curiosity of his
which is evidenced by his familiarity with three languages and the large
library which he brought back, according to his own account, from sixteen
countries he had visited.
On his return to England he entered the service of Charles I., who
knighted him in 1641. Next year, after the death of his father, he went to
Scotland to set his family affairs in order, and to redeem his house in
Cromarty. But, in spite of another sojourn in foreign lands, his efforts to
free himself from pecuniary embarrassments were unavailing. At the king’s
death his Scottish loyalty caused him to side with those who opposed the
Parliament. Formally proscribed in 1649, taken prisoner at the defeat of
Worcester in 1651, stripped of all his belongings, he was brought to
London, but was released on parole at Cromwell’s recommendation. After
receiving permission to spend five months in Scotland to try once more to
settle his affairs, he came back to London to escape from his creditors. And
there he must have died, though the date of his death is unknown. It
probably took place after 1653, the date of the publication of the two first
books, and after having written the translation of the third, which was not
printed from his manuscript till the end of the seventeenth century.

His life was therefore not without its troubles, and literary activity must
have been almost his only consolation. His writings reveal him as the
strangest character, fantastic, and full of a naive vanity, which, even at the
time he was translating the genealogy of Gargantua—surely well calculated
to cure any pondering on his own—caused him to trace his unbroken
descent from Adam, and to state that his family name was derived from his
ancestor Esormon, Prince of Achaia, 2139 B.C., who was surnamed
Ourochartos, that is to say the Fortunate and the Well-beloved. A Gascon
could not have surpassed this.
Gifted as he was, learned in many directions, an enthusiastic
mathematician, master of several languages, occasionally full of wit and
humour, and even good sense, yet he gave his books the strangest titles, and
his ideas were no less whimsical. His style is mystic, fastidious, and too
often of a wearisome length and obscurity; his verses rhyme anyhow, or not
at all; but vivacity, force and heat are never lacking, and the Maitland Club
did well in reprinting, in 1834, his various works, which are very rare. Yet,
in spite of their curious interest, he owes his real distinction and the survival
of his name to his translation of Rabelais.
The first two books appeared in 1653. The original edition, exceedingly
scarce, was carefully reprinted in 1838, only a hundred copies being issued,
by an English bibliophile T(heodore) M(artin), whose interesting preface I
regret to sum up so cursorily. At the end of the seventeenth century, in 1693,
a French refugee, Peter Antony Motteux, whose English verses and whose
plays are not without value, published in a little octavo volume a reprint,
very incorrect as to the text, of the first two books, to which he added the
third, from the manuscript found amongst Urquhart’s papers. The success
which attended this venture suggested to Motteux the idea of completing
the work, and a second edition, in two volumes, appeared in 1708, with the
translation of the fourth and fifth books, and notes. Nineteen years after his
death, John Ozell, translator on a large scale of French, Italian, and Spanish
authors, revised Motteux’s edition, which he published in five volumes in
1737, adding Le Duchat’s notes; and this version has often been reprinted
since.
The continuation by Motteux, who was also the translator of Don
Quixote, has merits of its own. It is precise, elegant, and very faithful.
Urquhart’s, without taking liberties with Rabelais like Fischart, is not

always so closely literal and exact. Nevertheless, it is much superior to
Motteux’s. If Urquhart does not constantly adhere to the form of the
expression, if he makes a few slight additions, not only has he an
understanding of the original, but he feels it, and renders the sense with a
force and a vivacity full of warmth and brilliancy. His own learning made
the comprehension of the work easy to him, and his anglicization of words
fabricated by Rabelais is particularly successful. The necessity of keeping
to his text prevented his indulgence in the convolutions and divagations
dictated by his exuberant fancy when writing on his own account. His style,
always full of life and vigour, is here balanced, lucid, and picturesque.
Never elsewhere did he write so well. And thus the translation reproduces
the very accent of the original, besides possessing a very remarkable
character of its own. Such a literary tone and such literary qualities are
rarely found in a translation. Urquhart’s, very useful for the interpretation of
obscure passages, may, and indeed should be read as a whole, both for
Rabelais and for its own merits.
Holland, too, possesses a translation of Rabelais. They knew French in
that country in the seventeenth century better than they do to-day, and there
Rabelais’ works were reprinted when no editions were appearing in France.
This Dutch translation was published at Amsterdam in 1682, by J.
Tenhoorn. The name attached to it, Claudio Gallitalo (Claudius French-
Italian) must certainly be a pseudonym. Only a Dutch scholar could identify
the translator, and state the value to be assigned to his work.
Rabelais’ style has many different sources. Besides its force and
brilliancy, its gaiety, wit, and dignity, its abundant richness is no less
remarkable. It would be impossible and useless to compile a glossary of
Voltaire’s words. No French writer has used so few, and all of them are of
the simplest. There is not one of them that is not part of the common
speech, or which demands a note or an explanation. Rabelais’ vocabulary,
on the other hand, is of an astonishing variety. Where does it all come from?
As a fact, he had at his command something like three languages, which he
used in turn, or which he mixed according to the effect he wished to
produce.
First of all, of course, he had ready to his hand the whole speech of his
time, which had no secrets for him. Provincials have been too eager to
appropriate him, to make of him a local author, the pride of some village, in

order that their district might have the merit of being one of the causes, one
of the factors of his genius. Every neighbourhood where he ever lived has
declared that his distinction was due to his knowledge of its popular speech.
But these dialect-patriots have fallen out among themselves. To which
dialect was he indebted? Was it that of Touraine, or Berri, or Poitou, or
Paris? It is too often forgotten, in regard to French patois—leaving out of
count the languages of the South—that the words or expressions that are no
longer in use to-day are but a survival, a still living trace of the tongue and
the pronunciation of other days. Rabelais, more than any other writer, took
advantage of the happy chances and the richness of the popular speech, but
he wrote in French, and nothing but French. That is why he remains so
forcible, so lucid, and so living, more living even—speaking only of his
style out of charity to the others—than any of his contemporaries.
It has been said that great French prose is solely the work of the
seventeenth century. There were nevertheless, before that, two men,
certainly very different and even hostile, who were its initiators and its
masters, Calvin on the one hand, on the other Rabelais.
Rabelais had a wonderful knowledge of the prose and the verse of the
fifteenth century: he was familiar with Villon, Pathelin, the Quinze Joies de
Mariage, the Cent Nouvelles, the chronicles and the romances, and even
earlier works, too, such as the Roman de la Rose. Their words, their turns of
expression came naturally to his pen, and added a piquancy and, as it were,
a kind of gloss of antique novelty to his work. He fabricated words, too, on
Greek and Latin models, with great ease, sometimes audaciously and with
needless frequency. These were for him so many means, so many elements
of variety. Sometimes he did this in mockery, as in the humorous discourse
of the Limousin scholar, for which he is not a little indebted to Geoffroy
Tory in the Champfleury; sometimes, on the contrary, seriously, from a
habit acquired in dealing with classical tongues.
Again, another reason of the richness of his vocabulary was that he
invented and forged words for himself. Following the example of
Aristophanes, he coined an enormous number of interminable words, droll
expressions, sudden and surprising constructions. What had made Greece
and the Athenians laugh was worth transporting to Paris.
With an instrument so rich, resources so endless, and the skill to use
them, it is no wonder that he could give voice to anything, be as humorous

as he could be serious, as comic as he could be grave, that he could express
himself and everybody else, from the lowest to the highest. He had every
colour on his palette, and such skill was in his fingers that he could depict
every variety of light and shade.
We have evidence that Rabelais did not always write in the same fashion.
The Chronique Gargantuaine is uniform in style and quite simple, but
cannot with certainty be attributed to him. His letters are bombastic and
thin; his few attempts at verse are heavy, lumbering, and obscure, altogether
lacking in harmony, and quite as bad as those of his friend, Jean Bouchet.
He had no gift of poetic form, as indeed is evident even from his prose. And
his letters from Rome to the Bishop of Maillezais, interesting as they are in
regard to the matter, are as dull, bare, flat, and dry in style as possible.
Without his signature no one would possibly have thought of attributing
them to him. He is only a literary artist when he wishes to be such; and in
his romance he changes the style completely every other moment: it has no
constant character or uniform manner, and therefore unity is almost entirely
wanting in his work, while his endeavours after contrast are unceasing.
There is throughout the whole the evidence of careful and conscious
elaboration.
Hence, however lucid and free be the style of his romance, and though its
flexibility and ease seem at first sight to have cost no trouble at all, yet its
merit lies precisely in the fact that it succeeds in concealing the toil, in
hiding the seams. He could not have reached this perfection at a first
attempt. He must have worked long at the task, revised it again and again,
corrected much, and added rather than cut away. The aptness of form and
expression has been arrived at by deliberate means, and owes nothing to
chance. Apart from the toning down of certain bold passages, to soften their
effect, and appease the storm—for these were not literary alterations, but
were imposed on him by prudence—one can see how numerous are the
variations in his text, how necessary it is to take account of them, and to
collect them. A good edition, of course, would make no attempt at
amalgamating these. That would give a false impression and end in
confusion; but it should note them all, and show them all, not combined, but
simply as variations.
After Le Duchat, all the editions, in their care that nothing should be lost,
made the mistake of collecting and placing side by side things which had no

connection with each other, which had even been substituted for each other.
The result was a fabricated text, full of contradictions naturally. But since
the edition issued by M. Jannet, the well-known publisher of the
Bibliotheque Elzevirienne, who was the first to get rid of this patchwork,
this mosaic, Rabelais’ latest text has been given, accompanied by all the
earlier variations, to show the changes he made, as well as his suppressions
and additions. It would also be possible to reverse the method. It would be
interesting to take his first text as the basis, noting the later modifications.
This would be quite as instructive and really worth doing. Perhaps one
might then see more clearly with what care he made his revisions, after
what fashion he corrected, and especially what were the additions he made.
No more striking instance can be quoted than the admirable chapter about
the shipwreck. It was not always so long as Rabelais made it in the end: it
was much shorter at first. As a rule, when an author recasts some passage
that he wishes to revise, he does so by rewriting the whole, or at least by
interpolating passages at one stroke, so to speak. Nothing of the kind is seen
here. Rabelais suppressed nothing, modified nothing; he did not change his
plan at all. What he did was to make insertions, to slip in between two
clauses a new one. He expressed his meaning in a lengthier way, and the
former clause is found in its integrity along with the additional one, of
which it forms, as it were, the warp. It was by this method of touching up
the smallest details, by making here and there such little noticeable
additions, that he succeeded in heightening the effect without either change
or loss. In the end it looks as if he had altered nothing, added nothing new,
as if it had always been so from the first, and had never been meddled with.
The comparison is most instructive, showing us to what an extent
Rabelais’ admirable style was due to conscious effort, care, and elaboration,
a fact which is generally too much overlooked, and how instead of leaving
any trace which would reveal toil and study, it has on the contrary a
marvellous cohesion, precision, and brilliancy. It was modelled and
remodelled, repaired, touched up, and yet it has all the appearance of having
been created at a single stroke, or of having been run like molten wax into
its final form.
Something should be said here of the sources from which Rabelais
borrowed. He was not the first in France to satirize the romances of
chivalry. The romance in verse by Baudouin de Sebourc, printed in recent

years, was a parody of the Chansons de Geste. In the Moniage Guillaume,
and especially in the Moniage Rainouart, in which there is a kind of giant,
and occasionally a comic giant, there are situations and scenes which
remind us of Rabelais. The kind of Fabliaux in mono-rhyme quatrains of
the old Aubery anticipate his coarse and popular jests. But all that is beside
the question; Rabelais did not know these. Nothing is of direct interest save
what was known to him, what fell under his eyes, what lay to his hand—as
the Facetiae of Poggio, and the last sermonnaires. In the course of one’s
reading one may often enough come across the origin of some of Rabelais’
witticisms; here and there we may discover how he has developed a
situation. While gathering his materials wherever he could find them, he
was nevertheless profoundly original.
On this point much research and investigation might be employed. But
there is no need why these researches should be extended to the region of
fancy. Gargantua has been proved by some to be of Celtic origin. Very often
he is a solar myth, and the statement that Rabelais only collected popular
traditions and gave new life to ancient legends is said to be proved by the
large number of megalithic monuments to which is attached the name of
Gargantua. It was, of course, quite right to make a list of these, to draw up,
as it were, a chart of them, but the conclusion is not justified. The name,
instead of being earlier, is really later, and is a witness, not to the origin, but
to the success and rapid popularity of his novel. No one has ever yet
produced a written passage or any ancient testimony to prove the existence
of the name before Rabelais. To place such a tradition on a sure basis,
positive traces must be forthcoming; and they cannot be adduced even for
the most celebrated of these monuments, since he mentions himself the
great menhir near Poitiers, which he christened by the name of
Passelourdin. That there is something in the theory is possible. Perrault
found the subjects of his stories in the tales told by mothers and nurses. He
fixed them finally by writing them down. Floating about vaguely as they
were, he seized them, worked them up, gave them shape, and yet of
scarcely any of them is there to be found before his time a single trace. So
we must resign ourselves to know just as little of what Gargantua and
Pantagruel were before the sixteenth century.
In a book of a contemporary of Rabelais, the Legende de Pierre Faifeu by
the Angevin, Charles de Bourdigne, the first edition of which dates from
1526 and the second 1531—both so rare and so forgotten that the work is

only known since the eighteenth century by the reprint of Custelier—in the
introductory ballad which recommends this book to readers, occur these
lines in the list of popular books which Faifeu would desire to replace:

'Laissez ester Caillette le folastre,
Les quatre filz Aymon vestuz de bleu,
Gargantua qui a cheveux de plastre.’

He has not ‘cheveux de plastre’ in Rabelais. If the rhyme had not
suggested the phrase—and the exigencies of the strict form of the ballade
and its forced repetitions often imposed an idea which had its whole origin
in the rhyme—we might here see a dramatic trace found nowhere else. The
name of Pantagruel is mentioned too, incidentally, in a Mystery of the
fifteenth century. These are the only references to the names which up till
now have been discovered, and they are, as one sees, of but little account.
On the other hand, the influence of Aristophanes and of Lucian, his
intimate acquaintance with nearly all the writers of antiquity, Greek as well
as Latin, with whom Rabelais is more permeated even than Montaigne,
were a mine of inspiration. The proof of it is everywhere. Pliny especially
was his encyclopaedia, his constant companion. All he says of the
Pantagruelian herb, though he amply developed it for himself, is taken from
Pliny’s chapter on flax. And there is a great deal more of this kind to be
discovered, for Rabelais does not always give it as quotation. On the other
hand, when he writes, ‘Such an one says,’ it would be difficult enough to
find who is meant, for the ‘such an one’ is a fictitious writer. The method is
amusing, but it is curious to account of it.
The question of the Chronique Gargantuaine is still undecided. Is it by
Rabelais or by someone else? Both theories are defensible, and can be
supported by good reasons. In the Chronique everything is heavy,
occasionally meaningless, and nearly always insipid. Can the same man
have written the Chronique and Gargantua, replaced a book really
commonplace by a masterpiece, changed the facts and incidents,
transformed a heavy icy pleasantry into a work glowing with wit and life,
made it no longer a mass of laborious trifling and cold-blooded
exaggerations but a satire on human life of the highest genius? Still there
are points common to the two. Besides, Rabelais wrote other things; and it
is only in his romance that he shows literary skill. The conception of it
would have entered his mind first only in a bare and summary fashion. It

would have been taken up again, expanded, developed, metamorphosed.
That is possible, and, for my part, I am of those who, like Brunet and
Nodier, are inclined to think that the Chronique, in spite of its inferiority, is
really a first attempt, condemned as soon as the idea was conceived in
another form. As its earlier date is incontestable, we must conclude that if
the Chronique is not by him, his Gargantua and its continuation would not
have existed without it. This would be a great obligation to stand under to
some unknown author, and in that case it is astonishing that his enemies did
not reproach him during his lifetime with being merely an imitator and a
plagiarist. So there are reasons for and against his authorship of it, and it
would be dangerous to make too bold an assertion.
One fact which is absolutely certain and beyond all controversy, is that
Rabelais owed much to one of his contemporaries, an Italian, to the Histoire
Macaronique of Merlin Coccaie. Its author, Theophilus Folengo, who was
also a monk, was born in 1491, and died only a short time before Rabelais,
in 1544. But his burlesque poem was published in 1517. It was in Latin
verse, written in an elaborately fabricated style. It is not dog Latin, but
Latin ingeniously italianized, or rather Italian, even Mantuan, latinized. The
contrast between the modern form of the word and its Roman garb produces
the most amusing effect. In the original it is sometimes difficult to read, for
Folengo has no objection to using the most colloquial words and phrases.
The subject is quite different. It is the adventures of Baldo, son of Guy de
Montauban, the very lively history of his youth, his trial, imprisonment and
deliverance, his journey in search of his father, during which he visits the
Planets and Hell. The narration is constantly interrupted by incidental
adventures. Occasionally they are what would be called to-day very
naturalistic, and sometimes they are madly extravagant.
But Fracasso, Baldo’s friend, is a giant; another friend, Cingar, who
delivers him, is Panurge exactly, and quite as much given to practical
joking. The women in the senile amour of the old Tognazzo, the judges, and
the poor sergeants, are no more gently dealt with by Folengo than by the
monk of the Iles d’Hyeres. If Dindenaut’s name does not occur, there are
the sheep. The tempest is there, and the invocation to all the saints. Rabelais
improves all he borrows, but it is from Folengo he starts. He does not
reproduce the words, but, like the Italian, he revels in drinking scenes,
junkettings, gormandizing, battles, scuffles, wounds and corpses, magic,

witches, speeches, repeated enumerations, lengthiness, and a solemnly
minute precision of impossible dates and numbers. The atmosphere, the
tone, the methods are the same, and to know Rabelais well, you must know
Folengo well too.
Detailed proof of this would be too lengthy a matter; one would have to
quote too many passages, but on this question of sources nothing is more
interesting than a perusal of the Opus Macaronicorum. It was translated into
French only in 1606—Paris, Gilley Robinot. This translation of course
cannot reproduce all the many amusing forms of words, but it is useful,
nevertheless, in showing more clearly the points of resemblance between
the two works,—how far in form, ideas, details, and phrases Rabelais was
permeated by Folengo. The anonymous translator saw this quite well, and
said so in his title, ‘Histoire macaronique de Merlin Coccaie, prototype of
Rabelais.’ It is nothing but the truth, and Rabelais, who does not hide it
from himself, on more than one occasion mentions the name of Merlin
Coccaie.
Besides, Rabelais was fed on the Italians of his time as on the Greeks and
Romans. Panurge, who owes much to Cingar, is also not free from
obligations to the miscreant Margutte in the Morgante Maggiore of Pulci.
Had Rabelais in his mind the tale from the Florentine Chronicles, how in
the Savonarola riots, when the Piagnoni and the Arrabiati came to blows in
the church of the Dominican convent of San-Marco, Fra Pietro in the
scuffle broke the heads of the assailants with the bronze crucifix he had
taken from the altar? A well-handled cross could so readily be used as a
weapon, that probably it has served as such more than once, and other and
even quite modern instances might be quoted.
But other Italian sources are absolutely certain. There are few more
wonderful chapters in Rabelais than the one about the drinkers. It is not a
dialogue: those short exclamations exploding from every side, all referring
to the same thing, never repeating themselves, and yet always varying the
same theme. At the end of the Novelle of Gentile Sermini of Siena, there is
a chapter called Il Giuoco della pugna, the Game of Battle. Here are the
first lines of it: ‘Apre, apre, apre. Chi gioca, chi gioca —uh, uh!—A
Porrione, a Porrione.—Viela, viela; date a ognuno.—Alle mantella, alle
mantella.—Oltre di corsa; non vi fermate.—Voltate qui; ecco costoro; fate
veli innanzi.—Viela, viela; date costi.—Chi la fa? Io—Ed io.—Dagli; ah,

ah, buona fu.—Or cosi; alla mascella, al fianco. —Dagli basso; di punta, di
punta.—Ah, ah, buon gioco, buon gioco.’
And thus it goes on with fire and animation for pages. Rabelais probably
translated or directly imitated it. He changed the scene; there was no
giuooco della pugna in France. He transferred to a drinking-bout this clatter
of exclamations which go off by themselves, which cross each other and get
no answer. He made a wonderful thing of it. But though he did not copy
Sermini, yet Sermini’s work provided him with the form of the subject, and
was the theme for Rabelais’ marvellous variations.
Who does not remember the fantastic quarrel of the cook with the poor
devil who had flavoured his dry bread with the smoke of the roast, and the
judgment of Seyny John, truly worthy of Solomon? It comes from the
Cento Novelle Antiche, rewritten from tales older than Boccaccio, and
moreover of an extreme brevity and dryness. They are only the framework,
the notes, the skeleton of tales. The subject is often wonderful, but nothing
is made of it: it is left unshaped. Rabelais wrote a version of one, the ninth.
The scene takes place, not at Paris, but at Alexandria in Egypt among the
Saracens, and the cook is called Fabrac. But the surprise at the end, the
sagacious judgment by which the sound of a piece of money was made the
price of the smoke, is the same. Now the first dated edition of the Cento
Novelle (which were frequently reprinted) appeared at Bologna in 1525,
and it is certain that Rabelais had read the tales. And there would be much
else of the same kind to learn if we knew Rabelais’ library.
A still stranger fact of this sort may be given to show how nothing came
amiss to him. He must have known, and even copied the Latin Chronicle of
the Counts of Anjou. It is accepted, and rightly so, as an historical
document, but that is no reason for thinking that the truth may not have
been manipulated and adorned. The Counts of Anjou were not saints. They
were proud, quarrelsome, violent, rapacious, and extravagant, as greedy as
they were charitable to the Church, treacherous and cruel. Yet their
anonymous panegyrist has made them patterns of all the virtues. In reality it
is both a history and in some sort a romance; especially is it a collection of
examples worthy of being followed, in the style of the Cyropaedia, our
Juvenal of the fifteenth century, and a little like Fenelon’s Telemaque. Now
in it there occurs the address of one of the counts to those who rebelled
against him and who were at his mercy. Rabelais must have known it, for he

has copied it, or rather, literally translated whole lines of it in the wonderful
speech of Gargantua to the vanquished. His contemporaries, who approved
of his borrowing from antiquity, could not detect this one, because the book
was not printed till much later. But Rabelais lived in Maine. In Anjou,
which often figures among the localities he names, he must have met with
and read the Chronicles of the Counts in manuscript, probably in some
monastery library, whether at Fontenay-le-Comte or elsewhere it matters
little. There is not only a likeness in the ideas and tone, but in the words too,
which cannot be a mere matter of chance. He must have known the
Chronicles of the Counts of Anjou, and they inspired one of his finest
pages. One sees, therefore, how varied were the sources whence he drew,
and how many of them must probably always escape us.
When, as has been done for Moliere, a critical bibliography of the works
relating to Rabelais is drawn up—which, by the bye, will entail a very great
amount of labour—the easiest part will certainly be the bibliography of the
old editions. That is the section that has been most satisfactorily and most
completely worked out. M. Brunet said the last word on the subject in his
Researches in 1852, and in the important article in the fifth edition of his
Manuel du Libraire (iv., 1863, pp. 1037-1071).
The facts about the fifth book cannot be summed up briefly. It was
printed as a whole at first, without the name of the place, in 1564, and next
year at Lyons by Jean Martin. It has given, and even still gives rise to two
contradictory opinions. Is it Rabelais’ or not?
First of all, if he had left it complete, would sixteen years have gone by
before it was printed? Then, does it bear evident marks of his
workmanship? Is the hand of the master visible throughout? Antoine Du
Verdier in the 1605 edition of his Prosopographie writes: ‘(Rabelais’)
misfortune has been that everybody has wished to “pantagruelize!” and
several books have appeared under his name, and have been added to his
works, which are not by him, as, for instance, l’Ile Sonnante, written by a
certain scholar of Valence and others.’
The scholar of Valence might be Guillaume des Autels, to whom with
more certainty can be ascribed the authorship of a dull imitation of
Rabelais, the History of Fanfreluche and Gaudichon, published in 1578,
which, to say the least of it, is very much inferior to the fifth book.

Louis Guyon, in his Diverses Lecons, is still more positive: ‘As to the
last book which has been included in his works, entitled l’Ile Sonnante, the
object of which seems to be to find fault with and laugh at the members and
the authorities of the Catholic Church, I protest that he did not compose it,
for it was written long after his death. I was at Paris when it was written,
and I know quite well who was its author; he was not a doctor.’ That is very
emphatic, and it is impossible to ignore it.
Yet everyone must recognize that there is a great deal of Rabelais in the
fifth book. He must have planned it and begun it. Remembering that in
1548 he had published, not as an experiment, but rather as a bait and as an
announcement, the first eleven chapters of the fourth book, we may
conclude that the first sixteen chapters of the fifth book published by
themselves nine years after his death, in 1562, represent the remainder of
his definitely finished work. This is the more certain because these first
chapters, which contain the Apologue of the Horse and the Ass and the
terrible Furred Law-cats, are markedly better than what follows them. They
are not the only ones where the master’s hand may be traced, but they are
the only ones where no other hand could possibly have interfered.
In the remainder the sentiment is distinctly Protestant. Rabelais was
much struck by the vices of the clergy and did not spare them. Whether we
are unable to forgive his criticisms because they were conceived in a spirit
of raillery, or whether, on the other hand, we feel admiration for him on this
point, yet Rabelais was not in the least a sectary. If he strongly desired a
moral reform, indirectly pointing out the need of it in his mocking fashion,
he was not favourable to a political reform. Those who would make of him
a Protestant altogether forget that the Protestants of his time were not for
him, but against him. Henri Estienne, for instance, Ramus, Theodore de
Beze, and especially Calvin, should know how he was to be regarded.
Rabelais belonged to what may be called the early reformation, to that band
of honest men in the beginning of the sixteenth century, precursors of the
later one perhaps, but, like Erasmus, between the two extremes. He was
neither Lutheran nor Calvinist, neither German nor Genevese, and it is quite
natural that his work was not reprinted in Switzerland, which would
certainly have happened had the Protestants looked on him as one of
themselves.

That Rabelais collected the materials for the fifth book, had begun it, and
got on some way, there can be no doubt: the excellence of a large number of
passages prove it, but—taken as a whole—the fifth book has not the value,
the verve, and the variety of the others. The style is quite different, less rich,
briefer, less elaborate, drier, in parts even wearisome. In the first four books
Rabelais seldom repeats himself. The fifth book contains from the point of
view of the vocabulary really the least novelty. On the contrary, it is full of
words and expressions already met with, which is very natural in an
imitation, in a copy, forced to keep to a similar tone, and to show by such
reminders and likenesses that it is really by the same pen. A very striking
point is the profound difference in the use of anatomical terms. In the other
books they are most frequently used in a humorous sense, and
nonsensically, with a quite other meaning than their own; in the fifth they
are applied correctly. It was necessary to include such terms to keep up the
practice, but the writer has not thought of using them to add to the comic
effect: one cannot always think of everything. Trouble has been taken, of
course, to include enumerations, but there are much fewer fabricated and
fantastic words. In short, the hand of the maker is far from showing the
same suppleness and strength.
A eulogistic quatrain is signed Nature quite, which, it is generally agreed,
is an anagram of Jean Turquet. Did the adapter of the fifth book sign his
work in this indirect fashion? He might be of the Genevese family to whom
Louis Turquet and his son Theodore belonged, both well-known, and both
strong Protestants. The obscurity relating to this matter is far from being
cleared up, and perhaps never will be.
It fell to my lot—here, unfortunately, I am forced to speak of a personal
matter—to print for the first time the manuscript of the fifth book. At first it
was hoped it might be in Rabelais’ own hand; afterwards that it might be at
least a copy of his unfinished work. The task was a difficult one, for the
writing, extremely flowing and rapid, is execrable, and most difficult to
decipher and to transcribe accurately. Besides, it often happens in the
sixteenth and the end of the fifteenth century, that manuscripts are much
less correct than the printed versions, even when they have not been copied
by clumsy and ignorant hands. In this case, it is the writing of a clerk
executed as quickly as possible. The farther it goes the more incorrect it
becomes, as if the writer were in haste to finish.

What is really the origin of it? It has less the appearance of notes or
fragments prepared by Rabelais than of a first attempt at revision. It is not
an author’s rough draft; still less is it his manuscript. If I had not printed this
enigmatical text with scrupulous and painful fidelity, I would do it now. It
was necessary to do it so as to clear the way. But as the thing is done, and
accessible to those who may be interested, and who wish to critically
examine it, there is no further need of reprinting it. All the editions of
Rabelais continue, and rightly, to reproduce the edition of 1564. It is not the
real Rabelais, but however open to criticism it may be, it was under that
form that the fifth book appeared in the sixteenth century, under that form it
was accepted. Consequently it is convenient and even necessary to follow
and keep to the original edition.
The first sixteen chapters may, and really must be, the text of Rabelais, in
the final form as left by him, and found after his death; the framework, and
a number of the passages in the continuation, the best ones, of course, are
his, but have been patched up and tampered with. Nothing can have been
suppressed of what existed; it was evidently thought that everything should
be admitted with the final revision; but the tone was changed, additions
were made, and ‘improvements.’ Adapters are always strangely vain.
In the seventeenth century, the French printing-press, save for an edition
issued at Troyes in 1613, gave up publishing Rabelais, and the work passed
to foreign countries. Jean Fuet reprinted him at Antwerp in 1602. After the
Amsterdam edition of 1659, where for the first time appears ‘The Alphabet
of the French Author,’ comes the Elzevire edition of 1663. The type, an
imitation of what made the reputation of the little volumes of the Gryphes
of Lyons, is charming, the printing is perfect, and the paper, which is
French—the development of paper-making in Holland and England did not
take place till after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes—is excellent.
They are pretty volumes to the eye, but, as in all the reprints of the
seventeenth century, the text is full of faults and most untrustworthy.
France, through a representative in a foreign land, however, comes into
line again in the beginning of the eighteenth century, and in a really serious
fashion, thanks to the very considerable learning of a French refugee, Jacob
Le Duchat, who died in 1748. He had a most thorough knowledge of the
French prose-writers of the sixteenth century, and he made them accessible
by his editions of the Quinze Joies du Mariage, of Henri Estienne, of

Agrippa d’Aubigne, of L’Etoile, and of the Satyre Menippee. In 1711 he
published an edition of Rabelais at Amsterdam, through Henry Bordesius,
in five duodecimo volumes. The reprint in quarto which he issued in 1741,
seven years before his death, is, with its engravings by Bernard Picot, a fine
library edition. Le Duchat’s is the first of the critical editions. It takes
account of differences in the texts, and begins to point out the variations.
His very numerous notes are remarkable, and are still worthy of most
serious consideration. He was the first to offer useful elucidations, and these
have been repeated after him, and with good reason will continue to be so.
The Abbe de Massy’s edition of 1752, also an Amsterdam production, has
made use of Le Duchat’s but does not take its place. Finally, at the end of
the century, Cazin printed Rabelais in his little volume, in 1782, and
Bartiers issued two editions (of no importance) at Paris in 1782 and 1798.
Fortunately the nineteenth century has occupied itself with the great
‘Satyrique’ in a more competent and useful fashion.
In 1820 L’Aulnaye published through Desoer his three little volumes,
printed in exquisite style, and which have other merits besides. His volume
of annotations, in which, that nothing might be lost of his own notes, he has
included many things not directly relating to Rabelais, is full of
observations and curious remarks which are very useful additions to Le
Duchat. One fault to be found with him is his further complication of the
spelling. This he did in accordance with a principle that the words should be
referred to their real etymology. Learned though he was, Rabelais had little
care to be so etymological, and it is not his theories but those of the modern
scholar that have been ventilated.
Somewhat later, from 1823 to 1826, Esmangart and Johanneau issued a
variorum edition in nine volumes, in which the text is often encumbered by
notes which are really too numerous, and, above all, too long. The work
was an enormous one, but the best part of it is Le Duchat’s, and what is not
his is too often absolutely hypothetical and beside the truth. Le Duchat had
already given too much importance to the false historical explanation. Here
it is constantly coming in, and it rests on no evidence. In reality, there is no
need of the key to Rabelais by which to discover the meaning of subtle
allusions. He is neither so complicated nor so full of riddles. We know how
he has scattered the names of contemporaries about his work, sometimes of
friends, sometimes of enemies, and without disguising them under any
mask. He is no more Panurge than Louis XII. is Gargantua or Francis I.

Pantagruel. Rabelais says what he wants, all he wants, and in the way he
wants. There are no mysteries below the surface, and it is a waste of time to
look for knots in a bulrush. All the historical explanations are purely
imaginary, utterly without proof, and should the more emphatically be
looked on as baseless and dismissed. They are radically false, and therefore
both worthless and harmful.
In 1840 there appeared in the Bibliotheque Charpentier the Rabelais in a
single duodecimo volume, begun by Charles Labiche, and, after his death,
completed by M. Paul Lacroix, whose share is the larger. The text is that of
L’Aulnaye; the short footnotes, with all their brevity, contain useful
explanations of difficult words. Amongst the editions of Rabelais this is one
of the most important, because it brought him many readers and admirers.
No other has made him so well and so widely known as this portable
volume, which has been constantly reprinted. No other has been so widely
circulated, and the sale still goes on. It was, and must still be looked on as a
most serviceable edition.
The edition published by Didot in 1857 has an altogether special
character. In the biographical notice M. Rathery for the first time treated as
they deserve the foolish prejudices which have made Rabelais
misunderstood, and M. Burgaud des Marets set the text on a quite new base.
Having proved, what of course is very evident, that in the original editions
the spelling, and the language too, were of the simplest and clearest, and
were not bristling with the nonsensical and superfluous consonants which
have given rise to the idea that Rabelais is difficult to read, he took the
trouble first of all to note the spelling of each word. Whenever in a single
instance he found it in accordance with modern spelling, he made it the
same throughout. The task was a hard one, and Rabelais certainly gained in
clearness, but over-zeal is often fatal to a reform. In respect to its precision
and the value of its notes, which are short and very judicious, Burgaud des
Marets’ edition is valuable, and is amongst those which should be known
and taken into account.
Since Le Duchat all the editions have a common fault. They are not
exactly guilty of fabricating, but they set up an artificial text in the sense
that, in order to lose as little as possible, they have collected and united
what originally were variations—the revisions, in short, of the original
editions. Guided by the wise counsels given by Brunet in 1852 in his

Researches on the old editions of Rabelais, Pierre Jannet published the first
three books in 1858; then, when the publication of the Bibliotheque
Elzevirienne was discontinued, he took up the work again and finished the
edition in Picard’s blue library, in little volumes, each book quite distinct. It
was M. Jannet who in our days first restored the pure and exact text of
Rabelais, not only without retouching it, but without making additions or
insertions, or juxtaposition of things that were not formerly found together.
For each of the books he has followed the last edition issued by Rabelais,
and all the earlier differences he gives as variations. It is astonishing that a
thing so simple and so fitting should not have been done before, and the
result is that this absolutely exact fidelity has restored a lucidity which was
not wanting in Rabelais’s time, but which had since been obscured. All who
have come after Jannet have followed in his path, and there is no reason for
straying from it.

FRANCIS RABELAIS.
THE FIRST BOOK.
To the Honoured, Noble Translator of Rabelais.

Rabelais, whose wit prodigiously was made,
All men, professions, actions to invade,
With so much furious vigour, as if it
Had lived o’er each of them, and each had quit,
Yet with such happy sleight and careless skill,
As, like the serpent, doth with laughter kill,
So that although his noble leaves appear
Antic and Gottish, and dull souls forbear
To turn them o’er, lest they should only find
Nothing but savage monsters of a mind,—
No shapen beauteous thoughts; yet when the wise
Seriously strip him of his wild disguise,
Melt down his dross, refine his massy ore,
And polish that which seem’d rough-cast before,
Search his deep sense, unveil his hidden mirth,
And make that fiery which before seem’d earth
(Conquering those things of highest consequence,
What’s difficult of language or of sense),
He will appear some noble table writ
In the old Egyptian hieroglyphic wit;
Where, though you monsters and grotescoes see,
You meet all mysteries of philosophy.
For he was wise and sovereignly bred
To know what mankind is, how ‘t may be led:
He stoop’d unto them, like that wise man, who
Rid on a stick, when ‘s children would do so.
For we are easy sullen things, and must
Be laugh’d aright, and cheated into trust;
Whilst a black piece of phlegm, that lays about
Dull menaces, and terrifies the rout,
And cajoles it, with all its peevish strength
Piteously stretch’d and botch’d up into length,
Whilst the tired rabble sleepily obey
Such opiate talk, and snore away the day,
By all his noise as much their minds relieves,
As caterwauling of wild cats frights thieves.
But Rabelais was another thing, a man
Made up of all that art and nature can
Form from a fiery genius,—he was one
Whose soul so universally was thrown
Through all the arts of life, who understood
Each stratagem by which we stray from good;
So that he best might solid virtue teach,
As some ‘gainst sins of their own bosoms preach:
He from wise choice did the true means prefer,
In the fool’s coat acting th’ philosopher.
Thus hoary Aesop’s beasts did mildly tame
Fierce man, and moralize him into shame;

Thus brave romances, while they seem to lay
Great trains of lust, platonic love display;
Thus would old Sparta, if a seldom chance
Show’d a drunk slave, teach children temperance;
Thus did the later poets nobly bring
The scene to height, making the fool the king.
And, noble sir, you vigorously have trod
In this hard path, unknown, un-understood
By its own countrymen, ‘tis you appear
Our full enjoyment which was our despair,
Scattering his mists, cheering his cynic frowns
(For radiant brightness now dark Rabelais crowns),
Leaving your brave heroic cares, which must
Make better mankind and embalm your dust,
So undeceiving us, that now we see
All wit in Gascon and in Cromarty,
Besides that Rabelais is convey’d to us,
And that our Scotland is not barbarous.

J. De la Salle.

Rablophila.
The First Decade.
The Commendation.

Musa! canas nostrorum in testimonium Amorum,
Et Gargantueas perpetuato faces,
Utque homini tali resultet nobilis Eccho:
Quicquid Fama canit, Pantagruelis erit.

The Argument.

Here I intend mysteriously to sing
With a pen pluck’d from Fame’s own wing,
Of Gargantua that learn’d breech-wiping king.

Decade the First.

I.

Help me, propitious stars; a mighty blaze
Benumbs me! I must sound the praise
Of him hath turn’d this crabbed work in such heroic phrase.

II.

What wit would not court martyrdom to hold
Upon his head a laurel of gold,
Where for each rich conceit a Pumpion-pearl is told:

III.

And such a one is this, art’s masterpiece,
A thing ne’er equall’d by old Greece:
A thing ne’er match’d as yet, a real Golden Fleece.

IV.

Vice is a soldier fights against mankind;
Which you may look but never find:
For ‘tis an envious thing, with cunning interlined.

V.

And thus he rails at drinking all before ‘em,
And for lewd women does be-whore ‘em,
And brings their painted faces and black patches to th’ quorum.

VI.

To drink he was a furious enemy
Contented with a six-penny—
(with diamond hatband, silver spurs, six horses.) pie—

VII.

And for tobacco’s pate-rotunding smoke,
Much had he said, and much more spoke,
But ‘twas not then found out, so the design was broke.

VIII.

Muse! Fancy! Faith! come now arise aloud,
Assembled in a blue-vein’d cloud,
And this tall infant in angelic arms now shroud.

IX.

To praise it further I would now begin
Were ‘t now a thoroughfare and inn,
It harbours vice, though ‘t be to catch it in a gin.

X.

Therefore, my Muse, draw up thy flowing sail,
And acclamate a gentle hail
With all thy art and metaphors, which must prevail.

Jam prima Oceani pars est praeterita nostri.
Imparibus restat danda secunda modis.
Quam si praestiterit mentem Daemon malus addam,
Cum sapiens totus prodierit Rabelais.

Malevolus.

(Reader, the Errata, which in this book are not a few, are casually lost;
and therefore the Translator, not having leisure to collect them again, craves
thy pardon for such as thou may’st meet with.)

The Author’s Prologue to the First Book.
Most noble and illustrious drinkers, and you thrice precious pockified
blades (for to you, and none else, do I dedicate my writings), Alcibiades, in
that dialogue of Plato’s, which is entitled The Banquet, whilst he was
setting forth the praises of his schoolmaster Socrates (without all question
the prince of philosophers), amongst other discourses to that purpose, said
that he resembled the Silenes. Silenes of old were little boxes, like those we
now may see in the shops of apothecaries, painted on the outside with
wanton toyish figures, as harpies, satyrs, bridled geese, horned hares,
saddled ducks, flying goats, thiller harts, and other such-like counterfeited
pictures at discretion, to excite people unto laughter, as Silenus himself,
who was the foster-father of good Bacchus, was wont to do; but within
those capricious caskets were carefully preserved and kept many rich jewels
and fine drugs, such as balm, ambergris, amomon, musk, civet, with several
kinds of precious stones, and other things of great price. Just such another
thing was Socrates. For to have eyed his outside, and esteemed of him by
his exterior appearance, you would not have given the peel of an onion for
him, so deformed he was in body, and ridiculous in his gesture. He had a
sharp pointed nose, with the look of a bull, and countenance of a fool: he
was in his carriage simple, boorish in his apparel, in fortune poor, unhappy
in his wives, unfit for all offices in the commonwealth, always laughing,
tippling, and merrily carousing to everyone, with continual gibes and jeers,
the better by those means to conceal his divine knowledge. Now, opening
this box you would have found within it a heavenly and inestimable drug, a
more than human understanding, an admirable virtue, matchless learning,
invincible courage, unimitable sobriety, certain contentment of mind,
perfect assurance, and an incredible misregard of all that for which men
commonly do so much watch, run, sail, fight, travel, toil and turmoil
themselves.
Whereunto (in your opinion) doth this little flourish of a preamble tend?
For so much as you, my good disciples, and some other jolly fools of ease
and leisure, reading the pleasant titles of some books of our invention, as
Gargantua, Pantagruel, Whippot (Fessepinte.), the Dignity of Codpieces, of

Pease and Bacon with a Commentary, &c., are too ready to judge that there
is nothing in them but jests, mockeries, lascivious discourse, and recreative
lies; because the outside (which is the title) is usually, without any farther
inquiry, entertained with scoffing and derision. But truly it is very
unbeseeming to make so slight account of the works of men, seeing
yourselves avouch that it is not the habit makes the monk, many being
monasterially accoutred, who inwardly are nothing less than monachal, and
that there are of those that wear Spanish capes, who have but little of the
valour of Spaniards in them. Therefore is it, that you must open the book,
and seriously consider of the matter treated in it. Then shall you find that it
containeth things of far higher value than the box did promise; that is to say,
that the subject thereof is not so foolish as by the title at the first sight it
would appear to be.
And put the case, that in the literal sense you meet with purposes merry
and solacious enough, and consequently very correspondent to their
inscriptions, yet must not you stop there as at the melody of the charming
syrens, but endeavour to interpret that in a sublimer sense which possibly
you intended to have spoken in the jollity of your heart. Did you ever pick
the lock of a cupboard to steal a bottle of wine out of it? Tell me truly, and,
if you did, call to mind the countenance which then you had. Or, did you
ever see a dog with a marrowbone in his mouth,—the beast of all other,
says Plato, lib. 2, de Republica, the most philosophical? If you have seen
him, you might have remarked with what devotion and circumspectness he
wards and watcheth it: with what care he keeps it: how fervently he holds it:
how prudently he gobbets it: with what affection he breaks it: and with what
diligence he sucks it. To what end all this? What moveth him to take all
these pains? What are the hopes of his labour? What doth he expect to reap
thereby? Nothing but a little marrow. True it is, that this little is more
savoury and delicious than the great quantities of other sorts of meat,
because the marrow (as Galen testifieth, 5. facult. nat. & 11. de usu
partium) is a nourishment most perfectly elaboured by nature.
In imitation of this dog, it becomes you to be wise, to smell, feel and
have in estimation these fair goodly books, stuffed with high conceptions,
which, though seemingly easy in the pursuit, are in the cope and encounter
somewhat difficult. And then, like him, you must, by a sedulous lecture, and
frequent meditation, break the bone, and suck out the marrow,—that is, my
allegorical sense, or the things I to myself propose to be signified by these

Pythagorical symbols, with assured hope, that in so doing you will at last
attain to be both well-advised and valiant by the reading of them: for in the
perusal of this treatise you shall find another kind of taste, and a doctrine of
a more profound and abstruse consideration, which will disclose unto you
the most glorious sacraments and dreadful mysteries, as well in what
concerneth your religion, as matters of the public state, and life economical.
Do you believe, upon your conscience, that Homer, whilst he was a-
couching his Iliads and Odysses, had any thought upon those allegories,
which Plutarch, Heraclides Ponticus, Eustathius, Cornutus squeezed out of
him, and which Politian filched again from them? If you trust it, with
neither hand nor foot do you come near to my opinion, which judgeth them
to have been as little dreamed of by Homer, as the Gospel sacraments were
by Ovid in his Metamorphoses, though a certain gulligut friar (Frere Lubin
croquelardon.) and true bacon-picker would have undertaken to prove it, if
perhaps he had met with as very fools as himself, (and as the proverb says)
a lid worthy of such a kettle.
If you give no credit thereto, why do not you the same in these jovial new
chronicles of mine? Albeit when I did dictate them, I thought upon no more
than you, who possibly were drinking the whilst as I was. For in the
composing of this lordly book, I never lost nor bestowed any more, nor any
other time than what was appointed to serve me for taking of my bodily
refection, that is, whilst I was eating and drinking. And indeed that is the
fittest and most proper hour wherein to write these high matters and deep
sciences: as Homer knew very well, the paragon of all philologues, and
Ennius, the father of the Latin poets, as Horace calls him, although a certain
sneaking jobernol alleged that his verses smelled more of the wine than oil.
So saith a turlupin or a new start-up grub of my books, but a turd for him.
The fragrant odour of the wine, O how much more dainty, pleasant,
laughing (Riant, priant, friant.), celestial and delicious it is, than that smell
of oil! And I will glory as much when it is said of me, that I have spent
more on wine than oil, as did Demosthenes, when it was told him, that his
expense on oil was greater than on wine. I truly hold it for an honour and
praise to be called and reputed a Frolic Gualter and a Robin Goodfellow;
for under this name am I welcome in all choice companies of
Pantagruelists. It was upbraided to Demosthenes by an envious surly knave,
that his Orations did smell like the sarpler or wrapper of a foul and filthy

oil-vessel. For this cause interpret you all my deeds and sayings in the
perfectest sense; reverence the cheese-like brain that feeds you with these
fair billevezees and trifling jollities, and do what lies in you to keep me
always merry. Be frolic now, my lads, cheer up your hearts, and joyfully
read the rest, with all the ease of your body and profit of your reins. But
hearken, joltheads, you viedazes, or dickens take ye, remember to drink a
health to me for the like favour again, and I will pledge you instantly, Tout
ares-metys.
Rabelais to the Reader.
Good friends, my Readers, who peruse this Book, Be not offended,
whilst on it you look: Denude yourselves of all depraved affection, For it
contains no badness, nor infection: ‘Tis true that it brings forth to you no
birth Of any value, but in point of mirth; Thinking therefore how sorrow
might your mind Consume, I could no apter subject find; One inch of joy
surmounts of grief a span; Because to laugh is proper to the man.

Chapter 1.I.—Of the Genealogy and Antiquity of
Gargantua.
I must refer you to the great chronicle of Pantagruel for the knowledge of
that genealogy and antiquity of race by which Gargantua is come unto us. In
it you may understand more at large how the giants were born in this world,
and how from them by a direct line issued Gargantua, the father of
Pantagruel: and do not take it ill, if for this time I pass by it, although the
subject be such, that the oftener it were remembered, the more it would
please your worshipful Seniorias; according to which you have the
authority of Plato in Philebo and Gorgias; and of Flaccus, who says that
there are some kinds of purposes (such as these are without doubt), which,
the frequentlier they be repeated, still prove the more delectable.
Would to God everyone had as certain knowledge of his genealogy since
the time of the ark of Noah until this age. I think many are at this day
emperors, kings, dukes, princes, and popes on the earth, whose extraction is
from some porters and pardon-pedlars; as, on the contrary, many are now
poor wandering beggars, wretched and miserable, who are descended of the
blood and lineage of great kings and emperors, occasioned, as I conceive it,
by the transport and revolution of kingdoms and empires, from the
Assyrians to the Medes, from the Medes to the Persians, from the Persians
to the Macedonians, from the Macedonians to the Romans, from the
Romans to the Greeks, from the Greeks to the French.
And to give you some hint concerning myself, who speaks unto you, I
cannot think but I am come of the race of some rich king or prince in
former times; for never yet saw you any man that had a greater desire to be
a king, and to be rich, than I have, and that only that I may make good
cheer, do nothing, nor care for anything, and plentifully enrich my friends,
and all honest and learned men. But herein do I comfort myself, that in the
other world I shall be so, yea and greater too than at this present I dare
wish. As for you, with the same or a better conceit consolate yourselves in
your distresses, and drink fresh if you can come by it.

To return to our wethers, I say that by the sovereign gift of heaven, the
antiquity and genealogy of Gargantua hath been reserved for our use more
full and perfect than any other except that of the Messias, whereof I mean
not to speak; for it belongs not unto my purpose, and the devils, that is to
say, the false accusers and dissembled gospellers, will therein oppose me.
This genealogy was found by John Andrew in a meadow, which he had near
the pole-arch, under the olive-tree, as you go to Narsay: where, as he was
making cast up some ditches, the diggers with their mattocks struck against
a great brazen tomb, and unmeasurably long, for they could never find the
end thereof, by reason that it entered too far within the sluices of Vienne.
Opening this tomb in a certain place thereof, sealed on the top with the
mark of a goblet, about which was written in Etrurian letters Hic Bibitur,
they found nine flagons set in such order as they use to rank their kyles in
Gascony, of which that which was placed in the middle had under it a big,
fat, great, grey, pretty, small, mouldy, little pamphlet, smelling stronger, but
no better than roses. In that book the said genealogy was found written all at
length, in a chancery hand, not in paper, not in parchment, nor in wax, but
in the bark of an elm-tree, yet so worn with the long tract of time, that
hardly could three letters together be there perfectly discerned.
I (though unworthy) was sent for thither, and with much help of those
spectacles, whereby the art of reading dim writings, and letters that do not
clearly appear to the sight, is practised, as Aristotle teacheth it, did translate
the book as you may see in your Pantagruelizing, that is to say, in drinking
stiffly to your own heart’s desire, and reading the dreadful and horrific acts
of Pantagruel. At the end of the book there was a little treatise entitled the
Antidoted Fanfreluches, or a Galimatia of extravagant conceits. The rats
and moths, or (that I may not lie) other wicked beasts, had nibbled off the
beginning: the rest I have hereto subjoined, for the reverence I bear to
antiquity.

Chapter 1.II.—-The Antidoted Fanfreluches: or, a
Galimatia of extravagant Conceits found in an
ancient Monument.
No sooner did the Cymbrians’ overcomer Pass through the air to shun the
dew of summer, But at his coming straight great tubs were fill’d, With pure
fresh butter down in showers distill’d: Wherewith when water’d was his
grandam, Hey, Aloud he cried, Fish it, sir, I pray y’; Because his beard is
almost all beray’d; Or, that he would hold to ‘m a scale, he pray’d.
To lick his slipper, some told was much better, Than to gain pardons, and
the merit greater. In th’ interim a crafty chuff approaches, From the depth
issued, where they fish for roaches; Who said, Good sirs, some of them let
us save, The eel is here, and in this hollow cave You’ll find, if that our looks
on it demur, A great waste in the bottom of his fur.
To read this chapter when he did begin, Nothing but a calf’s horns were
found therein; I feel, quoth he, the mitre which doth hold My head so chill,
it makes my brains take cold. Being with the perfume of a turnip warm’d,
To stay by chimney hearths himself he arm’d, Provided that a new thill-
horse they made Of every person of a hair-brain’d head.
They talked of the bunghole of Saint Knowles, Of Gilbathar and
thousand other holes, If they might be reduced t’ a scarry stuff, Such as
might not be subject to the cough: Since ev’ry man unseemly did it find, To
see them gaping thus at ev’ry wind: For, if perhaps they handsomely were
closed, For pledges they to men might be exposed.
In this arrest by Hercules the raven Was flayed at her (his) return from
Lybia haven. Why am not I, said Minos, there invited? Unless it be myself,
not one’s omitted: And then it is their mind, I do no more Of frogs and
oysters send them any store: In case they spare my life and prove but civil, I
give their sale of distaffs to the devil.
To quell him comes Q.B., who limping frets At the safe pass of tricksy
crackarets: The boulter, the grand Cyclops’ cousin, those Did massacre,
whilst each one wiped his nose: Few ingles in this fallow ground are bred,

But on a tanner’s mill are winnowed. Run thither all of you, th’ alarms
sound clear, You shall have more than you had the last year.
Short while thereafter was the bird of Jove Resolved to speak, though
dismal it should prove; Yet was afraid, when he saw them in ire, They
should o’erthrow quite flat down dead th’ empire. He rather choosed the fire
from heaven to steal, To boats where were red herrings put to sale; Than to
be calm ‘gainst those, who strive to brave us, And to the Massorets’ fond
words enslave us.
All this at last concluded gallantly, In spite of Ate and her hern-like thigh,
Who, sitting, saw Penthesilea ta’en, In her old age, for a cress-selling
quean. Each one cried out, Thou filthy collier toad, Doth it become thee to
be found abroad? Thou hast the Roman standard filch’d away, Which they
in rags of parchment did display.
Juno was born, who, under the rainbow, Was a-bird-catching with her
duck below: When her with such a grievous trick they plied That she had
almost been bethwacked by it. The bargain was, that, of that throatful, she
Should of Proserpina have two eggs free; And if that she thereafter should
be found, She to a hawthorn hill should be fast bound.
Seven months thereafter, lacking twenty-two, He, that of old did
Carthage town undo, Did bravely midst them all himself advance,
Requiring of them his inheritance; Although they justly made up the
division, According to the shoe-welt-law’s decision, By distributing store of
brews and beef To these poor fellows that did pen the brief.
But th’ year will come, sign of a Turkish bow, Five spindles yarn’d, and
three pot-bottoms too, Wherein of a discourteous king the dock Shall
pepper’d be under an hermit’s frock. Ah! that for one she hypocrite you
must Permit so many acres to be lost! Cease, cease, this vizard may become
another, Withdraw yourselves unto the serpent’s brother.
'Tis in times past, that he who is shall reign With his good friends in
peace now and again. No rash nor heady prince shall then rule crave, Each
good will its arbitrement shall have; And the joy, promised of old as doom
To the heaven’s guests, shall in its beacon come. Then shall the breeding
mares, that benumb’d were, Like royal palfreys ride triumphant there.
And this continue shall from time to time, Till Mars be fetter’d for an
unknown crime; Then shall one come, who others will surpass, Delightful,
pleasing, matchless, full of grace. Cheer up your hearts, approach to this

repast, All trusty friends of mine; for he’s deceased, Who would not for a
world return again, So highly shall time past be cried up then.
He who was made of wax shall lodge each member Close by the hinges
of a block of timber. We then no more shall Master, master, whoot, The
swagger, who th’ alarum bell holds out; Could one seize on the dagger
which he bears, Heads would be free from tingling in the ears, To baffle the
whole storehouse of abuses. The thus farewell Apollo and the Muses.

Chapter 1.III.—How Gargantua was carried
eleven months in his mother’s belly.
Grangousier was a good fellow in his time, and notable jester; he loved to
drink neat, as much as any man that then was in the world, and would
willingly eat salt meat. To this intent he was ordinarily well furnished with
gammons of bacon, both of Westphalia, Mayence and Bayonne, with store
of dried neat’s tongues, plenty of links, chitterlings and puddings in their
season; together with salt beef and mustard, a good deal of hard roes of
powdered mullet called botargos, great provision of sausages, not of
Bolonia (for he feared the Lombard Boccone), but of Bigorre, Longaulnay,
Brene, and Rouargue. In the vigour of his age he married Gargamelle,
daughter to the King of the Parpaillons, a jolly pug, and well-mouthed
wench. These two did oftentimes do the two-backed beast together, joyfully
rubbing and frotting their bacon ‘gainst one another, in so far, that at last
she became great with child of a fair son, and went with him unto the
eleventh month; for so long, yea longer, may a woman carry her great belly,
especially when it is some masterpiece of nature, and a person predestinated
to the performance, in his due time, of great exploits. As Homer says, that
the child, which Neptune begot upon the nymph, was born a whole year
after the conception, that is, in the twelfth month. For, as Aulus Gellius
saith, lib. 3, this long time was suitable to the majesty of Neptune, that in it
the child might receive his perfect form. For the like reason Jupiter made
the night, wherein he lay with Alcmena, last forty-eight hours, a shorter
time not being sufficient for the forging of Hercules, who cleansed the
world of the monsters and tyrants wherewith it was suppressed. My
masters, the ancient Pantagruelists, have confirmed that which I say, and
withal declared it to be not only possible, but also maintained the lawful
birth and legitimation of the infant born of a woman in the eleventh month
after the decease of her husband. Hypocrates, lib. de alimento. Plinius, lib.
7, cap. 5. Plautus, in his Cistelleria. Marcus Varro, in his satire inscribed
The Testament, alleging to this purpose the authority of Aristotle.
Censorinus, lib. de die natali. Arist. lib. 7, cap. 3 & 4, de natura animalium.
Gellius, lib. 3, cap. 16. Servius, in his exposition upon this verse of Virgil’s

eclogues, Matri longa decem, &c., and a thousand other fools, whose
number hath been increased by the lawyers ff. de suis, et legit l. intestato.
paragrapho. fin. and in Auth. de restitut. et ea quae parit in xi mense.
Moreover upon these grounds they have foisted in their Robidilardic, or
Lapiturolive law. Gallus ff. de lib. et posth. l. sept. ff. de stat. hom., and
some other laws, which at this time I dare not name. By means whereof the
honest widows may without danger play at the close buttock game with
might and main, and as hard as they can, for the space of the first two
months after the decease of their husbands. I pray you, my good lusty
springal lads, if you find any of these females, that are worth the pains of
untying the codpiece-point, get up, ride upon them, and bring them to me;
for, if they happen within the third month to conceive, the child should be
heir to the deceased, if, before he died, he had no other children, and the
mother shall pass for an honest woman.
When she is known to have conceived, thrust forward boldly, spare her
not, whatever betide you, seeing the paunch is full. As Julia, the daughter of
the Emperor Octavian, never prostituted herself to her belly-bumpers, but
when she found herself with child, after the manner of ships, that receive
not their steersman till they have their ballast and lading. And if any blame
them for this their rataconniculation, and reiterated lechery upon their
pregnancy and big-belliedness, seeing beasts, in the like exigent of their
fulness, will never suffer the male-masculant to encroach them, their answer
will be, that those are beasts, but they are women, very well skilled in the
pretty vales and small fees of the pleasant trade and mysteries of
superfetation: as Populia heretofore answered, according to the relation of
Macrobius, lib. 2. Saturnal. If the devil will not have them to bag, he must
wring hard the spigot, and stop the bung-hole.

Chapter 1.IV.—-How Gargamelle, being great
with Gargantua, did eat a huge deal of tripes.
The occasion and manner how Gargamelle was brought to bed, and
delivered of her child, was thus: and, if you do not believe it, I wish your
bum-gut fall out and make an escapade. Her bum-gut, indeed, or fundament
escaped her in an afternoon, on the third day of February, with having eaten
at dinner too many godebillios. Godebillios are the fat tripes of coiros.
Coiros are beeves fattened at the cratch in ox-stalls, or in the fresh guimo
meadows. Guimo meadows are those that for their fruitfulness may be
mowed twice a year. Of those fat beeves they had killed three hundred
sixty-seven thousand and fourteen, to be salted at Shrovetide, that in the
entering of the spring they might have plenty of powdered beef, wherewith
to season their mouths at the beginning of their meals, and to taste their
wine the better.
They had abundance of tripes, as you have heard, and they were so
delicious, that everyone licked his fingers. But the mischief was this, that,
for all men could do, there was no possibility to keep them long in that
relish; for in a very short while they would have stunk, which had been an
undecent thing. It was therefore concluded, that they should be all of them
gulched up, without losing anything. To this effect they invited all the
burghers of Sainais, of Suille, of the Roche-Clermaud, of Vaugaudry,
without omitting the Coudray, Monpensier, the Gue de Vede, and other their
neighbours, all stiff drinkers, brave fellows, and good players at the kyles.
The good man Grangousier took great pleasure in their company, and
commanded there should be no want nor pinching for anything.
Nevertheless he bade his wife eat sparingly, because she was near her time,
and that these tripes were no very commendable meat. They would fain,
said he, be at the chewing of ordure, that would eat the case wherein it was.
Notwithstanding these admonitions, she did eat sixteen quarters, two
bushels, three pecks and a pipkin full. O the fair fecality wherewith she
swelled, by the ingrediency of such shitten stuff!

After dinner they all went out in a hurl to the grove of the willows,
where, on the green grass, to the sound of the merry flutes and pleasant
bagpipes, they danced so gallantly, that it was a sweet and heavenly sport to
see them so frolic.

Chapter 1.V.—The Discourse of the Drinkers.

Then did they fall upon the chat of victuals and some belly furniture to be
snatched at in the very same place. Which purpose was no sooner
mentioned, but forthwith began flagons to go, gammons to trot, goblets to
fly, great bowls to ting, glasses to ring. Draw, reach, fill, mix, give it me
without water. So, my friend, so, whip me off this glass neatly, bring me
hither some claret, a full weeping glass till it run over. A cessation and truce
with thirst. Ha, thou false fever, wilt thou not be gone? By my figgins,
godmother, I cannot as yet enter in the humour of being merry, nor drink so
currently as I would. You have catched a cold, gammer? Yea, forsooth, sir.
By the belly of Sanct Buff, let us talk of our drink: I never drink but at my
hours, like the Pope’s mule. And I never drink but in my breviary, like a fair
father guardian. Which was first, thirst or drinking? Thirst, for who in the
time of innocence would have drunk without being athirst? Nay, sir, it was
drinking; for privatio praesupponit habitum. I am learned, you see:
Foecundi calices quem non fecere disertum? We poor innocents drink but
too much without thirst. Not I truly, who am a sinner, for I never drink
without thirst, either present or future. To prevent it, as you know, I drink
for the thirst to come. I drink eternally. This is to me an eternity of drinking,
and drinking of eternity. Let us sing, let us drink, and tune up our
roundelays. Where is my funnel? What, it seems I do not drink but by an
attorney? Do you wet yourselves to dry, or do you dry to wet you? Pish, I

understand not the rhetoric (theoric, I should say), but I help myself
somewhat by the practice. Baste! enough! I sup, I wet, I humect, I moisten
my gullet, I drink, and all for fear of dying. Drink always and you shall
never die. If I drink not, I am a-ground, dry, gravelled and spent. I am stark
dead without drink, and my soul ready to fly into some marsh amongst
frogs; the soul never dwells in a dry place, drouth kills it. O you butlers,
creators of new forms, make me of no drinker a drinker, a perennity and
everlastingness of sprinkling and bedewing me through these my parched
and sinewy bowels. He drinks in vain that feels not the pleasure of it. This
entereth into my veins,—the pissing tools and urinal vessels shall have
nothing of it. I would willingly wash the tripes of the calf which I
apparelled this morning. I have pretty well now ballasted my stomach and
stuffed my paunch. If the papers of my bonds and bills could drink as well
as I do, my creditors would not want for wine when they come to see me, or
when they are to make any formal exhibition of their rights to what of me
they can demand. This hand of yours spoils your nose. O how many other
such will enter here before this go out! What, drink so shallow? It is enough
to break both girds and petrel. This is called a cup of dissimulation, or
flagonal hypocrisy.
What difference is there between a bottle and a flagon. Great difference;
for the bottle is stopped and shut up with a stopple, but the flagon with a
vice (La bouteille est fermee a bouchon, et le flaccon a vis.). Bravely and
well played upon the words! Our fathers drank lustily, and emptied their
cans. Well cacked, well sung! Come, let us drink: will you send nothing to
the river? Here is one going to wash the tripes. I drink no more than a
sponge. I drink like a Templar knight. And I, tanquam sponsus. And I, sicut
terra sine aqua. Give me a synonymon for a gammon of bacon. It is the
compulsory of drinkers: it is a pulley. By a pulley-rope wine is let down
into a cellar, and by a gammon into the stomach. Hey! now, boys, hither,
some drink, some drink. There is no trouble in it. Respice personam, pone
pro duos, bus non est in usu. If I could get up as well as I can swallow
down, I had been long ere now very high in the air.
Thus became Tom Tosspot rich,—thus went in the tailor’s stitch. Thus
did Bacchus conquer th’ Inde—thus Philosophy, Melinde. A little rain allays
a great deal of wind: long tippling breaks the thunder. But if there came
such liquor from my ballock, would you not willingly thereafter suck the
udder whence it issued? Here, page, fill! I prithee, forget me not when it

comes to my turn, and I will enter the election I have made of thee into the
very register of my heart. Sup, Guillot, and spare not, there is somewhat in
the pot. I appeal from thirst, and disclaim its jurisdiction. Page, sue out my
appeal in form. This remnant in the bottom of the glass must follow its
leader. I was wont heretofore to drink out all, but now I leave nothing. Let
us not make too much haste; it is requisite we carry all along with us.
Heyday, here are tripes fit for our sport, and, in earnest, excellent
godebillios of the dun ox (you know) with the black streak. O, for God’s
sake, let us lash them soundly, yet thriftily. Drink, or I will,—No, no, drink,
I beseech you (Ou je vous, je vous prie.). Sparrows will not eat unless you
bob them on the tail, nor can I drink if I be not fairly spoke to. The
concavities of my body are like another Hell for their capacity.
Lagonaedatera (lagon lateris cavitas: aides orcus: and eteros alter.). There is
not a corner, nor coney-burrow in all my body, where this wine doth not
ferret out my thirst. Ho, this will bang it soundly. But this shall banish it
utterly. Let us wind our horns by the sound of flagons and bottles, and cry
aloud, that whoever hath lost his thirst come not hither to seek it. Long
clysters of drinking are to be voided without doors. The great God made the
planets, and we make the platters neat. I have the word of the gospel in my
mouth, Sitio. The stone called asbestos is not more unquenchable than the
thirst of my paternity. Appetite comes with eating, says Angeston, but the
thirst goes away with drinking. I have a remedy against thirst, quite
contrary to that which is good against the biting of a mad dog. Keep
running after a dog, and he will never bite you; drink always before the
thirst, and it will never come upon you. There I catch you, I awake you.
Argus had a hundred eyes for his sight, a butler should have (like Briareus)
a hundred hands wherewith to fill us wine indefatigably. Hey now, lads, let
us moisten ourselves, it will be time to dry hereafter. White wine here,
wine, boys! Pour out all in the name of Lucifer, fill here, you, fill and fill
(peascods on you) till it be full. My tongue peels. Lans trinque; to thee,
countryman, I drink to thee, good fellow, comrade to thee, lusty, lively! Ha,
la, la, that was drunk to some purpose, and bravely gulped over. O lachryma
Christi, it is of the best grape! I’faith, pure Greek, Greek! O the fine white
wine! upon my conscience, it is a kind of taffetas wine,—hin, hin, it is of
one ear, well wrought, and of good wool. Courage, comrade, up thy heart,
billy! We will not be beasted at this bout, for I have got one trick. Ex hoc in
hoc. There is no enchantment nor charm there, every one of you hath seen

it. My ‘prenticeship is out, I am a free man at this trade. I am prester mast
(Prestre mace, maistre passe.), Prish, Brum! I should say, master past. O the
drinkers, those that are a-dry, O poor thirsty souls! Good page, my friend,
fill me here some, and crown the wine, I pray thee. Like a cardinal! Natura
abhorret vacuum. Would you say that a fly could drink in this? This is after
the fashion of Switzerland. Clear off, neat, supernaculum! Come, therefore,
blades, to this divine liquor and celestial juice, swill it over heartily, and
spare not! It is a decoction of nectar and ambrosia.

Chapter 1.VI.—How Gargantua was born in a
strange manner.
Whilst they were on this discourse and pleasant tattle of drinking,
Gargamelle began to be a little unwell in her lower parts; whereupon
Grangousier arose from off the grass, and fell to comfort her very honestly
and kindly, suspecting that she was in travail, and told her that it was best
for her to sit down upon the grass under the willows, because she was like
very shortly to see young feet, and that therefore it was convenient she
should pluck up her spirits, and take a good heart of new at the fresh arrival
of her baby; saying to her withal, that although the pain was somewhat
grievous to her, it would be but of short continuance, and that the
succeeding joy would quickly remove that sorrow, in such sort that she
should not so much as remember it. On, with a sheep’s courage! quoth he.
Despatch this boy, and we will speedily fall to work for the making of
another. Ha! said she, so well as you speak at your own ease, you that are
men! Well, then, in the name of God, I’ll do my best, seeing that you will
have it so, but would to God that it were cut off from you! What? said
Grangousier. Ha, said she, you are a good man indeed, you understand it
well enough. What, my member? said he. By the goat’s blood, if it please
you, that shall be done instantly; cause bring hither a knife. Alas, said she,
the Lord forbid, and pray Jesus to forgive me! I did not say it from my
heart, therefore let it alone, and do not do it neither more nor less any kind
of harm for my speaking so to you. But I am like to have work enough to do
to-day and all for your member, yet God bless you and it.
Courage, courage, said he, take you no care of the matter, let the four
foremost oxen do the work. I will yet go drink one whiff more, and if in the
mean time anything befall you that may require my presence, I will be so
near to you, that, at the first whistling in your fist, I shall be with you
forthwith. A little while after she began to groan, lament and cry. Then
suddenly came the midwives from all quarters, who groping her below,
found some peloderies, which was a certain filthy stuff, and of a taste truly
bad enough. This they thought had been the child, but it was her fundament,
that was slipped out with the mollification of her straight entrail, which you

call the bum-gut, and that merely by eating of too many tripes, as we have
showed you before. Whereupon an old ugly trot in the company, who had
the repute of an expert she-physician, and was come from Brisepaille, near
to Saint Genou, three score years before, made her so horrible a restrictive
and binding medicine, and whereby all her larris, arse-pipes, and conduits
were so oppilated, stopped, obstructed, and contracted, that you could
hardly have opened and enlarged them with your teeth, which is a terrible
thing to think upon; seeing the Devil at the mass at Saint Martin’s was
puzzled with the like task, when with his teeth he had lengthened out the
parchment whereon he wrote the tittle-tattle of two young mangy whores.
By this inconvenient the cotyledons of her matrix were presently loosed,
through which the child sprang up and leaped, and so, entering into the
hollow vein, did climb by the diaphragm even above her shoulders, where
the vein divides itself into two, and from thence taking his way towards the
left side, issued forth at her left ear. As soon as he was born, he cried not as
other babes use to do, Miez, miez, miez, miez, but with a high, sturdy, and
big voice shouted about, Some drink, some drink, some drink, as inviting
all the world to drink with him. The noise hereof was so extremely great,
that it was heard in both the countries at once of Beauce and Bibarois. I
doubt me, that you do not thoroughly believe the truth of this strange
nativity. Though you believe it not, I care not much: but an honest man, and
of good judgment, believeth still what is told him, and that which he finds
written.
Is this beyond our law or our faith—against reason or the holy Scripture?
For my part, I find nothing in the sacred Bible that is against it. But tell me,
if it had been the will of God, would you say that he could not do it? Ha, for
favour sake, I beseech you, never emberlucock or inpulregafize your spirits
with these vain thoughts and idle conceits; for I tell you, it is not impossible
with God, and, if he pleased, all women henceforth should bring forth their
children at the ear. Was not Bacchus engendered out of the very thigh of
Jupiter? Did not Roquetaillade come out at his mother’s heel, and
Crocmoush from the slipper of his nurse? Was not Minerva born of the
brain, even through the ear of Jove? Adonis, of the bark of a myrrh tree; and
Castor and Pollux of the doupe of that egg which was laid and hatched by
Leda? But you would wonder more, and with far greater amazement, if I
should now present you with that chapter of Plinius, wherein he treateth of
strange births, and contrary to nature, and yet am not I so impudent a liar as

he was. Read the seventh book of his Natural History, chap.3, and trouble
not my head any more about this.

Chapter 1.VII.—After what manner Gargantua
had his name given him, and how he tippled,
bibbed, and curried the can.

The good man Grangousier, drinking and making merry with the rest,
heard the horrible noise which his son had made as he entered into the light
of this world, when he cried out, Some drink, some drink, some drink;
whereupon he said in French, Que grand tu as et souple le gousier! that is to
say, How great and nimble a throat thou hast. Which the company hearing,

said that verily the child ought to be called Gargantua; because it was the
first word that after his birth his father had spoke, in imitation, and at the
example of the ancient Hebrews; whereunto he condescended, and his
mother was very well pleased therewith. In the meanwhile, to quiet the
child, they gave him to drink a tirelaregot, that is, till his throat was like to
crack with it; then was he carried to the font, and there baptized, according
to the manner of good Christians.
Immediately thereafter were appointed for him seventeen thousand, nine
hundred, and thirteen cows of the towns of Pautille and Brehemond, to
furnish him with milk in ordinary, for it was impossible to find a nurse
sufficient for him in all the country, considering the great quantity of milk
that was requisite for his nourishment; although there were not wanting
some doctors of the opinion of Scotus, who affirmed that his own mother
gave him suck, and that she could draw out of her breasts one thousand,
four hundred, two pipes, and nine pails of milk at every time.
Which indeed is not probable, and this point hath been found duggishly
scandalous and offensive to tender ears, for that it savoured a little of
heresy. Thus was he handled for one year and ten months; after which time,
by the advice of physicians, they began to carry him, and then was made for
him a fine little cart drawn with oxen, of the invention of Jan Denio,
wherein they led him hither and thither with great joy; and he was worth the
seeing, for he was a fine boy, had a burly physiognomy, and almost ten
chins. He cried very little, but beshit himself every hour: for, to speak truly
of him, he was wonderfully phlegmatic in his posteriors, both by reason of
his natural complexion and the accidental disposition which had befallen
him by his too much quaffing of the Septembral juice. Yet without a cause
did not he sup one drop; for if he happened to be vexed, angry, displeased,
or sorry, if he did fret, if he did weep, if he did cry, and what grievous
quarter soever he kept, in bringing him some drink, he would be instantly
pacified, reseated in his own temper, in a good humour again, and as still
and quiet as ever. One of his governesses told me (swearing by her fig),
how he was so accustomed to this kind of way, that, at the sound of pints
and flagons, he would on a sudden fall into an ecstasy, as if he had then
tasted of the joys of paradise; so that they, upon consideration of this, his
divine complexion, would every morning, to cheer him up, play with a
knife upon the glasses, on the bottles with their stopples, and on the pottle-
pots with their lids and covers, at the sound whereof he became gay, did

leap for joy, would loll and rock himself in the cradle, then nod with his
head, monochordizing with his fingers, and barytonizing with his tail.

Chapter 1.VIII.—How they apparelled
Gargantua.
Being of this age, his father ordained to have clothes made to him in his
own livery, which was white and blue. To work then went the tailors, and
with great expedition were those clothes made, cut, and sewed, according to
the fashion that was then in request. I find by the ancient records or
pancarts, to be seen in the chamber of accounts, or court of the exchequer at
Montsoreau, that he was accoutred in manner as followeth. To make him
every shirt of his were taken up nine hundred ells of Chasteleraud linen, and
two hundred for the gussets, in manner of cushions, which they put under
his armpits. His shirt was not gathered nor plaited, for the plaiting of shirts
was not found out till the seamstresses (when the point of their needle
(Besongner du cul, Englished The eye of the needle.) was broken) began to
work and occupy with the tail. There were taken up for his doublet, eight
hundred and thirteen ells of white satin, and for his points fifteen hundred
and nine dogs’ skins and a half. Then was it that men began to tie their
breeches to their doublets, and not their doublets to their breeches: for it is
against nature, as hath most amply been showed by Ockham upon the
exponibles of Master Haultechaussade.
For his breeches were taken up eleven hundred and five ells and a third
of white broadcloth. They were cut in the form of pillars, chamfered,
channelled and pinked behind that they might not over-heat his reins: and
were, within the panes, puffed out with the lining of as much blue damask
as was needful: and remark, that he had very good leg-harness,
proportionable to the rest of his stature.
For his codpiece were used sixteen ells and a quarter of the same cloth,
and it was fashioned on the top like unto a triumphant arch, most gallantly
fastened with two enamelled clasps, in each of which was set a great
emerald, as big as an orange; for, as says Orpheus, lib. de lapidibus, and
Plinius, libro ultimo, it hath an erective virtue and comfortative of the
natural member. The exiture, outjecting or outstanding, of his codpiece was
of the length of a yard, jagged and pinked, and withal bagging, and strutting

out with the blue damask lining, after the manner of his breeches. But had
you seen the fair embroidery of the small needlework purl, and the
curiously interlaced knots, by the goldsmith’s art set out and trimmed with
rich diamonds, precious rubies, fine turquoises, costly emeralds, and
Persian pearls, you would have compared it to a fair cornucopia, or horn of
abundance, such as you see in antiques, or as Rhea gave to the two nymphs,
Amalthea and Ida, the nurses of Jupiter.
And, like to that horn of abundance, it was still gallant, succulent,
droppy, sappy, pithy, lively, always flourishing, always fructifying, full of
juice, full of flower, full of fruit, and all manner of delight. I avow God, it
would have done one good to have seen him, but I will tell you more of him
in the book which I have made of the dignity of codpieces. One thing I will
tell you, that as it was both long and large, so was it well furnished and
victualled within, nothing like unto the hypocritical codpieces of some fond
wooers and wench-courtiers, which are stuffed only with wind, to the great
prejudice of the female sex.
For his shoes were taken up four hundred and six ells of blue crimson-
velvet, and were very neatly cut by parallel lines, joined in uniform
cylinders. For the soling of them were made use of eleven hundred hides of
brown cows, shapen like the tail of a keeling.
For his coat were taken up eighteen hundred ells of blue velvet, dyed in
grain, embroidered in its borders with fair gilliflowers, in the middle decked
with silver purl, intermixed with plates of gold and store of pearls, hereby
showing that in his time he would prove an especial good fellow and
singular whipcan.
His girdle was made of three hundred ells and a half of silken serge, half
white and half blue, if I mistake it not. His sword was not of Valentia, nor
his dagger of Saragossa, for his father could not endure these hidalgos
borrachos maranisados como diablos: but he had a fair sword made of
wood, and the dagger of boiled leather, as well painted and gilded as any
man could wish.
His purse was made of the cod of an elephant, which was given him by
Herr Pracontal, proconsul of Lybia.
For his gown were employed nine thousand six hundred ells, wanting
two-thirds, of blue velvet, as before, all so diagonally purled, that by true
perspective issued thence an unnamed colour, like that you see in the necks

of turtle-doves or turkey-cocks, which wonderfully rejoiced the eyes of the
beholders. For his bonnet or cap were taken up three hundred, two ells and
a quarter of white velvet, and the form thereof was wide and round, of the
bigness of his head; for his father said that the caps of the Marrabaise
fashion, made like the cover of a pasty, would one time or other bring a
mischief on those that wore them. For his plume, he wore a fair great blue
feather, plucked from an onocrotal of the country of Hircania the wild, very
prettily hanging down over his right ear. For the jewel or brooch which in
his cap he carried, he had in a cake of gold, weighing three score and eight
marks, a fair piece enamelled, wherein was portrayed a man’s body with
two heads, looking towards one another, four arms, four feet, two arses,
such as Plato, in Symposio, says was the mystical beginning of man’s
nature; and about it was written in Ionic letters, Agame ou zetei ta eautes, or
rather, Aner kai gune zugada anthrotos idiaitata, that is, Vir et mulier
junctim propriissime homo. To wear about his neck, he had a golden chain,
weighing twenty-five thousand and sixty-three marks of gold, the links
thereof being made after the manner of great berries, amongst which were
set in work green jaspers engraven and cut dragon-like, all environed with
beams and sparks, as king Nicepsos of old was wont to wear them: and it
reached down to the very bust of the rising of his belly, whereby he reaped
great benefit all his life long, as the Greek physicians know well enough.
For his gloves were put in work sixteen otters’ skins, and three of the
loupgarous, or men-eating wolves, for the bordering of them: and of this
stuff were they made, by the appointment of the Cabalists of Sanlouand. As
for the rings which his father would have him to wear, to renew the ancient
mark of nobility, he had on the forefinger of his left hand a carbuncle as big
as an ostrich’s egg, enchased very daintily in gold of the fineness of a
Turkey seraph. Upon the middle finger of the same hand he had a ring made
of four metals together, of the strangest fashion that ever was seen; so that
the steel did not crash against the gold, nor the silver crush the copper. All
this was made by Captain Chappuys, and Alcofribas his good agent. On the
medical finger of his right hand he had a ring made spire-wise, wherein was
set a perfect Balas ruby, a pointed diamond, and a Physon emerald, of an
inestimable value. For Hans Carvel, the king of Melinda’s jeweller,
esteemed them at the rate of threescore nine millions, eight hundred ninety-
four thousand, and eighteen French crowns of Berry, and at so much did the
Foucres of Augsburg prize them.

Chapter 1.IX.—The colours and liveries of
Gargantua.
Gargantua’s colours were white and blue, as I have showed you before,
by which his father would give us to understand that his son to him was a
heavenly joy; for the white did signify gladness, pleasure, delight, and
rejoicing, and the blue, celestial things. I know well enough that, in reading
this, you laugh at the old drinker, and hold this exposition of colours to be
very extravagant, and utterly disagreeable to reason, because white is said
to signify faith, and blue constancy. But without moving, vexing, heating,
or putting you in a chafe (for the weather is dangerous), answer me, if it
please you; for no other compulsory way of arguing will I use towards you,
or any else; only now and then I will mention a word or two of my bottle.
What is it that induceth you, what stirs you up to believe, or who told you
that white signifieth faith, and blue constancy? An old paltry book, say you,
sold by the hawking pedlars and balladmongers, entitled The Blason of
Colours. Who made it? Whoever it was, he was wise in that he did not set
his name to it. But, besides, I know not what I should rather admire in him,
his presumption or his sottishness. His presumption and overweening, for
that he should without reason, without cause, or without any appearance of
truth, have dared to prescribe, by his private authority, what things should
be denotated and signified by the colour: which is the custom of tyrants,
who will have their will to bear sway in stead of equity, and not of the wise
and learned, who with the evidence of reason satisfy their readers. His
sottishness and want of spirit, in that he thought that, without any other
demonstration or sufficient argument, the world would be pleased to make
his blockish and ridiculous impositions the rule of their devices. In effect,
according to the proverb, To a shitten tail fails never ordure, he hath found,
it seems, some simple ninny in those rude times of old, when the wearing of
high round bonnets was in fashion, who gave some trust to his writings,
according to which they carved and engraved their apophthegms and
mottoes, trapped and caparisoned their mules and sumpter-horses,
apparelled their pages, quartered their breeches, bordered their gloves,
fringed the curtains and valances of their beds, painted their ensigns,

composed songs, and, which is worse, placed many deceitful jugglings and
unworthy base tricks undiscoveredly amongst the very chastest matrons and
most reverend sciences. In the like darkness and mist of ignorance are
wrapped up these vain-glorious courtiers and name-transposers, who, going
about in their impresas to signify esperance (that is, hope), have portrayed a
sphere—and birds’ pennes for pains—l’ancholie (which is the flower
colombine) for melancholy—a waning moon or crescent, to show the
increasing or rising of one’s fortune—a bench rotten and broken, to signify
bankrupt—non and a corslet for non dur habit (otherwise non durabit, it
shall not last), un lit sans ciel, that is, a bed without a tester, for un licencie,
a graduated person, as bachelor in divinity or utter barrister-at-law; which
are equivocals so absurd and witless, so barbarous and clownish, that a
fox’s tail should be fastened to the neck-piece of, and a vizard made of a
cowsherd given to everyone that henceforth should offer, after the
restitution of learning, to make use of any such fopperies in France.
By the same reasons (if reasons I should call them, and not ravings rather,
and idle triflings about words), might I cause paint a pannier, to signify that
I am in pain—a mustard-pot, that my heart tarries much for’t—one pissing
upwards for a bishop—the bottom of a pair of breeches for a vessel full of
fart-hings—a codpiece for the office of the clerks of the sentences, decrees,
or judgments, or rather, as the English bears it, for the tail of a codfish—and
a dog’s turd for the dainty turret wherein lies the love of my sweetheart. Far
otherwise did heretofore the sages of Egypt, when they wrote by letters,
which they called hieroglyphics, which none understood who were not
skilled in the virtue, property, and nature of the things represented by them.
Of which Orus Apollon hath in Greek composed two books, and Polyphilus,
in his Dream of Love, set down more. In France you have a taste of them in
the device or impresa of my Lord Admiral, which was carried before that
time by Octavian Augustus. But my little skiff alongst these unpleasant
gulfs and shoals will sail no further, therefore must I return to the port from
whence I came. Yet do I hope one day to write more at large of these things,
and to show both by philosophical arguments and authorities, received and
approved of by and from all antiquity, what, and how many colours there
are in nature, and what may be signified by every one of them, if God save
the mould of my cap, which is my best wine-pot, as my grandam said.

Chapter 1.X.—Of that which is signified by the
colours white and blue.
The white therefore signifieth joy, solace, and gladness, and that not at
random, but upon just and very good grounds: which you may perceive to
be true, if laying aside all prejudicate affections, you will but give ear to
what presently I shall expound unto you.
Aristotle saith that, supposing two things contrary in their kind, as good
and evil, virtue and vice, heat and cold, white and black, pleasure and pain,
joy and grief,—and so of others,—if you couple them in such manner that
the contrary of one kind may agree in reason with the contrary of the other,
it must follow by consequence that the other contrary must answer to the
remanent opposite to that wherewith it is conferred. As, for example, virtue
and vice are contrary in one kind, so are good and evil. If one of the
contraries of the first kind be consonant to one of those of the second, as
virtue and goodness, for it is clear that virtue is good, so shall the other two
contraries, which are evil and vice, have the same connection, for vice is
evil.
This logical rule being understood, take these two contraries, joy and
sadness; then these other two, white and black, for they are physically
contrary. If so be, then, that black do signify grief, by good reason then
should white import joy. Nor is this signification instituted by human
imposition, but by the universal consent of the world received, which
philosophers call Jus Gentium, the Law of Nations, or an uncontrollable
right of force in all countries whatsoever. For you know well enough that all
people, and all languages and nations, except the ancient Syracusans and
certain Argives, who had cross and thwarting souls, when they mean
outwardly to give evidence of their sorrow, go in black; and all mourning is
done with black. Which general consent is not without some argument and
reason in nature, the which every man may by himself very suddenly
comprehend, without the instruction of any—and this we call the law of
nature. By virtue of the same natural instinct we know that by white all the
world hath understood joy, gladness, mirth, pleasure, and delight. In former

times the Thracians and Cretans did mark their good, propitious, and
fortunate days with white stones, and their sad, dismal, and unfortunate
ones with black. Is not the night mournful, sad, and melancholic? It is black
and dark by the privation of light. Doth not the light comfort all the world?
And it is more white than anything else. Which to prove, I could direct you
to the book of Laurentius Valla against Bartolus; but an evangelical
testimony I hope will content you. Matth. 17 it is said that, at the
transfiguration of our Lord, Vestimenta ejus facta sunt alba sicut lux, his
apparel was made white like the light. By which lightsome whiteness he
gave his three apostles to understand the idea and figure of the eternal joys;
for by the light are all men comforted, according to the word of the old
woman, who, although she had never a tooth in her head, was wont to say,
Bona lux. And Tobit, chap.5, after he had lost his sight, when Raphael
saluted him, answered, What joy can I have, that do not see the light of
Heaven? In that colour did the angels testify the joy of the whole world at
the resurrection of our Saviour, John 20, and at his ascension, Acts 1. With
the like colour of vesture did St. John the Evangelist, Apoc. 4.7, see the
faithful clothed in the heavenly and blessed Jerusalem.
Read the ancient, both Greek and Latin histories, and you shall find that
the town of Alba (the first pattern of Rome) was founded and so named by
reason of a white sow that was seen there. You shall likewise find in those
stories, that when any man, after he had vanquished his enemies, was by
decree of the senate to enter into Rome triumphantly, he usually rode in a
chariot drawn by white horses: which in the ovation triumph was also the
custom; for by no sign or colour would they so significantly express the joy
of their coming as by the white. You shall there also find, how Pericles, the
general of the Athenians, would needs have that part of his army unto
whose lot befell the white beans, to spend the whole day in mirth, pleasure,
and ease, whilst the rest were a-fighting. A thousand other examples and
places could I allege to this purpose, but that it is not here where I should do
it.
By understanding hereof, you may resolve one problem, which
Alexander Aphrodiseus hath accounted unanswerable: why the lion, who
with his only cry and roaring affrights all beasts, dreads and feareth only a
white cock? For, as Proclus saith, Libro de Sacrificio et Magia, it is because
the presence of the virtue of the sun, which is the organ and promptuary of
all terrestrial and sidereal light, doth more symbolize and agree with a white

cock, as well in regard of that colour, as of his property and specifical
quality, than with a lion. He saith, furthermore, that devils have been often
seen in the shape of lions, which at the sight of a white cock have presently
vanished. This is the cause why Galli or Gallices (so are the Frenchmen
called, because they are naturally white as milk, which the Greeks call
Gala,) do willingly wear in their caps white feathers, for by nature they are
of a candid disposition, merry, kind, gracious, and well-beloved, and for
their cognizance and arms have the whitest flower of any, the Flower de
luce or Lily.
If you demand how, by white, nature would have us understand joy and
gladness, I answer, that the analogy and uniformity is thus. For, as the white
doth outwardly disperse and scatter the rays of the sight, whereby the optic
spirits are manifestly dissolved, according to the opinion of Aristotle in his
problems and perspective treatises; as you may likewise perceive by
experience, when you pass over mountains covered with snow, how you
will complain that you cannot see well; as Xenophon writes to have
happened to his men, and as Galen very largely declareth, lib. 10, de usu
partium: just so the heart with excessive joy is inwardly dilated, and
suffereth a manifest resolution of the vital spirits, which may go so far on
that it may thereby be deprived of its nourishment, and by consequence of
life itself, by this perichary or extremity of gladness, as Galen saith, lib. 12,
method, lib. 5, de locis affectis, and lib. 2, de symptomatum causis. And as
it hath come to pass in former times, witness Marcus Tullius, lib. 1, Quaest.
Tuscul., Verrius, Aristotle, Titus Livius, in his relation of the battle of
Cannae, Plinius, lib. 7, cap. 32 and 34, A. Gellius, lib. 3, c. 15, and many
other writers,—to Diagoras the Rhodian, Chilon, Sophocles, Dionysius the
tyrant of Sicily, Philippides, Philemon, Polycrates, Philistion, M. Juventi,
and others who died with joy. And as Avicen speaketh, in 2 canon et lib. de
virib. cordis, of the saffron, that it doth so rejoice the heart that, if you take
of it excessively, it will by a superfluous resolution and dilation deprive it
altogether of life. Here peruse Alex. Aphrodiseus, lib. 1, Probl., cap. 19, and
that for a cause. But what? It seems I am entered further into this point than
I intended at the first. Here, therefore, will I strike sail, referring the rest to
that book of mine which handleth this matter to the full. Meanwhile, in a
word I will tell you, that blue doth certainly signify heaven and heavenly
things, by the same very tokens and symbols that white signifieth joy and
pleasure.

Chapter 1.XI.—Of the youthful age of Gargantua.

Gargantua, from three years upwards unto five, was brought up and
instructed in all convenient discipline by the commandment of his father;
and spent that time like the other little children of the country, that is, in
drinking, eating, and sleeping: in eating, sleeping, and drinking: and in
sleeping, drinking, and eating. Still he wallowed and rolled up and down
himself in the mire and dirt—he blurred and sullied his nose with filth—he
blotted and smutched his face with any kind of scurvy stuff—he trod down
his shoes in the heel—at the flies he did oftentimes yawn, and ran very

heartily after the butterflies, the empire whereof belonged to his father. He
pissed in his shoes, shit in his shirt, and wiped his nose on his sleeve—he
did let his snot and snivel fall in his pottage, and dabbled, paddled, and
slobbered everywhere—he would drink in his slipper, and ordinarily rub his
belly against a pannier. He sharpened his teeth with a top, washed his hands
with his broth, and combed his head with a bowl. He would sit down
betwixt two stools, and his arse to the ground —would cover himself with a
wet sack, and drink in eating of his soup. He did eat his cake sometimes
without bread, would bite in laughing, and laugh in biting. Oftentimes did
he spit in the basin, and fart for fatness, piss against the sun, and hide
himself in the water for fear of rain. He would strike out of the cold iron, be
often in the dumps, and frig and wriggle it. He would flay the fox, say the
ape’s paternoster, return to his sheep, and turn the hogs to the hay. He would
beat the dogs before the lion, put the plough before the oxen, and claw
where it did not itch. He would pump one to draw somewhat out of him, by
griping all would hold fast nothing, and always eat his white bread first. He
shoed the geese, kept a self-tickling to make himself laugh, and was very
steadable in the kitchen: made a mock at the gods, would cause sing
Magnificat at matins, and found it very convenient so to do. He would eat
cabbage, and shite beets,—knew flies in a dish of milk, and would make
them lose their feet. He would scrape paper, blur parchment, then run away
as hard as he could. He would pull at the kid’s leather, or vomit up his
dinner, then reckon without his host. He would beat the bushes without
catching the birds, thought the moon was made of green cheese, and that
bladders are lanterns. Out of one sack he would take two moultures or fees
for grinding; would act the ass’s part to get some bran, and of his fist would
make a mallet. He took the cranes at the first leap, and would have the mail-
coats to be made link after link. He always looked a given horse in the
mouth, leaped from the cock to the ass, and put one ripe between two green.
By robbing Peter he paid Paul, he kept the moon from the wolves, and
hoped to catch larks if ever the heavens should fall. He did make of
necessity virtue, of such bread such pottage, and cared as little for the
peeled as for the shaven. Every morning he did cast up his gorge, and his
father’s little dogs eat out of the dish with him, and he with them. He would
bite their ears, and they would scratch his nose—he would blow in their
arses, and they would lick his chaps.

But hearken, good fellows, the spigot ill betake you, and whirl round
your brains, if you do not give ear! This little lecher was always groping his
nurses and governesses, upside down, arsiversy, topsyturvy, harri
bourriquet, with a Yacco haick, hyck gio! handling them very rudely in
jumbling and tumbling them to keep them going; for he had already begun
to exercise the tools, and put his codpiece in practice. Which codpiece, or
braguette, his governesses did every day deck up and adorn with fair
nosegays, curious rubies, sweet flowers, and fine silken tufts, and very
pleasantly would pass their time in taking you know what between their
fingers, and dandling it, till it did revive and creep up to the bulk and
stiffness of a suppository, or street magdaleon, which is a hard rolled-up
salve spread upon leather. Then did they burst out in laughing, when they
saw it lift up its ears, as if the sport had liked them. One of them would call
it her little dille, her staff of love, her quillety, her faucetin, her dandilolly.
Another, her peen, her jolly kyle, her bableret, her membretoon, her
quickset imp: another again, her branch of coral, her female adamant, her
placket-racket, her Cyprian sceptre, her jewel for ladies. And some of the
other women would give it these names,—my bunguetee, my stopple too,
my bush-rusher, my gallant wimble, my pretty borer, my coney-burrow-
ferret, my little piercer, my augretine, my dangling hangers, down right to
it, stiff and stout, in and to, my pusher, dresser, pouting stick, my honey
pipe, my pretty pillicock, linky pinky, futilletie, my lusty andouille, and
crimson chitterling, my little couille bredouille, my pretty rogue, and so
forth. It belongs to me, said one. It is mine, said the other. What, quoth a
third, shall I have no share in it? By my faith, I will cut it then. Ha, to cut it,
said the other, would hurt him. Madam, do you cut little children’s things?
Were his cut off, he would be then Monsieur sans queue, the curtailed
master. And that he might play and sport himself after the manner of the
other little children of the country, they made him a fair weather whirl-jack
of the wings of the windmill of Myrebalais.

Chapter 1.XII.—Of Gargantua’s wooden horses.

Afterwards, that he might be all his lifetime a good rider, they made to
him a fair great horse of wood, which he did make leap, curvet, jerk out
behind, and skip forward, all at a time: to pace, trot, rack, gallop, amble, to
play the hobby, the hackney-gelding: go the gait of the camel, and of the
wild ass. He made him also change his colour of hair, as the monks of
Coultibo (according to the variety of their holidays) use to do their clothes,
from bay brown, to sorrel, dapple-grey, mouse-dun, deer-colour, roan, cow-
colour, gingioline, skewed colour, piebald, and the colour of the savage elk.

Himself of a huge big post made a hunting nag, and another for daily
service of the beam of a vinepress: and of a great oak made up a mule, with
a footcloth, for his chamber. Besides this, he had ten or twelve spare horses,
and seven horses for post; and all these were lodged in his own chamber,
close by his bedside. One day the Lord of Breadinbag (Painensac.) came to
visit his father in great bravery, and with a gallant train: and, at the same
time, to see him came likewise the Duke of Freemeal (Francrepas.) and the
Earl of Wetgullet (Mouillevent.). The house truly for so many guests at
once was somewhat narrow, but especially the stables; whereupon the
steward and harbinger of the said Lord Breadinbag, to know if there were
any other empty stable in the house, came to Gargantua, a little young lad,
and secretly asked him where the stables of the great horses were, thinking
that children would be ready to tell all. Then he led them up along the stairs
of the castle, passing by the second hall unto a broad great gallery, by which
they entered into a large tower, and as they were going up at another pair of
stairs, said the harbinger to the steward, This child deceives us, for the
stables are never on the top of the house. You may be mistaken, said the
steward, for I know some places at Lyons, at the Basmette, at Chaisnon, and
elsewhere, which have their stables at the very tops of the houses: so it may
be that behind the house there is a way to come to this ascent. But I will
question with him further. Then said he to Gargantua, My pretty little boy,
whither do you lead us? To the stable, said he, of my great horses. We are
almost come to it; we have but these stairs to go up at. Then leading them
alongst another great hall, he brought them into his chamber, and, opening
the door, said unto them, This is the stable you ask for; this is my jennet;
this is my gelding; this is my courser, and this is my hackney, and laid on
them with a great lever. I will bestow upon you, said he, this Friesland
horse; I had him from Frankfort, yet will I give him you; for he is a pretty
little nag, and will go very well, with a tessel of goshawks, half a dozen of
spaniels, and a brace of greyhounds: thus are you king of the hares and
partridges for all this winter. By St. John, said they, now we are paid, he
hath gleeked us to some purpose, bobbed we are now for ever. I deny it,
said he,—he was not here above three days. Judge you now, whether they
had most cause, either to hide their heads for shame, or to laugh at the jest.
As they were going down again thus amazed, he asked them, Will you have
a whimwham (Aubeliere.)? What is that, said they? It is, said he, five turds
to make you a muzzle. To-day, said the steward, though we happen to be

roasted, we shall not be burnt, for we are pretty well quipped and larded, in
my opinion. O my jolly dapper boy, thou hast given us a gudgeon; I hope to
see thee Pope before I die. I think so, said he, myself; and then shall you be
a puppy, and this gentle popinjay a perfect papelard, that is, dissembler.
Well, well, said the harbinger. But, said Gargantua, guess how many
stitches there are in my mother’s smock. Sixteen, quoth the harbinger. You
do not speak gospel, said Gargantua, for there is cent before, and cent
behind, and you did not reckon them ill, considering the two under holes.
When? said the harbinger. Even then, said Gargantua, when they made a
shovel of your nose to take up a quarter of dirt, and of your throat a funnel,
wherewith to put it into another vessel, because the bottom of the old one
was out. Cocksbod, said the steward, we have met with a prater. Farewell,
master tattler, God keep you, so goodly are the words which you come out
with, and so fresh in your mouth, that it had need to be salted.
Thus going down in great haste, under the arch of the stairs they let fall
the great lever, which he had put upon their backs; whereupon Gargantua
said, What a devil! you are, it seems, but bad horsemen, that suffer your
bilder to fail you when you need him most. If you were to go from hence to
Cahusac, whether had you rather, ride on a gosling or lead a sow in a leash?
I had rather drink, said the harbinger. With this they entered into the lower
hall, where the company was, and relating to them this new story, they
made them laugh like a swarm of flies.

Chapter 1.XIII.—How Gargantua’s wonderful
understanding became known to his father
Grangousier, by the invention of a torchecul or
wipebreech.
About the end of the fifth year, Grangousier returning from the conquest
of the Canarians, went by the way to see his son Gargantua. There was he
filled with joy, as such a father might be at the sight of such a child of his:
and whilst he kissed and embraced him, he asked many childish questions
of him about divers matters, and drank very freely with him and with his
governesses, of whom in great earnest he asked, amongst other things,
whether they had been careful to keep him clean and sweet. To this
Gargantua answered, that he had taken such a course for that himself, that
in all the country there was not to be found a cleanlier boy than he. How is
that? said Grangousier. I have, answered Gargantua, by a long and curious
experience, found out a means to wipe my bum, the most lordly, the most
excellent, and the most convenient that ever was seen. What is that? said
Grangousier, how is it? I will tell you by-and-by, said Gargantua. Once I did
wipe me with a gentle-woman’s velvet mask, and found it to be good; for
the softness of the silk was very voluptuous and pleasant to my fundament.
Another time with one of their hoods, and in like manner that was
comfortable. At another time with a lady’s neckerchief, and after that I
wiped me with some ear-pieces of hers made of crimson satin, but there was
such a number of golden spangles in them (turdy round things, a pox take
them) that they fetched away all the skin of my tail with a vengeance. Now
I wish St. Antony’s fire burn the bum-gut of the goldsmith that made them,
and of her that wore them! This hurt I cured by wiping myself with a page’s
cap, garnished with a feather after the Switzers’ fashion.
Afterwards, in dunging behind a bush, I found a March-cat, and with it I
wiped my breech, but her claws were so sharp that they scratched and
exulcerated all my perinee. Of this I recovered the next morning thereafter,
by wiping myself with my mother’s gloves, of a most excellent perfume
and scent of the Arabian Benin. After that I wiped me with sage, with

fennel, with anet, with marjoram, with roses, with gourd-leaves, with beets,
with colewort, with leaves of the vine-tree, with mallows, wool-blade,
which is a tail-scarlet, with lettuce, and with spinach leaves. All this did
very great good to my leg. Then with mercury, with parsley, with nettles,
with comfrey, but that gave me the bloody flux of Lombardy, which I
healed by wiping me with my braguette. Then I wiped my tail in the sheets,
in the coverlet, in the curtains, with a cushion, with arras hangings, with a
green carpet, with a table-cloth, with a napkin, with a handkerchief, with a
combing-cloth; in all which I found more pleasure than do the mangy dogs
when you rub them. Yea, but, said Grangousier, which torchecul did you
find to be the best? I was coming to it, said Gargantua, and by-and-by shall
you hear the tu autem, and know the whole mystery and knot of the matter.
I wiped myself with hay, with straw, with thatch-rushes, with flax, with
wool, with paper, but,

Who his foul tail with paper wipes,
Shall at his ballocks leave some chips.

What, said Grangousier, my little rogue, hast thou been at the pot, that
thou dost rhyme already? Yes, yes, my lord the king, answered Gargantua, I
can rhyme gallantly, and rhyme till I become hoarse with rheum. Hark,
what our privy says to the skiters:

Shittard,
Squirtard,
Crackard,
Turdous,
Thy bung
Hath flung
Some dung
On us:
Filthard,
Cackard,
Stinkard,
St. Antony’s fire seize on thy toane (bone?),
If thy
Dirty
Dounby
Thou do not wipe, ere thou be gone.

Will you have any more of it? Yes, yes, answered Grangousier. Then, said
Gargantua,
A Roundelay.

In shitting yes’day I did know

The sess I to my arse did owe:
The smell was such came from that slunk,
That I was with it all bestunk:
O had but then some brave Signor
Brought her to me I waited for,
In shitting!

I would have cleft her watergap,
And join’d it close to my flipflap,
Whilst she had with her fingers guarded
My foul nockandrow, all bemerded
In shitting.

Now say that I can do nothing! By the Merdi, they are not of my making,
but I heard them of this good old grandam, that you see here, and ever since
have retained them in the budget of my memory.
Let us return to our purpose, said Grangousier. What, said Gargantua, to
skite? No, said Grangousier, but to wipe our tail. But, said Gargantua, will
not you be content to pay a puncheon of Breton wine, if I do not blank and
gravel you in this matter, and put you to a non-plus? Yes, truly, said
Grangousier.
There is no need of wiping one’s tail, said Gargantua, but when it is foul;
foul it cannot be, unless one have been a-skiting; skite then we must before
we wipe our tails. O my pretty little waggish boy, said Grangousier, what an
excellent wit thou hast? I will make thee very shortly proceed doctor in the
jovial quirks of gay learning, and that, by G—, for thou hast more wit than
age. Now, I prithee, go on in this torcheculative, or wipe-bummatory
discourse, and by my beard I swear, for one puncheon, thou shalt have
threescore pipes, I mean of the good Breton wine, not that which grows in
Britain, but in the good country of Verron. Afterwards I wiped my bum, said
Gargantua, with a kerchief, with a pillow, with a pantoufle, with a pouch,
with a pannier, but that was a wicked and unpleasant torchecul; then with a
hat. Of hats, note that some are shorn, and others shaggy, some velveted,
others covered with taffeties, and others with satin. The best of all these is
the shaggy hat, for it makes a very neat abstersion of the fecal matter.
Afterwards I wiped my tail with a hen, with a cock, with a pullet, with a
calf’s skin, with a hare, with a pigeon, with a cormorant, with an attorney’s
bag, with a montero, with a coif, with a falconer’s lure. But, to conclude, I
say and maintain, that of all torcheculs, arsewisps, bumfodders, tail-
napkins, bunghole cleansers, and wipe-breeches, there is none in the world
comparable to the neck of a goose, that is well downed, if you hold her head

betwixt your legs. And believe me therein upon mine honour, for you will
thereby feel in your nockhole a most wonderful pleasure, both in regard of
the softness of the said down and of the temporate heat of the goose, which
is easily communicated to the bum-gut and the rest of the inwards, in so far
as to come even to the regions of the heart and brains. And think not that the
felicity of the heroes and demigods in the Elysian fields consisteth either in
their asphodel, ambrosia, or nectar, as our old women here used to say; but
in this, according to my judgment, that they wipe their tails with the neck of
a goose, holding her head betwixt their legs, and such is the opinion of
Master John of Scotland, alias Scotus.

Chapter 1.XIV.—How Gargantua was taught
Latin by a Sophister.
The good man Grangousier having heard this discourse, was ravished
with admiration, considering the high reach and marvellous understanding
of his son Gargantua, and said to his governesses, Philip, king of Macedon,
knew the great wit of his son Alexander by his skilful managing of a horse;
for his horse Bucephalus was so fierce and unruly that none durst adventure
to ride him, after that he had given to his riders such devilish falls, breaking
the neck of this man, the other man’s leg, braining one, and putting another
out of his jawbone. This by Alexander being considered, one day in the
hippodrome (which was a place appointed for the breaking and managing of
great horses), he perceived that the fury of the horse proceeded merely from
the fear he had of his own shadow, whereupon getting on his back, he run
him against the sun, so that the shadow fell behind, and by that means
tamed the horse and brought him to his hand. Whereby his father, knowing
the divine judgment that was in him, caused him most carefully to be
instructed by Aristotle, who at that time was highly renowned above all the
philosophers of Greece. After the same manner I tell you, that by this only
discourse, which now I have here had before you with my son Gargantua, I
know that his understanding doth participate of some divinity, and that, if
he be well taught, and have that education which is fitting, he will attain to
a supreme degree of wisdom. Therefore will I commit him to some learned
man, to have him indoctrinated according to his capacity, and will spare no
cost. Presently they appointed him a great sophister-doctor, called Master
Tubal Holofernes, who taught him his ABC so well, that he could say it by
heart backwards; and about this he was five years and three months. Then
read he to him Donat, Le Facet, Theodolet, and Alanus in parabolis. About
this he was thirteen years, six months, and two weeks. But you must remark
that in the mean time he did learn to write in Gothic characters, and that he
wrote all his books—for the art of printing was not then in use—and did
ordinarily carry a great pen and inkhorn, weighing about seven thousand
quintals (that is, 700,000 pound weight), the penner whereof was as big and
as long as the great pillars of Enay, and the horn was hanging to it in great

iron chains, it being of the wideness of a tun of merchant ware. After that he
read unto him the book de modis significandi, with the commentaries of
Hurtbise, of Fasquin, of Tropdieux, of Gualhaut, of John Calf, of Billonio,
of Berlinguandus, and a rabble of others; and herein he spent more than
eighteen years and eleven months, and was so well versed in it that, to try
masteries in school disputes with his condisciples, he would recite it by
heart backwards, and did sometimes prove on his finger-ends to his mother,
quod de modis significandi non erat scientia. Then did he read to him the
compost for knowing the age of the moon, the seasons of the year, and tides
of the sea, on which he spent sixteen years and two months, and that justly
at the time that his said preceptor died of the French pox, which was in the
year one thousand four hundred and twenty. Afterwards he got an old
coughing fellow to teach him, named Master Jobelin Bride, or muzzled
dolt, who read unto him Hugutio, Hebrard(‘s) Grecism, the Doctrinal, the
Parts, the Quid est, the Supplementum, Marmotretus, De moribus in mensa
servandis, Seneca de quatuor virtutibus cardinalibus, Passavantus cum
commento, and Dormi secure for the holidays, and some other of such like
mealy stuff, by reading whereof he became as wise as any we ever since
baked in an oven.

Chapter 1.XV.—How Gargantua was put under
other schoolmasters.
At the last his father perceived that indeed he studied hard, and that,
although he spent all his time in it, he did nevertheless profit nothing, but
which is worse, grew thereby foolish, simple, doted, and blockish, whereof
making a heavy regret to Don Philip of Marays, Viceroy or Depute King of
Papeligosse, he found that it were better for him to learn nothing at all, than
to be taught such-like books, under such schoolmasters; because their
knowledge was nothing but brutishness, and their wisdom but blunt foppish
toys, serving only to bastardize good and noble spirits, and to corrupt all the
flower of youth. That it is so, take, said he, any young boy of this time who
hath only studied two years,—if he have not a better judgment, a better
discourse, and that expressed in better terms than your son, with a
completer carriage and civility to all manner of persons, account me for
ever hereafter a very clounch and bacon-slicer of Brene. This pleased
Grangousier very well, and he commanded that it should be done. At night
at supper, the said Des Marays brought in a young page of his, of Ville-
gouges, called Eudemon, so neat, so trim, so handsome in his apparel, so
spruce, with his hair in so good order, and so sweet and comely in his
behaviour, that he had the resemblance of a little angel more than of a
human creature. Then he said to Grangousier, Do you see this young boy?
He is not as yet full twelve years old. Let us try, if it please you, what
difference there is betwixt the knowledge of the doting Mateologians of old
time and the young lads that are now. The trial pleased Grangousier, and he
commanded the page to begin. Then Eudemon, asking leave of the vice-
king his master so to do, with his cap in his hand, a clear and open
countenance, beautiful and ruddy lips, his eyes steady, and his looks fixed
upon Gargantua with a youthful modesty, standing up straight on his feet,
began very gracefully to commend him; first, for his virtue and good
manners; secondly, for his knowledge, thirdly, for his nobility; fourthly, for
his bodily accomplishments; and, in the fifth place, most sweetly exhorted
him to reverence his father with all due observancy, who was so careful to
have him well brought up. In the end he prayed him, that he would

vouchsafe to admit of him amongst the least of his servants; for other
favour at that time desired he none of heaven, but that he might do him
some grateful and acceptable service. All this was by him delivered with
such proper gestures, such distinct pronunciation, so pleasant a delivery, in
such exquisite fine terms, and so good Latin, that he seemed rather a
Gracchus, a Cicero, an Aemilius of the time past, than a youth of this age.
But all the countenance that Gargantua kept was, that he fell to crying like a
cow, and cast down his face, hiding it with his cap, nor could they possibly
draw one word from him, no more than a fart from a dead ass. Whereat his
father was so grievously vexed that he would have killed Master Jobelin,
but the said Des Marays withheld him from it by fair persuasions, so that at
length he pacified his wrath. Then Grangousier commanded he should be
paid his wages, that they should whittle him up soundly, like a sophister,
with good drink, and then give him leave to go to all the devils in hell. At
least, said he, today shall it not cost his host much if by chance he should
die as drunk as a Switzer. Master Jobelin being gone out of the house,
Grangousier consulted with the Viceroy what schoolmaster they should
choose for him, and it was betwixt them resolved that Ponocrates, the tutor
of Eudemon, should have the charge, and that they should go altogether to
Paris, to know what was the study of the young men of France at that time.

Chapter 1.XVI.—How Gargantua was sent to
Paris, and of the huge great mare that he rode on;
how she destroyed the oxflies of the Beauce.

In the same season Fayoles, the fourth King of Numidia, sent out of the
country of Africa to Grangousier the most hideously great mare that ever
was seen, and of the strangest form, for you know well enough how it is
said that Africa always is productive of some new thing. She was as big as

six elephants, and had her feet cloven into fingers, like Julius Caesar’s
horse, with slouch-hanging ears, like the goats in Languedoc, and a little
horn on her buttock. She was of a burnt sorrel hue, with a little mixture of
dapple-grey spots, but above all she had a horrible tail; for it was little more
or less than every whit as great as the steeple-pillar of St. Mark beside
Langes: and squared as that is, with tuffs and ennicroches or hair-plaits
wrought within one another, no otherwise than as the beards are upon the
ears of corn.
If you wonder at this, wonder rather at the tails of the Scythian rams,
which weighed above thirty pounds each; and of the Surian sheep, who
need, if Tenaud say true, a little cart at their heels to bear up their tail, it is
so long and heavy. You female lechers in the plain countries have no such
tails. And she was brought by sea in three carricks and a brigantine unto the
harbour of Olone in Thalmondois. When Grangousier saw her, Here is, said
he, what is fit to carry my son to Paris. So now, in the name of God, all will
be well. He will in times coming be a great scholar. If it were not, my
masters, for the beasts, we should live like clerks. The next morning—after
they had drunk, you must understand—they took their journey; Gargantua,
his pedagogue Ponocrates, and his train, and with them Eudemon, the
young page. And because the weather was fair and temperate, his father
caused to be made for him a pair of dun boots,—Babin calls them buskins.
Thus did they merrily pass their time in travelling on their high way, always
making good cheer, and were very pleasant till they came a little above
Orleans, in which place there was a forest of five-and-thirty leagues long,
and seventeen in breadth, or thereabouts. This forest was most horribly
fertile and copious in dorflies, hornets, and wasps, so that it was a very
purgatory for the poor mares, asses, and horses. But Gargantua’s mare did
avenge herself handsomely of all the outrages therein committed upon
beasts of her kind, and that by a trick whereof they had no suspicion. For as
soon as ever they were entered into the said forest, and that the wasps had
given the assault, she drew out and unsheathed her tail, and therewith
skirmishing, did so sweep them that she overthrew all the wood alongst and
athwart, here and there, this way and that way, longwise and sidewise, over
and under, and felled everywhere the wood with as much ease as a mower
doth the grass, in such sort that never since hath there been there neither
wood nor dorflies: for all the country was thereby reduced to a plain
champaign field. Which Gargantua took great pleasure to behold, and said

to his company no more but this: Je trouve beau ce (I find this pretty);
whereupon that country hath been ever since that time called Beauce. But
all the breakfast the mare got that day was but a little yawning and gaping,
in memory whereof the gentlemen of Beauce do as yet to this day break
their fast with gaping, which they find to be very good, and do spit the
better for it. At last they came to Paris, where Gargantua refreshed himself
two or three days, making very merry with his folks, and inquiring what
men of learning there were then in the city, and what wine they drunk there.

Chapter 1.XVII.—How Gargantua paid his
welcome to the Parisians, and how he took away
the great bells of Our Lady’s Church.

Some few days after that they had refreshed themselves, he went to see
the city, and was beheld of everybody there with great admiration; for the
people of Paris are so sottish, so badot, so foolish and fond by nature, that a
juggler, a carrier of indulgences, a sumpter-horse, or mule with cymbals or

tinkling bells, a blind fiddler in the middle of a cross lane, shall draw a
greater confluence of people together than an evangelical preacher. And
they pressed so hard upon him that he was constrained to rest himself upon
the towers of Our Lady’s Church. At which place, seeing so many about
him, he said with a loud voice, I believe that these buzzards will have me to
pay them here my welcome hither, and my Proficiat. It is but good reason. I
will now give them their wine, but it shall be only in sport. Then smiling, he
untied his fair braguette, and drawing out his mentul into the open air, he so
bitterly all-to-bepissed them, that he drowned two hundred and sixty
thousand, four hundred and eighteen, besides the women and little children.
Some, nevertheless, of the company escaped this piss-flood by mere speed
of foot, who, when they were at the higher end of the university, sweating,
coughing, spitting, and out of breath, they began to swear and curse, some
in good hot earnest, and others in jest. Carimari, carimara: golynoly,
golynolo. By my sweet Sanctess, we are washed in sport, a sport truly to
laugh at;—in French, Par ris, for which that city hath been ever since called
Paris; whose name formerly was Leucotia, as Strabo testifieth, lib. quarto,
from the Greek word leukotes, whiteness,—because of the white thighs of
the ladies of that place. And forasmuch as, at this imposition of a new name,
all the people that were there swore everyone by the Sancts of his parish,
the Parisians, which are patched up of all nations and all pieces of countries,
are by nature both good jurors and good jurists, and somewhat
overweening; whereupon Joanninus de Barrauco, libro de copiositate
reverentiarum, thinks that they are called Parisians from the Greek word
parresia, which signifies boldness and liberty in speech. This done, he
considered the great bells, which were in the said towers, and made them
sound very harmoniously. Which whilst he was doing, it came into his mind
that they would serve very well for tingling tantans and ringing campanels
to hang about his mare’s neck when she should be sent back to his father, as
he intended to do, loaded with Brie cheese and fresh herring. And indeed he
forthwith carried them to his lodging. In the meanwhile there came a master
beggar of the friars of St. Anthony to demand in his canting way the usual
benevolence of some hoggish stuff, who, that he might be heard afar off,
and to make the bacon he was in quest of shake in the very chimneys, made
account to filch them away privily. Nevertheless, he left them behind very
honestly, not for that they were too hot, but that they were somewhat too
heavy for his carriage. This was not he of Bourg, for he was too good a

friend of mine. All the city was risen up in sedition, they being, as you
know, upon any slight occasion, so ready to uproars and insurrections, that
foreign nations wonder at the patience of the kings of France, who do not
by good justice restrain them from such tumultuous courses, seeing the
manifold inconveniences which thence arise from day to day. Would to God
I knew the shop wherein are forged these divisions and factious
combinations, that I might bring them to light in the confraternities of my
parish! Believe for a truth, that the place wherein the people gathered
together, were thus sulphured, hopurymated, moiled, and bepissed, was
called Nesle, where then was, but now is no more, the oracle of Leucotia.
There was the case proposed, and the inconvenience showed of the
transporting of the bells. After they had well ergoted pro and con, they
concluded in baralipton, that they should send the oldest and most sufficient
of the faculty unto Gargantua, to signify unto him the great and horrible
prejudice they sustain by the want of those bells. And notwithstanding the
good reasons given in by some of the university why this charge was fitter
for an orator than a sophister, there was chosen for this purpose our Master
Janotus de Bragmardo.

Chapter 1.XVIII.—How Janotus de Bragmardo
was sent to Gargantua to recover the great bells.
Master Janotus, with his hair cut round like a dish a la Caesarine, in his
most antique accoutrement liripipionated with a graduate’s hood, and
having sufficiently antidoted his stomach with oven-marmalades, that is,
bread and holy water of the cellar, transported himself to the lodging of
Gargantua, driving before him three red-muzzled beadles, and dragging
after him five or six artless masters, all thoroughly bedaggled with the mire
of the streets. At their entry Ponocrates met them, who was afraid, seeing
them so disguised, and thought they had been some masquers out of their
wits, which moved him to inquire of one of the said artless masters of the
company what this mummery meant. It was answered him, that they desired
to have their bells restored to them. As soon as Ponocrates heard that, he ran
in all haste to carry the news unto Gargantua, that he might be ready to
answer them, and speedily resolve what was to be done. Gargantua being
advertised hereof, called apart his schoolmaster Ponocrates, Philotimus,
steward of his house, Gymnastes, his esquire, and Eudemon, and very
summarily conferred with them, both of what he should do and what answer
he should give. They were all of opinion that they should bring them unto
the goblet-office, which is the buttery, and there make them drink like
roysters and line their jackets soundly. And that this cougher might not be
puffed up with vain-glory by thinking the bells were restored at his request,
they sent, whilst he was chopining and plying the pot, for the mayor of the
city, the rector of the faculty, and the vicar of the church, unto whom they
resolved to deliver the bells before the sophister had propounded his
commission. After that, in their hearing, he should pronounce his gallant
oration, which was done; and they being come, the sophister was brought in
full hall, and began as followeth, in coughing.

Chapter 1.XIX.—The oration of Master Janotus
de Bragmardo for recovery of the bells.
Hem, hem, gud-day, sirs, gud-day. Et vobis, my masters. It were but
reason that you should restore to us our bells; for we have great need of
them. Hem, hem, aihfuhash. We have oftentimes heretofore refused good
money for them of those of London in Cahors, yea and those of Bourdeaux
in Brie, who would have bought them for the substantific quality of the
elementary complexion, which is intronificated in the terrestreity of their
quidditative nature, to extraneize the blasting mists and whirlwinds upon
our vines, indeed not ours, but these round about us. For if we lose the piot
and liquor of the grape, we lose all, both sense and law. If you restore them
unto us at my request, I shall gain by it six basketfuls of sausages and a fine
pair of breeches, which will do my legs a great deal of good, or else they
will not keep their promise to me. Ho by gob, Domine, a pair of breeches is
good, et vir sapiens non abhorrebit eam. Ha, ha, a pair of breeches is not so
easily got; I have experience of it myself. Consider, Domine, I have been
these eighteen days in matagrabolizing this brave speech. Reddite quae sunt
Caesaris, Caesari, et quae sunt Dei, Deo. Ibi jacet lepus. By my faith,
Domine, if you will sup with me in cameris, by cox body, charitatis, nos
faciemus bonum cherubin. Ego occiditunum porcum, et ego habet bonum
vino: but of good wine we cannot make bad Latin. Well, de parte Dei date
nobis bellas nostras. Hold, I give you in the name of the faculty a Sermones
de Utino, that utinam you would give us our bells. Vultis etiam pardonos?
Per diem vos habebitis, et nihil payabitis. O, sir, Domine, bellagivaminor
nobis; verily, est bonum vobis. They are useful to everybody. If they fit your
mare well, so do they do our faculty; quae comparata est jumentis
insipientibus, et similis facta est eis, Psalmo nescio quo. Yet did I quote it in
my note-book, et est unum bonum Achilles, a good defending argument.
Hem, hem, hem, haikhash! For I prove unto you, that you should give me
them. Ego sic argumentor. Omnis bella bellabilis in bellerio bellando,
bellans, bellativo, bellare facit, bellabiliter bellantes. Parisius habet bellas.
Ergo gluc, Ha, ha, ha. This is spoken to some purpose. It is in tertio primae,
in Darii, or elsewhere. By my soul, I have seen the time that I could play the

devil in arguing, but now I am much failed, and henceforward want nothing
but a cup of good wine, a good bed, my back to the fire, my belly to the
table, and a good deep dish. Hei, Domine, I beseech you, in nomine Patris,
Filii, et Spiritus sancti, Amen, to restore unto us our bells: and God keep
you from evil, and our Lady from health, qui vivit et regnat per omnia
secula seculorum, Amen. Hem, hashchehhawksash, qzrchremhemhash.
Verum enim vero, quandoquidem, dubio procul. Edepol, quoniam, ita
certe, medius fidius; a town without bells is like a blind man without a staff,
an ass without a crupper, and a cow without cymbals. Therefore be assured,
until you have restored them unto us, we will never leave crying after you,
like a blind man that hath lost his staff, braying like an ass without a
crupper, and making a noise like a cow without cymbals. A certain
latinisator, dwelling near the hospital, said since, producing the authority of
one Taponnus,—I lie, it was one Pontanus the secular poet, —who wished
those bells had been made of feathers, and the clapper of a foxtail, to the
end they might have begot a chronicle in the bowels of his brain, when he
was about the composing of his carminiformal lines. But nac petetin
petetac, tic, torche lorgne, or rot kipipur kipipot put pantse malf, he was
declared an heretic. We make them as of wax. And no more saith the
deponent. Valete et plaudite. Calepinus recensui.

Chapter 1.XX.—How the Sophister carried away
his cloth, and how he had a suit in law against the
other masters.
The sophister had no sooner ended, but Ponocrates and Eudemon burst
out in a laughing so heartily, that they had almost split with it, and given up
the ghost, in rendering their souls to God: even just as Crassus did, seeing a
lubberly ass eat thistles; and as Philemon, who, for seeing an ass eat those
figs which were provided for his own dinner, died with force of laughing.
Together with them Master Janotus fell a-laughing too as fast as he could, in
which mood of laughing they continued so long, that their eyes did water by
the vehement concussion of the substance of the brain, by which these
lachrymal humidities, being pressed out, glided through the optic nerves,
and so to the full represented Democritus Heraclitizing and Heraclitus
Democritizing.
When they had done laughing, Gargantua consulted with the prime of his
retinue what should be done. There Ponocrates was of opinion that they
should make this fair orator drink again; and seeing he had showed them
more pastime, and made them laugh more than a natural soul could have
done, that they should give him ten baskets full of sausages, mentioned in
his pleasant speech, with a pair of hose, three hundred great billets of
logwood, five-and-twenty hogsheads of wine, a good large down-bed, and a
deep capacious dish, which he said were necessary for his old age. All this
was done as they did appoint: only Gargantua, doubting that they could not
quickly find out breeches fit for his wearing, because he knew not what
fashion would best become the said orator, whether the martingale fashion
of breeches, wherein is a spunghole with a drawbridge for the more easy
caguing: or the fashion of the mariners, for the greater solace and comfort
of his kidneys: or that of the Switzers, which keeps warm the bedondaine or
belly-tabret: or round breeches with straight cannions, having in the seat a
piece like a cod’s tail, for fear of over-heating his reins:—all which
considered, he caused to be given him seven ells of white cloth for the
linings. The wood was carried by the porters, the masters of arts carried the

sausages and the dishes, and Master Janotus himself would carry the cloth.
One of the said masters, called Jousse Bandouille, showed him that it was
not seemly nor decent for one of his condition to do so, and that therefore
he should deliver it to one of them. Ha, said Janotus, baudet, baudet, or
blockhead, blockhead, thou dost not conclude in modo et figura. For lo, to
this end serve the suppositions and parva logicalia. Pannus, pro quo
supponit? Confuse, said Bandouille, et distributive. I do not ask thee, said
Janotus, blockhead, quomodo supponit, but pro quo? It is, blockhead, pro
tibiis meis, and therefore I will carry it, Egomet, sicut suppositum portat
appositum. So did he carry it away very close and covertly, as Patelin the
buffoon did his cloth. The best was, that when this cougher, in a full act or
assembly held at the Mathurins, had with great confidence required his
breeches and sausages, and that they were flatly denied him, because he had
them of Gargantua, according to the informations thereupon made, he
showed them that this was gratis, and out of his liberality, by which they
were not in any sort quit of their promises. Notwithstanding this, it was
answered him that he should be content with reason, without expectation of
any other bribe there. Reason? said Janotus. We use none of it here.
Unlucky traitors, you are not worth the hanging. The earth beareth not more
arrant villains than you are. I know it well enough; halt not before the lame.
I have practised wickedness with you. By God’s rattle, I will inform the
king of the enormous abuses that are forged here and carried underhand by
you, and let me be a leper, if he do not burn you alive like sodomites,
traitors, heretics and seducers, enemies to God and virtue.
Upon these words they framed articles against him: he on the other side
warned them to appear. In sum, the process was retained by the court, and is
there as yet. Hereupon the magisters made a vow never to decrott
themselves in rubbing off the dirt of either their shoes or clothes: Master
Janotus with his adherents vowed never to blow or snuff their noses, until
judgment were given by a definitive sentence.
By these vows do they continue unto this time both dirty and snotty; for
the court hath not garbled, sifted, and fully looked into all the pieces as yet.
The judgment or decree shall be given out and pronounced at the next
Greek kalends, that is, never. As you know that they do more than nature,
and contrary to their own articles. The articles of Paris maintain that to God
alone belongs infinity, and nature produceth nothing that is immortal; for
she putteth an end and period to all things by her engendered, according to

the saying, Omnia orta cadunt, &c. But these thick mist-swallowers make
the suits in law depending before them both infinite and immortal. In doing
whereof, they have given occasion to, and verified the saying of Chilo the
Lacedaemonian, consecrated to the oracle at Delphos, that misery is the
inseparable companion of law-debates; and that pleaders are miserable; for
sooner shall they attain to the end of their lives, than to the final decision of
their pretended rights.

Chapter 1.XXI.—The study of Gargantua,
according to the discipline of his schoolmasters
the Sophisters.
The first day being thus spent, and the bells put up again in their own
place, the citizens of Paris, in acknowledgment of this courtesy, offered to
maintain and feed his mare as long as he pleased, which Gargantua took in
good part, and they sent her to graze in the forest of Biere. I think she is not
there now. This done, he with all his heart submitted his study to the
discretion of Ponocrates; who for the beginning appointed that he should do
as he was accustomed, to the end he might understand by what means, in so
long time, his old masters had made him so sottish and ignorant. He
disposed therefore of his time in such fashion, that ordinarily he did awake
betwixt eight and nine o’clock, whether it was day or not, for so had his
ancient governors ordained, alleging that which David saith, Vanum est
vobis ante lucem surgere. Then did he tumble and toss, wag his legs, and
wallow in the bed some time, the better to stir up and rouse his vital spirits,
and apparelled himself according to the season: but willingly he would wear
a great long gown of thick frieze, furred with fox-skins. Afterwards he
combed his head with an Almain comb, which is the four fingers and the
thumb. For his preceptor said that to comb himself otherwise, to wash and
make himself neat, was to lose time in this world. Then he dunged, pissed,
spewed, belched, cracked, yawned, spitted, coughed, yexed, sneezed and
snotted himself like an archdeacon, and, to suppress the dew and bad air,
went to breakfast, having some good fried tripes, fair rashers on the coals,
excellent gammons of bacon, store of fine minced meat, and a great deal of
sippet brewis, made up of the fat of the beef-pot, laid upon bread, cheese,
and chopped parsley strewed together. Ponocrates showed him that he ought
not to eat so soon after rising out of his bed, unless he had performed some
exercise beforehand. Gargantua answered, What! have not I sufficiently
well exercised myself? I have wallowed and rolled myself six or seven
turns in my bed before I rose. Is not that enough? Pope Alexander did so, by
the advice of a Jew his physician, and lived till his dying day in despite of

his enemies. My first masters have used me to it, saying that to breakfast
made a good memory, and therefore they drank first. I am very well after it,
and dine but the better. And Master Tubal, who was the first licenciate at
Paris, told me that it was not enough to run apace, but to set forth betimes:
so doth not the total welfare of our humanity depend upon perpetual
drinking in a ribble rabble, like ducks, but on drinking early in the morning;
unde versus,

To rise betimes is no good hour,
To drink betimes is better sure.

After that he had thoroughly broke his fast, he went to church, and they
carried to him, in a great basket, a huge impantoufled or thick-covered
breviary, weighing, what in grease, clasps, parchment and cover, little more
or less than eleven hundred and six pounds. There he heard six-and-twenty
or thirty masses. This while, to the same place came his orison-mutterer
impaletocked, or lapped up about the chin like a tufted whoop, and his
breath pretty well antidoted with store of the vine-tree-syrup. With him he
mumbled all his kiriels and dunsical breborions, which he so curiously
thumbed and fingered, that there fell not so much as one grain to the
ground. As he went from the church, they brought him, upon a dray drawn
with oxen, a confused heap of paternosters and aves of St. Claude, every
one of them being of the bigness of a hat-block; and thus walking through
the cloisters, galleries, or garden, he said more in turning them over than
sixteen hermits would have done. Then did he study some paltry half-hour
with his eyes fixed upon his book; but, as the comic saith, his mind was in
the kitchen. Pissing then a full urinal, he sat down at table; and because he
was naturally phlegmatic, he began his meal with some dozens of
gammons, dried neat’s tongues, hard roes of mullet, called botargos,
andouilles or sausages, and such other forerunners of wine. In the
meanwhile, four of his folks did cast into his mouth one after another
continually mustard by whole shovelfuls. Immediately after that, he drank a
horrible draught of white wine for the ease of his kidneys. When that was
done, he ate according to the season meat agreeable to his appetite, and then
left off eating when his belly began to strout, and was like to crack for
fulness. As for his drinking, he had in that neither end nor rule. For he was
wont to say, That the limits and bounds of drinking were, when the cork of
the shoes of him that drinketh swelleth up half a foot high.

Chapter 1.XXII.—The games of Gargantua.
Then blockishly mumbling with a set on countenance a piece of scurvy
grace, he washed his hands in fresh wine, picked his teeth with the foot of a
hog, and talked jovially with his attendants. Then the carpet being spread,
they brought plenty of cards, many dice, with great store and abundance of
chequers and chessboards.

There he played.
At flush. At love.
At primero. At the chess.
At the beast. At Reynard the fox.
At the rifle. At the squares.
At trump. At the cows.
At the prick and spare not. At the lottery.
At the hundred. At the chance or mumchance.
At the peeny. At three dice or maniest bleaks.
At the unfortunate woman. At the tables.
At the fib. At nivinivinack.
At the pass ten. At the lurch.
At one-and-thirty. At doublets or queen’s game.
At post and pair, or even and At the faily.
sequence. At the French trictrac.
At three hundred. At the long tables or ferkeering.
At the unlucky man. At feldown.
At the last couple in hell. At tod’s body.
At the hock. At needs must.
At the surly. At the dames or draughts.
At the lansquenet. At bob and mow.
At the cuckoo. At primus secundus.
At puff, or let him speak that At mark-knife.
hath it. At the keys.
At take nothing and throw out. At span-counter.
At the marriage. At even or odd.
At the frolic or jackdaw. At cross or pile.
At the opinion. At ball and huckle-bones.
At who doth the one, doth the At ivory balls.
other. At the billiards.
At the sequences. At bob and hit.
At the ivory bundles. At the owl.
At the tarots. At the charming of the hare.
At losing load him. At pull yet a little.
At he’s gulled and esto. At trudgepig.
At the torture. At the magatapies.
At the handruff. At the horn.
At the click. At the flowered or Shrovetide ox.
At honours. At the madge-owlet.
At pinch without laughing. At tilt at weeky.
At prickle me tickle me. At ninepins.
At the unshoeing of the ass. At the cock quintin.
At the cocksess. At tip and hurl.

At hari hohi. At the flat bowls.
At I set me down. At the veer and turn.
At earl beardy. At rogue and ruffian.
At the old mode. At bumbatch touch.
At draw the spit. At the mysterious trough.
At put out. At the short bowls.
At gossip lend me your sack. At the dapple-grey.
At the ramcod ball. At cock and crank it.
At thrust out the harlot. At break-pot.
At Marseilles figs. At my desire.
At nicknamry. At twirly whirlytrill.
At stick and hole. At the rush bundles.
At boke or him, or flaying the fox. At the short staff.
At the branching it. At the whirling gig.
At trill madam, or grapple my lady. At hide and seek, or are you all
At the cat selling. hid?
At blow the coal. At the picket.
At the re-wedding. At the blank.
At the quick and dead judge. At the pilferers.
At unoven the iron. At the caveson.
At the false clown. At prison bars.
At the flints, or at the nine stones.At have at the nuts.
At to the crutch hulch back. At cherry-pit.
At the Sanct is found. At rub and rice.
At hinch, pinch and laugh not. At whiptop.
At the leek. At the casting top.
At bumdockdousse. At the hobgoblins.
At the loose gig. At the O wonderful.
At the hoop. At the soily smutchy.
At the sow. At fast and loose.
At belly to belly. At scutchbreech.
At the dales or straths. At the broom-besom.
At the twigs. At St. Cosme, I come to adore
At the quoits. thee.
At I’m for that. At the lusty brown boy.
At I take you napping. At greedy glutton.
At fair and softly passeth Lent. At the morris dance.
At the forked oak. At feeby.
At truss. At the whole frisk and gambol.
At the wolf’s tail. At battabum, or riding of the
At bum to buss, or nose in breech. wild mare.
At Geordie, give me my lance. At Hind the ploughman.
At swaggy, waggy or shoggyshou. At the good mawkin.
At stook and rook, shear and At the dead beast.
threave. At climb the ladder, Billy.
At the birch. At the dying hog.
At the muss. At the salt doup.
At the dilly dilly darling. At the pretty pigeon.
At ox moudy. At barley break.
At purpose in purpose. At the bavine.
At nine less. At the bush leap.
At blind-man-buff. At crossing.
At the fallen bridges. At bo-peep.
At bridled nick. At the hardit arsepursy.
At the white at butts. At the harrower’s nest.
At thwack swinge him. At forward hey.
At apple, pear, plum. At the fig.
At mumgi. At gunshot crack.
At the toad. At mustard peel.
At cricket. At the gome.
At the pounding stick. At the relapse.

At jack and the box. At jog breech, or prick him
At the queens. forward.
At the trades. At knockpate.
At heads and points. At the Cornish c(h)ough.
At the vine-tree hug. At the crane-dance.
At black be thy fall. At slash and cut.
At ho the distaff. At bobbing, or flirt on the
At Joan Thomson. nose.
At the bolting cloth. At the larks.
At the oat’s seed. At fillipping.

After he had thus well played, revelled, past and spent his time, it was
thought fit to drink a little, and that was eleven glassfuls the man, and,
immediately after making good cheer again, he would stretch himself upon
a fair bench, or a good large bed, and there sleep two or three hours
together, without thinking or speaking any hurt. After he was awakened he
would shake his ears a little. In the mean time they brought him fresh wine.
There he drank better than ever. Ponocrates showed him that it was an ill
diet to drink so after sleeping. It is, answered Gargantua, the very life of the
patriarchs and holy fathers; for naturally I sleep salt, and my sleep hath
been to me in stead of so many gammons of bacon. Then began he to study
a little, and out came the paternosters or rosary of beads, which the better
and more formally to despatch, he got upon an old mule, which had served
nine kings, and so mumbling with his mouth, nodding and doddling his
head, would go see a coney ferreted or caught in a gin. At his return he went
into the kitchen to know what roast meat was on the spit, and what
otherwise was to be dressed for supper. And supped very well, upon my
conscience, and commonly did invite some of his neighbours that were
good drinkers, with whom carousing and drinking merrily, they told stories
of all sorts from the old to the new. Amongst others he had for domestics
the Lords of Fou, of Gourville, of Griniot, and of Marigny. After supper
were brought in upon the place the fair wooden gospels and the books of
the four kings, that is to say, many pairs of tables and cards—or the fair
flush, one, two, three—or at all, to make short work; or else they went to
see the wenches thereabouts, with little small banquets, intermixed with
collations and rear-suppers. Then did he sleep, without unbridling, until
eight o’clock in the next morning.

Chapter 1.XXIII.—How Gargantua was
instructed by Ponocrates, and in such sort
disciplinated, that he lost not one hour of the day.

When Ponocrates knew Gargantua’s vicious manner of living, he
resolved to bring him up in another kind; but for a while he bore with him,
considering that nature cannot endure a sudden change, without great
violence. Therefore, to begin his work the better, he requested a learned
physician of that time, called Master Theodorus, seriously to perpend, if it
were possible, how to bring Gargantua into a better course. The said
physician purged him canonically with Anticyrian hellebore, by which
medicine he cleansed all the alteration and perverse habitude of his brain.
By this means also Ponocrates made him forget all that he had learned
under his ancient preceptors, as Timotheus did to his disciples, who had
been instructed under other musicians. To do this the better, they brought
him into the company of learned men, which were there, in whose imitation
he had a great desire and affection to study otherwise, and to improve his
parts. Afterwards he put himself into such a road and way of studying, that
he lost not any one hour in the day, but employed all his time in learning
and honest knowledge. Gargantua awaked, then, about four o’clock in the
morning. Whilst they were in rubbing of him, there was read unto him some

chapter of the holy Scripture aloud and clearly, with a pronunciation fit for
the matter, and hereunto was appointed a young page born in Basche,
named Anagnostes. According to the purpose and argument of that lesson,
he oftentimes gave himself to worship, adore, pray, and send up his
supplications to that good God, whose Word did show his majesty and
marvellous judgment. Then went he unto the secret places to make
excretion of his natural digestions. There his master repeated what had been
read, expounding unto him the most obscure and difficult points. In
returning, they considered the face of the sky, if it was such as they had
observed it the night before, and into what signs the sun was entering, as
also the moon for that day. This done, he was apparelled, combed, curled,
trimmed, and perfumed, during which time they repeated to him the lessons
of the day before. He himself said them by heart, and upon them would
ground some practical cases concerning the estate of man, which he would
prosecute sometimes two or three hours, but ordinarily they ceased as soon
as he was fully clothed. Then for three good hours he had a lecture read
unto him. This done they went forth, still conferring of the substance of the
lecture, either unto a field near the university called the Brack, or unto the
meadows, where they played at the ball, the long-tennis, and at the
piletrigone (which is a play wherein we throw a triangular piece of iron at a
ring, to pass it), most gallantly exercising their bodies, as formerly they had
done their minds. All their play was but in liberty, for they left off when
they pleased, and that was commonly when they did sweat over all their
body, or were otherwise weary. Then were they very well wiped and
rubbed, shifted their shirts, and, walking soberly, went to see if dinner was
ready. Whilst they stayed for that, they did clearly and eloquently
pronounce some sentences that they had retained of the lecture. In the
meantime Master Appetite came, and then very orderly sat they down at
table. At the beginning of the meal there was read some pleasant history of
the warlike actions of former times, until he had taken a glass of wine.
Then, if they thought good, they continued reading, or began to discourse
merrily together; speaking first of the virtue, propriety, efficacy, and nature
of all that was served in at the table; of bread, of wine, of water, of salt, of
fleshes, fishes, fruits, herbs, roots, and of their dressing. By means whereof
he learned in a little time all the passages competent for this that were to be
found in Pliny, Athenaeus, Dioscorides, Julius Pollux, Galen, Porphyry,
Oppian, Polybius, Heliodore, Aristotle, Aelian, and others. Whilst they

talked of these things, many times, to be the more certain, they caused the
very books to be brought to the table, and so well and perfectly did he in his
memory retain the things above said, that in that time there was not a
physician that knew half so much as he did. Afterwards they conferred of
the lessons read in the morning, and, ending their repast with some
conserve or marmalade of quinces, he picked his teeth with mastic tooth-
pickers, washed his hands and eyes with fair fresh water, and gave thanks
unto God in some fine cantiques, made in praise of the divine bounty and
munificence. This done, they brought in cards, not to play, but to learn a
thousand pretty tricks and new inventions, which were all grounded upon
arithmetic. By this means he fell in love with that numerical science, and
every day after dinner and supper he passed his time in it as pleasantly as he
was wont to do at cards and dice; so that at last he understood so well both
the theory and practical part thereof, that Tunstall the Englishman, who had
written very largely of that purpose, confessed that verily in comparison of
him he had no skill at all. And not only in that, but in the other
mathematical sciences, as geometry, astronomy, music, &c. For in waiting
on the concoction and attending the digestion of his food, they made a
thousand pretty instruments and geometrical figures, and did in some
measure practise the astronomical canons.
After this they recreated themselves with singing musically, in four or
five parts, or upon a set theme or ground at random, as it best pleased them.
In matter of musical instruments, he learned to play upon the lute, the
virginals, the harp, the Almain flute with nine holes, the viol, and the
sackbut. This hour thus spent, and digestion finished, he did purge his body
of natural excrements, then betook himself to his principal study for three
hours together, or more, as well to repeat his matutinal lectures as to
proceed in the book wherein he was, as also to write handsomely, to draw
and form the antique and Roman letters. This being done, they went out of
their house, and with them a young gentleman of Touraine, named the
Esquire Gymnast, who taught him the art of riding. Changing then his
clothes, he rode a Naples courser, a Dutch roussin, a Spanish jennet, a
barded or trapped steed, then a light fleet horse, unto whom he gave a
hundred carieres, made him go the high saults, bounding in the air, free the
ditch with a skip, leap over a stile or pale, turn short in a ring both to the
right and left hand. There he broke not his lance; for it is the greatest
foolery in the world to say, I have broken ten lances at tilts or in fight. A

carpenter can do even as much. But it is a glorious and praise-worthy action
with one lance to break and overthrow ten enemies. Therefore, with a sharp,
stiff, strong, and well-steeled lance would he usually force up a door, pierce
a harness, beat down a tree, carry away the ring, lift up a cuirassier saddle,
with the mail-coat and gauntlet. All this he did in complete arms from head
to foot. As for the prancing flourishes and smacking popisms for the better
cherishing of the horse, commonly used in riding, none did them better than
he. The cavallerize of Ferrara was but as an ape compared to him. He was
singularly skilful in leaping nimbly from one horse to another without
putting foot to ground, and these horses were called desultories. He could
likewise from either side, with a lance in his hand, leap on horseback
without stirrups, and rule the horse at his pleasure without a bridle, for such
things are useful in military engagements. Another day he exercised the
battle-axe, which he so dexterously wielded, both in the nimble, strong, and
smooth management of that weapon, and that in all the feats practicable by
it, that he passed knight of arms in the field, and at all essays.
Then tossed he the pike, played with the two-handed sword, with the
backsword, with the Spanish tuck, the dagger, poniard, armed, unarmed,
with a buckler, with a cloak, with a target. Then would he hunt the hart, the
roebuck, the bear, the fallow deer, the wild boar, the hare, the pheasant, the
partridge, and the bustard. He played at the balloon, and made it bound in
the air, both with fist and foot. He wrestled, ran, jumped—not at three steps
and a leap, called the hops, nor at clochepied, called the hare’s leap, nor yet
at the Almains; for, said Gymnast, these jumps are for the wars altogether
unprofitable, and of no use—but at one leap he would skip over a ditch,
spring over a hedge, mount six paces upon a wall, ramp and grapple after
this fashion up against a window of the full height of a lance. He did swim
in deep waters on his belly, on his back, sideways, with all his body, with
his feet only, with one hand in the air, wherein he held a book, crossing thus
the breadth of the river of Seine without wetting it, and dragged along his
cloak with his teeth, as did Julius Caesar; then with the help of one hand he
entered forcibly into a boat, from whence he cast himself again headlong
into the water, sounded the depths, hollowed the rocks, and plunged into the
pits and gulfs. Then turned he the boat about, governed it, led it swiftly or
slowly with the stream and against the stream, stopped it in his course,
guided it with one hand, and with the other laid hard about him with a huge
great oar, hoisted the sail, hied up along the mast by the shrouds, ran upon

the edge of the decks, set the compass in order, tackled the bowlines, and
steered the helm. Coming out of the water, he ran furiously up against a hill,
and with the same alacrity and swiftness ran down again. He climbed up at
trees like a cat, and leaped from the one to the other like a squirrel. He did
pull down the great boughs and branches like another Milo; then with two
sharp well-steeled daggers and two tried bodkins would he run up by the
wall to the very top of a house like a rat; then suddenly came down from the
top to the bottom, with such an even composition of members that by the
fall he would catch no harm.
He did cast the dart, throw the bar, put the stone, practise the javelin, the
boar-spear or partisan, and the halbert. He broke the strongest bows in
drawing, bended against his breast the greatest crossbows of steel, took his
aim by the eye with the hand-gun, and shot well, traversed and planted the
cannon, shot at butt-marks, at the papgay from below upwards, or to a
height from above downwards, or to a descent; then before him, sideways,
and behind him, like the Parthians. They tied a cable-rope to the top of a
high tower, by one end whereof hanging near the ground he wrought
himself with his hands to the very top; then upon the same track came down
so sturdily and firm that you could not on a plain meadow have run with
more assurance. They set up a great pole fixed upon two trees. There would
he hang by his hands, and with them alone, his feet touching at nothing,
would go back and fore along the foresaid rope with so great swiftness that
hardly could one overtake him with running; and then, to exercise his breast
and lungs, he would shout like all the devils in hell. I heard him once call
Eudemon from St. Victor’s gate to Montmartre. Stentor had never such a
voice at the siege of Troy. Then for the strengthening of his nerves or
sinews they made him two great sows of lead, each of them weighing eight
thousand and seven hundred quintals, which they called alteres. Those he
took up from the ground, in each hand one, then lifted them up over his
head, and held them so without stirring three quarters of an hour and more,
which was an inimitable force. He fought at barriers with the stoutest and
most vigorous champions; and when it came to the cope, he stood so
sturdily on his feet that he abandoned himself unto the strongest, in case
they could remove him from his place, as Milo was wont to do of old. In
whose imitation, likewise, he held a pomegranate in his hand, to give it unto
him that could take it from him. The time being thus bestowed, and himself
rubbed, cleansed, wiped, and refreshed with other clothes, he returned fair

and softly; and passing through certain meadows, or other grassy places,
beheld the trees and plants, comparing them with what is written of them in
the books of the ancients, such as Theophrast, Dioscorides, Marinus, Pliny,
Nicander, Macer, and Galen, and carried home to the house great handfuls
of them, whereof a young page called Rizotomos had charge; together with
little mattocks, pickaxes, grubbing-hooks, cabbies, pruning-knives, and
other instruments requisite for herborizing. Being come to their lodging,
whilst supper was making ready, they repeated certain passages of that
which hath been read, and sat down to table. Here remark, that his dinner
was sober and thrifty, for he did then eat only to prevent the gnawings of his
stomach, but his supper was copious and large, for he took then as much as
was fit to maintain and nourish him; which, indeed, is the true diet
prescribed by the art of good and sound physic, although a rabble of
loggerheaded physicians, nuzzeled in the brabbling shop of sophisters,
counsel the contrary. During that repast was continued the lesson read at
dinner as long as they thought good; the rest was spent in good discourse,
learned and profitable. After that they had given thanks, he set himself to
sing vocally, and play upon harmonious instruments, or otherwise passed
his time at some pretty sports, made with cards or dice, or in practising the
feats of legerdemain with cups and balls. There they stayed some nights in
frolicking thus, and making themselves merry till it was time to go to bed;
and on other nights they would go make visits unto learned men, or to such
as had been travellers in strange and remote countries. When it was full
night before they retired themselves, they went unto the most open place of
the house to see the face of the sky, and there beheld the comets, if any
were, as likewise the figures, situations, aspects, oppositions, and
conjunctions of both the fixed stars and planets.
Then with his master did he briefly recapitulate, after the manner of the
Pythagoreans, that which he had read, seen, learned, done, and understood
in the whole course of that day.
Then prayed they unto God the Creator, in falling down before him, and
strengthening their faith towards him, and glorifying him for his boundless
bounty; and, giving thanks unto him for the time that was past, they
recommended themselves to his divine clemency for the future. Which
being done, they went to bed, and betook themselves to their repose and
rest.

Chapter 1.XXIV.—How Gargantua spent his time
in rainy weather.
If it happened that the weather were anything cloudy, foul, and rainy, all
the forenoon was employed, as before specified, according to custom, with
this difference only, that they had a good clear fire lighted to correct the
distempers of the air. But after dinner, instead of their wonted exercitations,
they did abide within, and, by way of apotherapy (that is, a making the body
healthful by exercise), did recreate themselves in bottling up of hay, in
cleaving and sawing of wood, and in threshing sheaves of corn at the barn.
Then they studied the art of painting or carving; or brought into use the
antique play of tables, as Leonicus hath written of it, and as our good friend
Lascaris playeth at it. In playing they examined the passages of ancient
authors wherein the said play is mentioned or any metaphor drawn from it.
They went likewise to see the drawing of metals, or the casting of great
ordnance; how the lapidaries did work; as also the goldsmiths and cutters of
precious stones. Nor did they omit to visit the alchemists, money-coiners,
upholsterers, weavers, velvet-workers, watchmakers, looking-glass framers,
printers, organists, and other such kind of artificers, and, everywhere giving
them somewhat to drink, did learn and consider the industry and invention
of the trades. They went also to hear the public lectures, the solemn
commencements, the repetitions, the acclamations, the pleadings of the
gentle lawyers, and sermons of evangelical preachers. He went through the
halls and places appointed for fencing, and there played against the masters
themselves at all weapons, and showed them by experience that he knew as
much in it as, yea, more than, they. And, instead of herborizing, they visited
the shops of druggists, herbalists, and apothecaries, and diligently
considered the fruits, roots, leaves, gums, seeds, the grease and ointments of
some foreign parts, as also how they did adulterate them. He went to see the
jugglers, tumblers, mountebanks, and quacksalvers, and considered their
cunning, their shifts, their somersaults and smooth tongue, especially of
those of Chauny in Picardy, who are naturally great praters, and brave
givers of fibs, in matter of green apes.

At their return they did eat more soberly at supper than at other times,
and meats more desiccative and extenuating; to the end that the intemperate
moisture of the air, communicated to the body by a necessary confinitive,
might by this means be corrected, and that they might not receive any
prejudice for want of their ordinary bodily exercise. Thus was Gargantua
governed, and kept on in this course of education, from day to day
profiting, as you may understand such a young man of his age may, of a
pregnant judgment, with good discipline well continued. Which, although at
the beginning it seemed difficult, became a little after so sweet, so easy, and
so delightful, that it seemed rather the recreation of a king than the study of
a scholar. Nevertheless Ponocrates, to divert him from this vehement
intension of the spirits, thought fit, once in a month, upon some fair and
clear day, to go out of the city betimes in the morning, either towards
Gentilly, or Boulogne, or to Montrouge, or Charanton bridge, or to Vanves,
or St. Clou, and there spend all the day long in making the greatest cheer
that could be devised, sporting, making merry, drinking healths, playing,
singing, dancing, tumbling in some fair meadow, unnestling of sparrows,
taking of quails, and fishing for frogs and crabs. But although that day was
passed without books or lecture, yet was it not spent without profit; for in
the said meadows they usually repeated certain pleasant verses of Virgil’s
agriculture, of Hesiod and of Politian’s husbandry, would set a-broach some
witty Latin epigrams, then immediately turned them into roundelays and
songs for dancing in the French language. In their feasting they would
sometimes separate the water from the wine that was therewith mixed, as
Cato teacheth, De re rustica, and Pliny with an ivy cup would wash the
wine in a basinful of water, then take it out again with a funnel as pure as
ever. They made the water go from one glass to another, and contrived a
thousand little automatory engines, that is to say, moving of themselves.

Chapter 1.XXV.—How there was great strife and
debate raised betwixt the cake-bakers of Lerne,
and those of Gargantua’s country, whereupon
were waged great wars.
At that time, which was the season of vintage, in the beginning of
harvest, when the country shepherds were set to keep the vines, and hinder
the starlings from eating up the grapes, as some cake-bakers of Lerne
happened to pass along in the broad highway, driving into the city ten or
twelve horses loaded with cakes, the said shepherds courteously entreated
them to give them some for their money, as the price then ruled in the
market. For here it is to be remarked, that it is a celestial food to eat for
breakfast hot fresh cakes with grapes, especially the frail clusters, the great
red grapes, the muscadine, the verjuice grape, and the laskard, for those that
are costive in their belly, because it will make them gush out, and squirt the
length of a hunter’s staff, like the very tap of a barrel; and oftentimes,
thinking to let a squib, they did all-to-besquatter and conskite themselves,
whereupon they are commonly called the vintage thinkers. The bun-sellers
or cake-makers were in nothing inclinable to their request; but, which was
worse, did injure them most outrageously, calling them prattling gabblers,
lickorous gluttons, freckled bittors, mangy rascals, shite-a-bed scoundrels,
drunken roysters, sly knaves, drowsy loiterers, slapsauce fellows,
slabberdegullion druggels, lubberly louts, cozening foxes, ruffian rogues,
paltry customers, sycophant-varlets, drawlatch hoydens, flouting milksops,
jeering companions, staring clowns, forlorn snakes, ninny lobcocks, scurvy
sneaksbies, fondling fops, base loons, saucy coxcombs, idle lusks, scoffing
braggarts, noddy meacocks, blockish grutnols, doddipol-joltheads,
jobbernol goosecaps, foolish loggerheads, flutch calf-lollies, grouthead
gnat-snappers, lob-dotterels, gaping changelings, codshead loobies,
woodcock slangams, ninny-hammer flycatchers, noddypeak simpletons,
turdy gut, shitten shepherds, and other suchlike defamatory epithets; saying
further, that it was not for them to eat of these dainty cakes, but might very
well content themselves with the coarse unranged bread, or to eat of the

great brown household loaf. To which provoking words, one amongst them,
called Forgier, an honest fellow of his person and a notable springal, made
answer very calmly thus: How long is it since you have got horns, that you
are become so proud? Indeed formerly you were wont to give us some
freely, and will you not now let us have any for our money? This is not the
part of good neighbours, neither do we serve you thus when you come
hither to buy our good corn, whereof you make your cakes and buns.
Besides that, we would have given you to the bargain some of our grapes,
but, by his zounds, you may chance to repent it, and possibly have need of
us at another time, when we shall use you after the like manner, and
therefore remember it. Then Marquet, a prime man in the confraternity of
the cake-bakers, said unto him, Yea, sir, thou art pretty well crest-risen this
morning, thou didst eat yesternight too much millet and bolymong. Come
hither, sirrah, come hither, I will give thee some cakes. Whereupon Forgier,
dreading no harm, in all simplicity went towards him, and drew a sixpence
out of his leather satchel, thinking that Marquet would have sold him some
of his cakes. But, instead of cakes, he gave him with his whip such a rude
lash overthwart the legs, that the marks of the whipcord knots were
apparent in them, then would have fled away; but Forgier cried out as loud
as he could, O, murder, murder, help, help, help! and in the meantime threw
a great cudgel after him, which he carried under his arm, wherewith he hit
him in the coronal joint of his head, upon the crotaphic artery of the right
side thereof, so forcibly, that Marquet fell down from his mare more like a
dead than living man. Meanwhile the farmers and country swains, that were
watching their walnuts near to that place, came running with their great
poles and long staves, and laid such load on these cake-bakers, as if they
had been to thresh upon green rye. The other shepherds and shepherdesses,
hearing the lamentable shout of Forgier, came with their slings and slackies
following them, and throwing great stones at them, as thick as if it had been
hail. At last they overtook them, and took from them about four or five
dozen of their cakes. Nevertheless they paid for them the ordinary price,
and gave them over and above one hundred eggs and three baskets full of
mulberries. Then did the cake-bakers help to get up to his mare Marquet,
who was most shrewdly wounded, and forthwith returned to Lerne,
changing the resolution they had to go to Pareille, threatening very sharp
and boisterously the cowherds, shepherds, and farmers of Seville and
Sinays. This done, the shepherds and shepherdesses made merry with these

cakes and fine grapes, and sported themselves together at the sound of the
pretty small pipe, scoffing and laughing at those vainglorious cake-bakers,
who had that day met with a mischief for want of crossing themselves with
a good hand in the morning. Nor did they forget to apply to Forgier’s leg
some fair great red medicinal grapes, and so handsomely dressed it and
bound it up that he was quickly cured.

Chapter 1.XXVI.—How the inhabitants of Lerne,
by the commandment of Picrochole their king,
assaulted the shepherds of Gargantua
unexpectedly and on a sudden.
The cake-bakers, being returned to Lerne, went presently, before they did
either eat or drink, to the Capitol, and there before their king, called
Picrochole, the third of that name, made their complaint, showing their
panniers broken, their caps all crumpled, their coats torn, their cakes taken
away, but, above all, Marquet most enormously wounded, saying that all
that mischief was done by the shepherds and herdsmen of Grangousier, near
the broad highway beyond Seville. Picrochole incontinent grew angry and
furious; and, without asking any further what, how, why, or wherefore,
commanded the ban and arriere ban to be sounded throughout all his
country, that all his vassals of what condition soever should, upon pain of
the halter, come, in the best arms they could, unto the great place before the
castle, at the hour of noon, and, the better to strengthen his design, he
caused the drum to be beat about the town. Himself, whilst his dinner was
making ready, went to see his artillery mounted upon the carriage, to
display his colours, and set up the great royal standard, and loaded wains
with store of ammunition both for the field and the belly, arms and victuals.
At dinner he despatched his commissions, and by his express edict my Lord
Shagrag was appointed to command the vanguard, wherein were numbered
sixteen thousand and fourteen arquebusiers or firelocks, together with thirty
thousand and eleven volunteer adventurers. The great Touquedillon, master
of the horse, had the charge of the ordnance, wherein were reckoned nine
hundred and fourteen brazen pieces, in cannons, double cannons, basilisks,
serpentines, culverins, bombards or murderers, falcons, bases or
passevolins, spirols, and other sorts of great guns. The rearguard was
committed to the Duke of Scrapegood. In the main battle was the king and
the princes of his kingdom. Thus being hastily furnished, before they would
set forward, they sent three hundred light horsemen, under the conduct of
Captain Swillwind, to discover the country, clear the avenues, and see

whether there was any ambush laid for them. But, after they had made
diligent search, they found all the land round about in peace and quiet,
without any meeting or convention at all; which Picrochole understanding,
commanded that everyone should march speedily under his colours. Then
immediately in all disorder, without keeping either rank or file, they took
the fields one amongst another, wasting, spoiling, destroying, and making
havoc of all wherever they went, not sparing poor nor rich, privileged or
unprivileged places, church nor laity, drove away oxen and cows, bulls,
calves, heifers, wethers, ewes, lambs, goats, kids, hens, capons, chickens,
geese, ganders, goslings, hogs, swine, pigs, and such like; beating down the
walnuts, plucking the grapes, tearing the hedges, shaking the fruit-trees, and
committing such incomparable abuses, that the like abomination was never
heard of. Nevertheless, they met with none to resist them, for everyone
submitted to their mercy, beseeching them that they might be dealt with
courteously in regard that they had always carried themselves as became
good and loving neighbours, and that they had never been guilty of any
wrong or outrage done upon them, to be thus suddenly surprised, troubled,
and disquieted, and that, if they would not desist, God would punish them
very shortly. To which expostulations and remonstrances no other answer
was made, but that they would teach them to eat cakes.

Chapter 1.XXVII.—How a monk of Seville saved
the close of the abbey from being ransacked by
the enemy.

So much they did, and so far they went pillaging and stealing, that at last
they came to Seville, where they robbed both men and women, and took all
they could catch: nothing was either too hot or too heavy for them.
Although the plague was there in the most part of all the houses, they
nevertheless entered everywhere, then plundered and carried away all that
was within, and yet for all this not one of them took any hurt, which is a
most wonderful case. For the curates, vicars, preachers, physicians,
chirurgeons, and apothecaries, who went to visit, to dress, to cure, to heal,
to preach unto and admonish those that were sick, were all dead of the
infection, and these devilish robbers and murderers caught never any harm
at all. Whence comes this to pass, my masters? I beseech you think upon it.
The town being thus pillaged, they went unto the abbey with a horrible
noise and tumult, but they found it shut and made fast against them.
Whereupon the body of the army marched forward towards a pass or ford
called the Gue de Vede, except seven companies of foot and two hundred
lancers, who, staying there, broke down the walls of the close, to waste,
spoil, and make havoc of all the vines and vintage within that place. The

monks (poor devils) knew not in that extremity to which of all their sancts
they should vow themselves. Nevertheless, at all adventures they rang the
bells ad capitulum capitulantes. There it was decreed that they should make
a fair procession, stuffed with good lectures, prayers, and litanies contra
hostium insidias, and jolly responses pro pace.
There was then in the abbey a claustral monk, called Friar John of the
funnels and gobbets, in French des entoumeures, young, gallant, frisk, lusty,
nimble, quick, active, bold, adventurous, resolute, tall, lean, wide-mouthed,
long-nosed, a fair despatcher of morning prayers, unbridler of masses, and
runner over of vigils; and, to conclude summarily in a word, a right monk,
if ever there was any, since the monking world monked a monkery: for the
rest, a clerk even to the teeth in matter of breviary. This monk, hearing the
noise that the enemy made within the enclosure of the vineyard, went out to
see what they were doing; and perceiving that they were cutting and
gathering the grapes, whereon was grounded the foundation of all their next
year’s wine, returned unto the choir of the church where the other monks
were, all amazed and astonished like so many bell-melters. Whom when he
heard sing, im, nim, pe, ne, ne, ne, ne, nene, tum, ne, num, num, ini, i mi,
co, o, no, o, o, neno, ne, no, no, no, rum, nenum, num: It is well shit, well
sung, said he. By the virtue of God, why do not you sing, Panniers,
farewell, vintage is done? The devil snatch me, if they be not already within
the middle of our close, and cut so well both vines and grapes, that, by
Cod’s body, there will not be found for these four years to come so much as
a gleaning in it. By the belly of Sanct James, what shall we poor devils
drink the while? Lord God! da mihi potum. Then said the prior of the
convent: What should this drunken fellow do here? let him be carried to
prison for troubling the divine service. Nay, said the monk, the wine
service, let us behave ourselves so that it be not troubled; for you yourself,
my lord prior, love to drink of the best, and so doth every honest man.
Never yet did a man of worth dislike good wine, it is a monastical
apophthegm. But these responses that you chant here, by G—, are not in
season. Wherefore is it, that our devotions were instituted to be short in the
time of harvest and vintage, and long in the advent, and all the winter? The
late friar, Massepelosse, of good memory, a true zealous man, or else I give
myself to the devil, of our religion, told me, and I remember it well, how
the reason was, that in this season we might press and make the wine, and
in winter whiff it up. Hark you, my masters, you that love the wine, Cop’s

body, follow me; for Sanct Anthony burn me as freely as a faggot, if they
get leave to taste one drop of the liquor that will not now come and fight for
relief of the vine. Hog’s belly, the goods of the church! Ha, no, no. What the
devil, Sanct Thomas of England was well content to die for them; if I died
in the same cause, should not I be a sanct likewise? Yes. Yet shall not I die
there for all this, for it is I that must do it to others and send them a-packing.
As he spake this he threw off his great monk’s habit, and laid hold upon
the staff of the cross, which was made of the heart of a sorbapple-tree, it
being of the length of a lance, round, of a full grip, and a little powdered
with lilies called flower de luce, the workmanship whereof was almost all
defaced and worn out. Thus went he out in a fair long-skirted jacket, putting
his frock scarfwise athwart his breast, and in this equipage, with his staff,
shaft or truncheon of the cross, laid on so lustily, brisk, and fiercely upon
his enemies, who, without any order, or ensign, or trumpet, or drum, were
busied in gathering the grapes of the vineyard. For the cornets, guidons, and
ensign-bearers had laid down their standards, banners, and colours by the
wall sides: the drummers had knocked out the heads of their drums on one
end to fill them with grapes: the trumpeters were loaded with great bundles
of bunches and huge knots of clusters: in sum, everyone of them was out of
array, and all in disorder. He hurried, therefore, upon them so rudely,
without crying gare or beware, that he overthrew them like hogs, tumbled
them over like swine, striking athwart and alongst, and by one means or
other laid so about him, after the old fashion of fencing, that to some he
beat out their brains, to others he crushed their arms, battered their legs, and
bethwacked their sides till their ribs cracked with it. To others again he
unjointed the spondyles or knuckles of the neck, disfigured their chaps,
gashed their faces, made their cheeks hang flapping on their chin, and so
swinged and balammed them that they fell down before him like hay before
a mower. To some others he spoiled the frame of their kidneys, marred their
backs, broke their thigh-bones, pashed in their noses, poached out their
eyes, cleft their mandibles, tore their jaws, dung in their teeth into their
throat, shook asunder their omoplates or shoulder-blades, sphacelated their
shins, mortified their shanks, inflamed their ankles, heaved off of the hinges
their ishies, their sciatica or hip-gout, dislocated the joints of their knees,
squattered into pieces the boughts or pestles of their thighs, and so
thumped, mauled and belaboured them everywhere, that never was corn so
thick and threefold threshed upon by ploughmen’s flails as were the

pitifully disjointed members of their mangled bodies under the merciless
baton of the cross. If any offered to hide himself amongst the thickest of the
vines, he laid him squat as a flounder, bruised the ridge of his back, and
dashed his reins like a dog. If any thought by flight to escape, he made his
head to fly in pieces by the lamboidal commissure, which is a seam in the
hinder part of the skull. If anyone did scramble up into a tree, thinking there
to be safe, he rent up his perinee, and impaled him in at the fundament. If
any of his old acquaintance happened to cry out, Ha, Friar John, my friend
Friar John, quarter, quarter, I yield myself to you, to you I render myself! So
thou shalt, said he, and must, whether thou wouldst or no, and withal render
and yield up thy soul to all the devils in hell; then suddenly gave them
dronos, that is, so many knocks, thumps, raps, dints, thwacks, and bangs, as
sufficed to warn Pluto of their coming and despatch them a-going. If any
was so rash and full of temerity as to resist him to his face, then was it he
did show the strength of his muscles, for without more ado he did
transpierce him, by running him in at the breast, through the mediastine and
the heart. Others, again, he so quashed and bebumped, that, with a sound
bounce under the hollow of their short ribs, he overturned their stomachs so
that they died immediately. To some, with a smart souse on the epigaster, he
would make their midriff swag, then, redoubling the blow, gave them such a
homepush on the navel that he made their puddings to gush out. To others
through their ballocks he pierced their bumgut, and left not bowel, tripe, nor
entrail in their body that had not felt the impetuosity, fierceness, and fury of
his violence. Believe, that it was the most horrible spectacle that ever one
saw. Some cried unto Sanct Barbe, others to St. George. O the holy Lady
Nytouch, said one, the good Sanctess; O our Lady of Succours, said
another, help, help! Others cried, Our Lady of Cunaut, of Loretto, of Good
Tidings, on the other side of the water St. Mary Over. Some vowed a
pilgrimage to St. James, and others to the holy handkerchief at Chamberry,
which three months after that burnt so well in the fire that they could not get
one thread of it saved. Others sent up their vows to St. Cadouin, others to
St. John d’Angely, and to St. Eutropius of Xaintes. Others again invoked St.
Mesmes of Chinon, St. Martin of Candes, St. Clouaud of Sinays, the holy
relics of Laurezay, with a thousand other jolly little sancts and santrels.
Some died without speaking, others spoke without dying; some died in
speaking, others spoke in dying. Others shouted as loud as they could
Confession, Confession, Confiteor, Miserere, In manus! So great was the

cry of the wounded, that the prior of the abbey with all his monks came
forth, who, when they saw these poor wretches so slain amongst the vines,
and wounded to death, confessed some of them. But whilst the priests were
busied in confessing them, the little monkies ran all to the place where Friar
John was, and asked him wherein he would be pleased to require their
assistance. To which he answered that they should cut the throats of those
he had thrown down upon the ground. They presently, leaving their outer
habits and cowls upon the rails, began to throttle and make an end of those
whom he had already crushed. Can you tell with what instruments they did
it? With fair gullies, which are little hulchbacked demi-knives, the iron tool
whereof is two inches long, and the wooden handle one inch thick, and
three inches in length, wherewith the little boys in our country cut ripe
walnuts in two while they are yet in the shell, and pick out the kernel, and
they found them very fit for the expediting of that weasand-slitting exploit.
In the meantime Friar John, with his formidable baton of the cross, got to
the breach which the enemies had made, and there stood to snatch up those
that endeavoured to escape. Some of the monkitos carried the standards,
banners, ensigns, guidons, and colours into their cells and chambers to
make garters of them. But when those that had been shriven would have
gone out at the gap of the said breach, the sturdy monk quashed and felled
them down with blows, saying, These men have had confession and are
penitent souls; they have got their absolution and gained the pardons; they
go into paradise as straight as a sickle, or as the way is to Faye (like
Crooked-Lane at Eastcheap). Thus by his prowess and valour were
discomfited all those of the army that entered into the close of the abbey,
unto the number of thirteen thousand, six hundred, twenty and two, besides
the women and little children, which is always to be understood. Never did
Maugis the Hermit bear himself more valiantly with his bourdon or
pilgrim’s staff against the Saracens, of whom is written in the Acts of the
four sons of Aymon, than did this monk against his enemies with the staff of
the cross.

Chapter 1.XXVIII.—How Picrochole stormed and
took by assault the rock Clermond, and of
Grangousier’s unwillingness and aversion from
the undertaking of war.
Whilst the monk did thus skirmish, as we have said, against those which
were entered within the close, Picrochole in great haste passed the ford of
Vede—a very especial pass—with all his soldiers, and set upon the rock
Clermond, where there was made him no resistance at all; and, because it
was already night, he resolved to quarter himself and his army in that town,
and to refresh himself of his pugnative choler. In the morning he stormed
and took the bulwarks and castle, which afterwards he fortified with
rampiers, and furnished with all ammunition requisite, intending to make
his retreat there, if he should happen to be otherwise worsted; for it was a
strong place, both by art and nature, in regard of the stance and situation of
it. But let us leave them there, and return to our good Gargantua, who is at
Paris very assiduous and earnest at the study of good letters and athletical
exercitations, and to the good old man Grangousier his father, who after
supper warmeth his ballocks by a good, clear, great fire, and, waiting upon
the broiling of some chestnuts, is very serious in drawing scratches on the
hearth, with a stick burnt at the one end, wherewith they did stir up the fire,
telling to his wife and the rest of the family pleasant old stories and tales of
former times.
Whilst he was thus employed, one of the shepherds which did keep the
vines, named Pillot, came towards him, and to the full related the enormous
abuses which were committed, and the excessive spoil that was made by
Picrochole, King of Lerne, upon his lands and territories, and how he had
pillaged, wasted, and ransacked all the country, except the enclosure at
Seville, which Friar John des Entoumeures to his great honour had
preserved; and that at the same present time the said king was in the rock
Clermond, and there, with great industry and circumspection, was
strengthening himself and his whole army. Halas, halas, alas! said
Grangousier, what is this, good people? Do I dream, or is it true that they

tell me? Picrochole, my ancient friend of old time, of my own kindred and
alliance, comes he to invade me? What moves him? What provokes him?
What sets him on? What drives him to it? Who hath given him this counsel?
Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, my God, my Saviour, help me, inspire me, and advise
me what I shall do! I protest, I swear before thee, so be thou favourable to
me, if ever I did him or his subjects any damage or displeasure, or
committed any the least robbery in his country; but, on the contrary, I have
succoured and supplied him with men, money, friendship, and counsel,
upon any occasion wherein I could be steadable for the improvement of his
good. That he hath therefore at this nick of time so outraged and wronged
me, it cannot be but by the malevolent and wicked spirit. Good God, thou
knowest my courage, for nothing can be hidden from thee. If perhaps he be
grown mad, and that thou hast sent him hither to me for the better recovery
and re-establishment of his brain, grant me power and wisdom to bring him
to the yoke of thy holy will by good discipline. Ho, ho, ho, ho, my good
people, my friends and my faithful servants, must I hinder you from helping
me? Alas, my old age required hence-forward nothing else but rest, and all
the days of my life I have laboured for nothing so much as peace; but now I
must, I see it well, load with arms my poor, weary, and feeble shoulders,
and take in my trembling hand the lance and horseman’s mace, to succour
and protect my honest subjects. Reason will have it so; for by their labour
am I entertained, and with their sweat am I nourished, I, my children and
my family. This notwithstanding, I will not undertake war, until I have first
tried all the ways and means of peace: that I resolve upon.
Then assembled he his council, and proposed the matter as it was indeed.
Whereupon it was concluded that they should send some discreet man unto
Picrochole, to know wherefore he had thus suddenly broken the peace and
invaded those lands unto which he had no right nor title. Furthermore, that
they should send for Gargantua, and those under his command, for the
preservation of the country, and defence thereof now at need. All this
pleased Grangousier very well, and he commanded that so it should be
done. Presently therefore he sent the Basque his lackey to fetch Gargantua
with all diligence, and wrote him as followeth.

Chapter 1.XXIX.—The tenour of the letter which
Grangousier wrote to his son Gargantua.
The fervency of thy studies did require that I should not in a long time
recall thee from that philosophical rest thou now enjoyest, if the confidence
reposed in our friends and ancient confederates had not at this present
disappointed the assurance of my old age. But seeing such is my fatal
destiny, that I should be now disquieted by those in whom I trusted most, I
am forced to call thee back to help the people and goods which by the right
of nature belong unto thee. For even as arms are weak abroad, if there be
not counsel at home, so is that study vain and counsel unprofitable which in
a due and convenient time is not by virtue executed and put in effect. My
deliberation is not to provoke, but to appease—not to assault, but to defend
—not to conquer, but to preserve my faithful subjects and hereditary
dominions, into which Picrochole is entered in a hostile manner without any
ground or cause, and from day to day pursueth his furious enterprise with
that height of insolence that is intolerable to freeborn spirits. I have
endeavoured to moderate his tyrannical choler, offering him all that which I
thought might give him satisfaction; and oftentimes have I sent lovingly
unto him to understand wherein, by whom, and how he found himself to be
wronged. But of him could I obtain no other answer but a mere defiance,
and that in my lands he did pretend only to the right of a civil
correspondency and good behaviour, whereby I knew that the eternal God
hath left him to the disposure of his own free will and sensual appetite—
which cannot choose but be wicked, if by divine grace it be not continually
guided—and to contain him within his duty, and bring him to know himself,
hath sent him hither to me by a grievous token. Therefore, my beloved son,
as soon as thou canst, upon sight of these letters, repair hither with all
diligence, to succour not me so much, which nevertheless by natural piety
thou oughtest to do, as thine own people, which by reason thou mayest save
and preserve. The exploit shall be done with as little effusion of blood as
may be. And, if possible, by means far more expedient, such as military
policy, devices, and stratagems of war, we shall save all the souls, and send
them home as merry as crickets unto their own houses. My dearest son, the

peace of Jesus Christ our Redeemer be with thee. Salute from me
Ponocrates, Gymnastes, and Eudemon. The twentieth of September. Thy
Father Grangousier.

Chapter 1.XXX.—How Ulric Gallet was sent unto
Picrochole.
The letters being dictated, signed, and sealed, Grangousier ordained that
Ulric Gallet, master of the requests, a very wise and discreet man, of whose
prudence and sound judgment he had made trial in several difficult and
debateful matters, (should) go unto Picrochole, to show what had been
decreed amongst them. At the same hour departed the good man Gallet, and
having passed the ford, asked at the miller that dwelt there in what
condition Picrochole was: who answered him that his soldiers had left him
neither cock nor hen, that they were retired and shut up into the rock
Clermond, and that he would not advise him to go any further for fear of the
scouts, because they were enormously furious. Which he easily believed,
and therefore lodged that night with the miller.
The next morning he went with a trumpeter to the gate of the castle, and
required the guards he might be admitted to speak with the king of
somewhat that concerned him. These words being told unto the king, he
would by no means consent that they should open the gate; but, getting
upon the top of the bulwark, said unto the ambassador, What is the news,
what have you to say? Then the ambassador began to speak as followeth.

Chapter 1.XXXI.—The speech made by Gallet to
Picrochole.
There cannot arise amongst men a juster cause of grief than when they
receive hurt and damage where they may justly expect for favour and good
will; and not without cause, though without reason, have many, after they
had fallen into such a calamitous accident, esteemed this indignity less
supportable than the loss of their own lives, in such sort that, if they have
not been able by force of arms nor any other means, by reach of wit or
subtlety, to stop them in their course and restrain their fury, they have fallen
into desperation, and utterly deprived themselves of this light. It is therefore
no wonder if King Grangousier, my master, be full of high displeasure and
much disquieted in mind upon thy outrageous and hostile coming; but truly
it would be a marvel if he were not sensible of and moved with the
incomparable abuses and injuries perpetrated by thee and thine upon those
of his country, towards whom there hath been no example of inhumanity
omitted. Which in itself is to him so grievous, for the cordial affection
wherewith he hath always cherished his subjects, that more it cannot be to
any mortal man; yet in this, above human apprehension, is it to him the
more grievous that these wrongs and sad offences have been committed by
thee and thine, who, time out of mind, from all antiquity, thou and thy
predecessors have been in a continual league and amity with him and all his
ancestors; which, even until this time, you have as sacred together
inviolably preserved, kept, and entertained, so well, that not he and his only,
but the very barbarous nations of the Poictevins, Bretons, Manceaux, and
those that dwell beyond the isles of the Canaries, and that of Isabella, have
thought it as easy to pull down the firmament, and to set up the depths
above the clouds, as to make a breach in your alliance; and have been so
afraid of it in their enterprises that they have never dared to provoke,
incense, or endamage the one for fear of the other. Nay, which is more, this
sacred league hath so filled the world, that there are few nations at this day
inhabiting throughout all the continent and isles of the ocean, who have not
ambitiously aspired to be received into it, upon your own covenants and
conditions, holding your joint confederacy in as high esteem as their own

territories and dominions, in such sort, that from the memory of man there
hath not been either prince or league so wild and proud that durst have
offered to invade, I say not your countries, but not so much as those of your
confederates. And if, by rash and heady counsel, they have attempted any
new design against them, as soon as they heard the name and title of your
alliance, they have suddenly desisted from their enterprises. What rage and
madness, therefore, doth now incite thee, all old alliance infringed, all amity
trod under foot, and all right violated, thus in a hostile manner to invade his
country, without having been by him or his in anything prejudiced,
wronged, or provoked? Where is faith? Where is law? Where is reason?
Where is humanity? Where is the fear of God? Dost thou think that these
atrocious abuses are hidden from the eternal spirit and the supreme God
who is the just rewarder of all our undertakings? If thou so think, thou
deceivest thyself; for all things shall come to pass as in his
incomprehensible judgment he hath appointed. Is it thy fatal destiny, or
influences of the stars, that would put an end to thy so long enjoyed ease
and rest? For that all things have their end and period, so as that, when they
are come to the superlative point of their greatest height, they are in a trice
tumbled down again, as not being able to abide long in that state. This is the
conclusion and end of those who cannot by reason and temperance
moderate their fortunes and prosperities. But if it be predestinated that thy
happiness and ease must now come to an end, must it needs be by wronging
my king,—him by whom thou wert established? If thy house must come to
ruin, should it therefore in its fall crush the heels of him that set it up? The
matter is so unreasonable, and so dissonant from common sense, that hardly
can it be conceived by human understanding, and altogether incredible unto
strangers, till by the certain and undoubted effects thereof it be made
apparent that nothing is either sacred or holy to those who, having
emancipated themselves from God and reason, do merely follow the
perverse affections of their own depraved nature. If any wrong had been
done by us to thy subjects and dominions—if we had favoured thy ill-
willers—if we had not assisted thee in thy need—if thy name and reputation
had been wounded by us—or, to speak more truly, if the calumniating spirit,
tempting to induce thee to evil, had, by false illusions and deceitful
fantasies, put into thy conceit the impression of a thought that we had done
unto thee anything unworthy of our ancient correspondence and friendship,
thou oughtest first to have inquired out the truth, and afterwards by a

seasonable warning to admonish us thereof; and we should have so satisfied
thee, according to thine own heart’s desire, that thou shouldst have had
occasion to be contented. But, O eternal God, what is thy enterprise?
Wouldst thou, like a perfidious tyrant, thus spoil and lay waste my master’s
kingdom? Hast thou found him so silly and blockish, that he would not—or
so destitute of men and money, of counsel and skill in military discipline,
that he cannot withstand thy unjust invasion? March hence presently, and
to-morrow, some time of the day, retreat unto thine own country, without
doing any kind of violence or disorderly act by the way; and pay withal a
thousand besans of gold (which, in English money, amounteth to five
thousand pounds), for reparation of the damages thou hast done in this
country. Half thou shalt pay to-morrow, and the other half at the ides of
May next coming, leaving with us in the mean time, for hostages, the Dukes
of Turnbank, Lowbuttock, and Smalltrash, together with the Prince of Itches
and Viscount of Snatchbit (Tournemoule, Bas-de-fesses, Menuail, Gratelles,
Morpiaille.).

Chapter 1.XXXII.—How Grangousier, to buy
peace, caused the cakes to be restored.
With that the good man Gallet held his peace, but Picrochole to all his
discourse answered nothing but Come and fetch them, come and fetch
them, —they have ballocks fair and soft,—they will knead and provide
some cakes for you. Then returned he to Grangousier, whom he found upon
his knees bareheaded, crouching in a little corner of his cabinet, and humbly
praying unto God that he would vouchsafe to assuage the choler of
Picrochole, and bring him to the rule of reason without proceeding by force.
When the good man came back, he asked him, Ha, my friend, what news do
you bring me? There is neither hope nor remedy, said Gallet; the man is
quite out of his wits, and forsaken of God. Yea, but, said Grangousier, my
friend, what cause doth he pretend for his outrages? He did not show me
any cause at all, said Gallet, only that in a great anger he spoke some words
of cakes. I cannot tell if they have done any wrong to his cake-bakers. I will
know, said Grangousier, the matter thoroughly, before I resolve any more
upon what is to be done. Then sent he to learn concerning that business, and
found by true information that his men had taken violently some cakes from
Picrochole’s people, and that Marquet’s head was broken with a slacky or
short cudgel; that, nevertheless, all was well paid, and that the said Marquet
had first hurt Forgier with a stroke of his whip athwart the legs. And it
seemed good to his whole council, that he should defend himself with all
his might. Notwithstanding all this, said Grangousier, seeing the question is
but about a few cakes, I will labour to content him; for I am very unwilling
to wage war against him. He inquired then what quantity of cakes they had
taken away, and understanding that it was but some four or five dozen, he
commanded five cartloads of them to be baked that same night; and that
there should be one full of cakes made with fine butter, fine yolks of eggs,
fine saffron, and fine spice, to be bestowed upon Marquet, unto whom
likewise he directed to be given seven hundred thousand and three Philips
(that is, at three shillings the piece, one hundred five thousand pounds and
nine shillings of English money), for reparation of his losses and
hindrances, and for satisfaction of the chirurgeon that had dressed his

wound; and furthermore settled upon him and his for ever in freehold the
apple-orchard called La Pomardiere. For the conveyance and passing of all
which was sent Gallet, who by the way as they went made them gather near
the willow-trees great store of boughs, canes, and reeds, wherewith all the
carriers were enjoined to garnish and deck their carts, and each of them to
carry one in his hand, as himself likewise did, thereby to give all men to
understand that they demanded but peace, and that they came to buy it.
Being come to the gate, they required to speak with Picrochole from
Grangousier. Picrochole would not so much as let them in, nor go to speak
with them, but sent them word that he was busy, and that they should
deliver their mind to Captain Touquedillon, who was then planting a piece
of ordnance upon the wall. Then said the good man unto him, My lord, to
ease you of all this labour, and to take away all excuses why you may not
return unto our former alliance, we do here presently restore unto you the
cakes upon which the quarrel arose. Five dozen did our people take away:
they were well paid for: we love peace so well that we restore unto you five
cartloads, of which this cart shall be for Marquet, who doth most complain.
Besides, to content him entirely, here are seven hundred thousand and three
Philips, which I deliver to him, and, for the losses he may pretend to have
sustained, I resign for ever the farm of the Pomardiere, to be possessed in
fee-simple by him and his for ever, without the payment of any duty, or
acknowledgement of homage, fealty, fine, or service whatsoever, and here
is the tenour of the deed. And, for God’s sake, let us live henceforward in
peace, and withdraw yourselves merrily into your own country from within
this place, unto which you have no right at all, as yourselves must needs
confess, and let us be good friends as before. Touquedillon related all this to
Picrochole, and more and more exasperated his courage, saying to him,
These clowns are afraid to some purpose. By G—, Grangousier conskites
himself for fear, the poor drinker. He is not skilled in warfare, nor hath he
any stomach for it. He knows better how to empty the flagons,—that is his
art. I am of opinion that it is fit we send back the carts and the money, and,
for the rest, that very speedily we fortify ourselves here, then prosecute our
fortune. But what! Do they think to have to do with a ninnywhoop, to feed
you thus with cakes? You may see what it is. The good usage and great
familiarity which you have had with them heretofore hath made you
contemptible in their eyes. Anoint a villain, he will prick you: prick a

villain, and he will anoint you (Ungentem pungit, pungentem rusticus
ungit.).
Sa, sa, sa, said Picrochole, by St. James you have given a true character
of them. One thing I will advise you, said Touquedillon. We are here but
badly victualled, and furnished with mouth-harness very slenderly. If
Grangousier should come to besiege us, I would go presently, and pluck out
of all your soldiers’ heads and mine own all the teeth, except three to each
of us, and with them alone we should make an end of our provision but too
soon. We shall have, said Picrochole, but too much sustenance and feeding-
stuff. Came we hither to eat or to fight? To fight, indeed, said Touquedillon;
yet from the paunch comes the dance, and where famine rules force is
exiled. Leave off your prating, said Picrochole, and forthwith seize upon
what they have brought. Then took they money and cakes, oxen and carts,
and sent them away without speaking one word, only that they would come
no more so near, for a reason that they would give them the morrow after.
Thus, without doing anything, returned they to Grangousier, and related the
whole matter unto him, subjoining that there was no hope left to draw them
to peace but by sharp and fierce wars.

Chapter 1.XXXIII.—How some statesmen of
Picrochole, by hairbrained counsel, put him in
extreme danger.
The carts being unloaded, and the money and cakes secured, there came
before Picrochole the Duke of Smalltrash, the Earl Swashbuckler, and
Captain Dirt-tail (Menuail, Spadassin, Merdaille.), who said unto him, Sir,
this day we make you the happiest, the most warlike and chivalrous prince
that ever was since the death of Alexander of Macedonia. Be covered, be
covered, said Picrochole. Gramercy, said they, we do but our duty. The
manner is thus. You shall leave some captain here to have the charge of this
garrison, with a party competent for keeping of the place, which, besides its
natural strength, is made stronger by the rampiers and fortresses of your
devising. Your army you are to divide into two parts, as you know very well
how to do. One part thereof shall fall upon Grangousier and his forces. By it
shall he be easily at the very first shock routed, and then shall you get
money by heaps, for the clown hath store of ready coin. Clown we call him,
because a noble and generous prince hath never a penny, and that to hoard
up treasure is but a clownish trick. The other part of the army, in the
meantime, shall draw towards Onys, Xaintonge, Angomois, and Gascony.
Then march to Perigot, Medoc, and Elanes, taking wherever you come,
without resistance, towns, castles, and forts; afterwards to Bayonne, St.
John de Luc, to Fontarabia, where you shall seize upon all the ships, and
coasting along Galicia and Portugal, shall pillage all the maritime places,
even unto Lisbon, where you shall be supplied with all necessaries befitting
a conqueror. By copsody, Spain will yield, for they are but a race of loobies.
Then are you to pass by the Straits of Gibraltar, where you shall erect two
pillars more stately than those of Hercules, to the perpetual memory of your
name, and the narrow entrance there shall be called the Picrocholinal sea.
Having passed the Picrocholinal sea, behold, Barbarossa yields himself
your slave. I will, said Picrochole, give him fair quarter and spare his life.
Yea, said they, so that he be content to be christened. And you shall conquer
the kingdoms of Tunis, of Hippo, Argier, Bomine (Bona), Corone, yea, all

Barbary. Furthermore, you shall take into your hands Majorca, Minorca,
Sardinia, Corsica, with the other islands of the Ligustic and Balearian seas.
Going alongst on the left hand, you shall rule all Gallia Narbonensis,
Provence, the Allobrogians, Genoa, Florence, Lucca, and then God b’w’ye,
Rome. (Our poor Monsieur the Pope dies now for fear.) By my faith, said
Picrochole, I will not then kiss his pantoufle.
Italy being thus taken, behold Naples, Calabria, Apulia, and Sicily, all
ransacked, and Malta too. I wish the pleasant Knights of the Rhodes
heretofore would but come to resist you, that we might see their urine. I
would, said Picrochole, very willingly go to Loretto. No, no, said they, that
shall be at our return. From thence we will sail eastwards, and take Candia,
Cyprus, Rhodes, and the Cyclade Islands, and set upon (the) Morea. It is
ours, by St. Trenian. The Lord preserve Jerusalem; for the great Soldan is
not comparable to you in power. I will then, said he, cause Solomon’s
temple to be built. No, said they, not yet, have a little patience, stay awhile,
be never too sudden in your enterprises. Can you tell what Octavian
Augustus said? Festina lente. It is requisite that you first have the Lesser
Asia, Caria, Lycia, Pamphilia, Cilicia, Lydia, Phrygia, Mysia, Bithynia,
Carazia, Satalia, Samagaria, Castamena, Luga, Savasta, even unto
Euphrates. Shall we see, said Picrochole, Babylon and Mount Sinai? There
is no need, said they, at this time. Have we not hurried up and down,
travelled and toiled enough, in having transfretted and passed over the
Hircanian sea, marched alongst the two Armenias and the three Arabias? Ay,
by my faith, said he, we have played the fools, and are undone. Ha, poor
souls! What’s the matter? said they. What shall we have, said he, to drink in
these deserts? For Julian Augustus with his whole army died there for thirst,
as they say. We have already, said they, given order for that. In the Syriac
sea you have nine thousand and fourteen great ships laden with the best
wines in the world. They arrived at Port Joppa. There they found two-and-
twenty thousand camels and sixteen hundred elephants, which you shall
have taken at one hunting about Sigelmes, when you entered into Lybia;
and, besides this, you had all the Mecca caravan. Did not they furnish you
sufficiently with wine? Yes, but, said he, we did not drink it fresh. By the
virtue, said they, not of a fish, a valiant man, a conqueror, who pretends and
aspires to the monarchy of the world, cannot always have his ease. God be
thanked that you and your men are come safe and sound unto the banks of
the river Tigris. But, said he, what doth that part of our army in the

meantime which overthrows that unworthy swillpot Grangousier? They are
not idle, said they. We shall meet with them by-and-by. They shall have won
you Brittany, Normandy, Flanders, Hainault, Brabant, Artois, Holland,
Zealand; they have passed the Rhine over the bellies of the Switzers and
lansquenets, and a party of these hath subdued Luxembourg, Lorraine,
Champagne, and Savoy, even to Lyons, in which place they have met with
your forces returning from the naval conquests of the Mediterranean sea;
and have rallied again in Bohemia, after they had plundered and sacked
Suevia, Wittemberg, Bavaria, Austria, Moravia, and Styria. Then they set
fiercely together upon Lubeck, Norway, Swedeland, Rie, Denmark, Gitland,
Greenland, the Sterlins, even unto the frozen sea. This done, they conquered
the Isles of Orkney and subdued Scotland, England, and Ireland. From
thence sailing through the sandy sea and by the Sarmates, they have
vanquished and overcome Prussia, Poland, Lithuania, Russia, Wallachia,
Transylvania, Hungary, Bulgaria, Turkeyland, and are now at
Constantinople. Come, said Picrochole, let us go join with them quickly, for
I will be Emperor of Trebizond also. Shall we not kill all these dogs, Turks
and Mahometans? What a devil should we do else? said they. And you shall
give their goods and lands to such as shall have served you honestly.
Reason, said he, will have it so, that is but just. I give unto you the
Caramania, Suria, and all the Palestine. Ha, sir, said they, it is out of your
goodness; gramercy, we thank you. God grant you may always prosper.
There was there present at that time an old gentleman well experienced in
the wars, a stern soldier, and who had been in many great hazards, named
Echephron, who, hearing this discourse, said, I do greatly doubt that all this
enterprise will be like the tale or interlude of the pitcher full of milk
wherewith a shoemaker made himself rich in conceit; but, when the pitcher
was broken, he had not whereupon to dine. What do you pretend by these
large conquests? What shall be the end of so many labours and crosses?
Thus it shall be, said Picrochole, that when we are returned we shall sit
down, rest, and be merry. But, said Echephron, if by chance you should
never come back, for the voyage is long and dangerous, were it not better
for us to take our rest now, than unnecessarily to expose ourselves to so
many dangers? O, said Swashbuckler, by G—, here is a good dotard; come,
let us go hide ourselves in the corner of a chimney, and there spend the
whole time of our life amongst ladies, in threading of pearls, or spinning,
like Sardanapalus. He that nothing ventures hath neither horse nor mule,

says Solomon. He who adventureth too much, said Echephron, loseth both
horse and mule, answered Malchon. Enough, said Picrochole, go forward. I
fear nothing but that these devilish legions of Grangousier, whilst we are in
Mesopotamia, will come on our backs and charge up our rear. What course
shall we then take? What shall be our remedy? A very good one, said Dirt-
tail; a pretty little commission, which you must send unto the Muscovites,
shall bring you into the field in an instant four hundred and fifty thousand
choice men of war. Oh that you would but make me your lieutenant-
general, I should for the lightest faults of any inflict great punishments. I
fret, I charge, I strike, I take, I kill, I slay, I play the devil. On, on, said
Picrochole, make haste, my lads, and let him that loves me follow me.

Chapter 1.XXXIV.—How Gargantua left the city
of Paris to succour his country, and how Gymnast
encountered with the enemy.
In this same very hour Gargantua, who was gone out of Paris as soon as
he had read his father’s letters, coming upon his great mare, had already
passed the Nunnery-bridge, himself, Ponocrates, Gymnast, and Eudemon,
who all three, the better to enable them to go along with him, took post-
horses. The rest of his train came after him by even journeys at a slower
pace, bringing with them all his books and philosophical instruments. As
soon as he had alighted at Parille, he was informed by a farmer of Gouguet
how Picrochole had fortified himself within the rock Clermond, and had
sent Captain Tripet with a great army to set upon the wood of Vede and
Vaugaudry, and that they had already plundered the whole country, not
leaving cock nor hen, even as far as to the winepress of Billard. These
strange and almost incredible news of the enormous abuses thus committed
over all the land, so affrighted Gargantua that he knew not what to say nor
do. But Ponocrates counselled him to go unto the Lord of Vauguyon, who at
all times had been their friend and confederate, and that by him they should
be better advised in their business. Which they did incontinently, and found
him very willing and fully resolved to assist them, and therefore was of
opinion that they should send some one of his company to scout along and
discover the country, to learn in what condition and posture the enemy was,
that they might take counsel, and proceed according to the present occasion.
Gymnast offered himself to go. Whereupon it was concluded, that for his
safety and the better expedition, he should have with him someone that
knew the ways, avenues, turnings, windings, and rivers thereabout. Then
away went he and Prelingot, the equerry or gentleman of Vauguyon’s horse,
who scouted and espied as narrowly as they could upon all quarters without
any fear. In the meantime Gargantua took a little refreshment, ate somewhat
himself, the like did those who were with him, and caused to give to his
mare a picotine of oats, that is, three score and fourteen quarters and three
bushels. Gymnast and his comrade rode so long, that at last they met with

the enemy’s forces, all scattered and out of order, plundering, stealing,
robbing, and pillaging all they could lay their hands on. And, as far off as
they could perceive him, they ran thronging upon the back of one another in
all haste towards him, to unload him of his money, and untruss his
portmantles. Then cried he out unto them, My masters, I am a poor devil, I
desire you to spare me. I have yet one crown left. Come, we must drink it,
for it is aurum potabile, and this horse here shall be sold to pay my
welcome. Afterwards take me for one of your own, for never yet was there
any man that knew better how to take, lard, roast, and dress, yea, by G—, to
tear asunder and devour a hen, than I that am here: and for my proficiat I
drink to all good fellows. With that he unscrewed his borracho (which was a
great Dutch leathern bottle), and without putting in his nose drank very
honestly. The maroufle rogues looked upon him, opening their throats a foot
wide, and putting out their tongues like greyhounds, in hopes to drink after
him; but Captain Tripet, in the very nick of that their expectation, came
running to him to see who it was. To him Gymnast offered his bottle,
saying, Hold, captain, drink boldly and spare not; I have been thy taster, it is
wine of La Faye Monjau. What! said Tripet, this fellow gibes and flouts us?
Who art thou? said Tripet. I am, said Gymnast, a poor devil (pauvre diable).
Ha, said Tripet, seeing thou art a poor devil, it is reason that thou shouldst
be permitted to go whithersoever thou wilt, for all poor devils pass
everywhere without toll or tax. But it is not the custom of poor devils to be
so well mounted; therefore, sir devil, come down, and let me have your
horse, and if he do not carry me well, you, master devil, must do it: for I
love a life that such a devil as you should carry me away.

Chapter 1.XXXV.—How Gymnast very souply
and cunningly killed Captain Tripet and others of
Picrochole’s men.
When they heard these words, some amongst them began to be afraid,
and blessed themselves with both hands, thinking indeed that he had been a
devil disguised, insomuch that one of them, named Good John, captain of
the trained bands of the country bumpkins, took his psalter out of his
codpiece, and cried out aloud, Hagios ho theos. If thou be of God, speak; if
thou be of the other spirit, avoid hence, and get thee going. Yet he went not
away. Which words being heard by all the soldiers that were there, divers of
them being a little inwardly terrified, departed from the place. All this did
Gymnast very well remark and consider, and therefore making as if he
would have alighted from off his horse, as he was poising himself on the
mounting side, he most nimbly, with his short sword by his thigh, shifting
his foot in the stirrup, performed the stirrup-leather feat, whereby, after the
inclining of his body downwards, he forthwith launched himself aloft in the
air, and placed both his feet together on the saddle, standing upright with
his back turned towards the horse’s head. Now, said he, my case goes
backward. Then suddenly in the same very posture wherein he was, he
fetched a gambol upon one foot, and, turning to the left hand, failed not to
carry his body perfectly round, just into its former stance, without missing
one jot. Ha, said Tripet, I will not do that at this time, and not without cause.
Well, said Gymnast, I have failed, I will undo this leap. Then with a
marvellous strength and agility, turning towards the right hand, he fetched
another frisking gambol as before, which done, he set his right-hand thumb
upon the hind-bow of the saddle, raised himself up, and sprung in the air,
poising and upholding his whole body upon the muscle and nerve of the
said thumb, and so turned and whirled himself about three times. At the
fourth, reversing his body, and overturning it upside down, and foreside
back, without touching anything, he brought himself betwixt the horse’s
two ears, springing with all his body into the air, upon the thumb of his left
hand, and in that posture, turning like a windmill, did most actively do that

trick which is called the miller’s pass. After this, clapping his right hand flat
upon the middle of the saddle, he gave himself such a jerking swing that he
thereby seated himself upon the crupper, after the manner of gentlewomen
sitting on horseback. This done, he easily passed his right leg over the
saddle, and placed himself like one that rides in croup. But, said he, it were
better for me to get into the saddle; then putting the thumbs of both hands
upon the crupper before him, and thereupon leaning himself, as upon the
only supporters of his body, he incontinently turned heels over head in the
air, and straight found himself betwixt the bow of the saddle in a good
settlement. Then with a somersault springing into the air again, he fell to
stand with both his feet close together upon the saddle, and there made
above a hundred frisks, turns, and demipommads, with his arms held out
across, and in so doing cried out aloud, I rage, I rage, devils, I am stark
mad, devils, I am mad, hold me, devils, hold me, hold, devils, hold, hold!
Whilst he was thus vaulting, the rogues in great astonishment said to one
another, By cock’s death, he is a goblin or a devil thus disguised. Ab hoste
maligno libera nos, Domine, and ran away in a full flight, as if they had
been routed, looking now and then behind them, like a dog that carrieth
away a goose-wing in his mouth. Then Gymnast, spying his advantage,
alighted from his horse, drew his sword, and laid on great blows upon the
thickset and highest crested among them, and overthrew them in great
heaps, hurt, wounded, and bruised, being resisted by nobody, they thinking
he had been a starved devil, as well in regard of his wonderful feats in
vaulting, which they had seen, as for the talk Tripet had with him, calling
him poor devil. Only Tripet would have traitorously cleft his head with his
horseman’s sword, or lance-knight falchion; but he was well armed, and felt
nothing of the blow but the weight of the stroke. Whereupon, turning
suddenly about, he gave Tripet a home-thrust, and upon the back of that,
whilst he was about to ward his head from a slash, he ran him in at the
breast with a hit, which at once cut his stomach, the fifth gut called the
colon, and the half of his liver, wherewith he fell to the ground, and in
falling gushed forth above four pottles of pottage, and his soul mingled with
the pottage.
This done, Gymnast withdrew himself, very wisely considering that a
case of great adventure and hazard should not be pursued unto its utmost
period, and that it becomes all cavaliers modestly to use their good fortune,
without troubling or stretching it too far. Wherefore, getting to horse, he

gave him the spur, taking the right way unto Vauguyon, and Prelinguand
with him.

Chapter 1.XXXVI.—How Gargantua demolished
the castle at the ford of Vede, and how they passed
the ford.

As soon as he came, he related the estate and condition wherein they had
found the enemy, and the stratagem which he alone had used against all
their multitude, affirming that they were but rascally rogues, plunderers,
thieves, and robbers, ignorant of all military discipline, and that they might
boldly set forward unto the field; it being an easy matter to fell and strike
them down like beasts. Then Gargantua mounted his great mare,
accompanied as we have said before, and finding in his way a high and
great tree, which commonly was called by the name of St. Martin’s tree,
because heretofore St. Martin planted a pilgrim’s staff there, which in tract
of time grew to that height and greatness, said, This is that which I lacked;
this tree shall serve me both for a staff and lance. With that he pulled it up
easily, plucked off the boughs, and trimmed it at his pleasure. In the
meantime his mare pissed to ease her belly, but it was in such abundance
that it did overflow the country seven leagues, and all the piss of that urinal
flood ran glib away towards the ford of Vede, wherewith the water was so
swollen that all the forces the enemy had there were with great horror
drowned, except some who had taken the way on the left hand towards the
hills. Gargantua, being come to the place of the wood of Vede, was

informed by Eudemon that there was some remainder of the enemy within
the castle, which to know, Gargantua cried out as loud as he was able, Are
you there, or are you not there? If you be there, be there no more; and if you
are not there, I have no more to say. But a ruffian gunner, whose charge was
to attend the portcullis over the gate, let fly a cannon-ball at him, and hit
him with that shot most furiously on the right temple of his head, yet did
him no more hurt than if he had but cast a prune or kernel of a wine-grape
at him. What is this? said Gargantua; do you throw at us grape-kernels
here? The vintage shall cost you dear; thinking indeed that the bullet had
been the kernel of a grape, or raisin-kernel.
Those who were within the castle, being till then busy at the pillage,
when they heard this noise ran to the towers and fortresses, from whence
they shot at him above nine thousand and five-and-twenty falconshot and
arquebusades, aiming all at his head, and so thick did they shoot at him that
he cried out, Ponocrates, my friend, these flies here are like to put out mine
eyes; give me a branch of those willow-trees to drive them away, thinking
that the bullets and stones shot out of the great ordnance had been but
dunflies. Ponocrates looked and saw that there were no other flies but great
shot which they had shot from the castle. Then was it that he rushed with
his great tree against the castle, and with mighty blows overthrew both
towers and fortresses, and laid all level with the ground, by which means all
that were within were slain and broken in pieces. Going from thence, they
came to the bridge at the mill, where they found all the ford covered with
dead bodies, so thick that they had choked up the mill and stopped the
current of its water, and these were those that were destroyed in the urinal
deluge of the mare. There they were at a stand, consulting how they might
pass without hindrance by these dead carcasses. But Gymnast said, If the
devils have passed there, I will pass well enough. The devils have passed
there, said Eudemon, to carry away the damned souls. By St. Treignan! said
Ponocrates, then by necessary consequence he shall pass there. Yes, yes,
said Gymnastes, or I shall stick in the way. Then setting spurs to his horse,
he passed through freely, his horse not fearing nor being anything affrighted
at the sight of the dead bodies; for he had accustomed him, according to the
doctrine of Aelian, not to fear armour, nor the carcasses of dead men; and
that not by killing men as Diomedes did the Thracians, or as Ulysses did in
throwing the corpses of his enemies at his horse’s feet, as Homer saith, but
by putting a Jack-a-lent amongst his hay, and making him go over it

ordinarily when he gave him his oats. The other three followed him very
close, except Eudemon only, whose horse’s fore-right or far forefoot sank
up to the knee in the paunch of a great fat chuff who lay there upon his back
drowned, and could not get it out. There was he pestered, until Gargantua,
with the end of his staff, thrust down the rest of the villain’s tripes into the
water whilst the horse pulled out his foot; and, which is a wonderful thing
in hippiatry, the said horse was thoroughly cured of a ringbone which he
had in that foot by this touch of the burst guts of that great looby.

Chapter 1.XXXVII.—How Gargantua, in
combing his head, made the great cannon-balls
fall out of his hair.
Being come out of the river of Vede, they came very shortly after to
Grangousier’s castle, who waited for them with great longing. At their
coming they were entertained with many congees, and cherished with
embraces. Never was seen a more joyful company, for Supplementum
Supplementi Chronicorum saith that Gargamelle died there with joy; for my
part, truly I cannot tell, neither do I care very much for her, nor for anybody
else. The truth was, that Gargantua, in shifting his clothes, and combing his
head with a comb, which was nine hundred foot long of the Jewish cane
measure, and whereof the teeth were great tusks of elephants, whole and
entire, he made fall at every rake above seven balls of bullets, at a dozen the
ball, that stuck in his hair at the razing of the castle of the wood of Vede.
Which his father Grangousier seeing, thought they had been lice, and said
unto him, What, my dear son, hast thou brought us this far some short-
winged hawks of the college of Montague? I did not mean that thou
shouldst reside there. Then answered Ponocrates, My sovereign lord, think
not that I have placed him in that lousy college which they call Montague; I
had rather have put him amongst the grave-diggers of Sanct Innocent, so
enormous is the cruelty and villainy that I have known there: for the galley-
slaves are far better used amongst the Moors and Tartars, the murderers in
the criminal dungeons, yea, the very dogs in your house, than are the poor
wretched students in the aforesaid college. And if I were King of Paris, the
devil take me if I would not set it on fire, and burn both principal and
regents, for suffering this inhumanity to be exercised before their eyes.
Then, taking up one of these bullets, he said, These are cannon-shot, which
your son Gargantua hath lately received by the treachery of your enemies,
as he was passing before the wood of Vede.
But they have been so rewarded, that they are all destroyed in the ruin of
the castle, as were the Philistines by the policy of Samson, and those whom
the tower of Silohim slew, as it is written in the thirteenth of Luke. My

opinion is, that we pursue them whilst the luck is on our side; for occasion
hath all her hair on her forehead; when she is passed, you may not recall
her,—she hath no tuft whereby you can lay hold on her, for she is bald in
the hind-part of her head, and never returneth again. Truly, said
Grangousier, it shall not be at this time; for I will make you a feast this
night, and bid you welcome.
This said, they made ready supper, and, of extraordinary besides his daily
fare, were roasted sixteen oxen, three heifers, two and thirty calves, three
score and three fat kids, four score and fifteen wethers, three hundred
farrow pigs or sheats soused in sweet wine or must, eleven score partridges,
seven hundred snipes and woodcocks, four hundred Loudun and Cornwall
capons, six thousand pullets, and as many pigeons, six hundred crammed
hens, fourteen hundred leverets, or young hares and rabbits, three hundred
and three buzzards, and one thousand and seven hundred cockerels. For
venison, they could not so suddenly come by it, only eleven wild boars,
which the Abbot of Turpenay sent, and eighteen fallow deer which the Lord
of Gramount bestowed; together with seven score pheasants, which were
sent by the Lord of Essars; and some dozens of queests, coushats,
ringdoves, and woodculvers; river-fowl, teals and awteals, bitterns, courtes,
plovers, francolins, briganders, tyrasons, young lapwings, tame ducks,
shovellers, woodlanders, herons, moorhens, criels, storks, canepetiers,
oranges, flamans, which are phaenicopters, or crimson-winged sea-fowls,
terrigoles, turkeys, arbens, coots, solan-geese, curlews, termagants, and
water-wagtails, with a great deal of cream, curds, and fresh cheese, and
store of soup, pottages, and brewis with great variety. Without doubt there
was meat enough, and it was handsomely dressed by Snapsauce, Hotchpot,
and Brayverjuice, Grangousier’s cooks. Jenkin Trudgeapace and Cleanglass
were very careful to fill them drink.

Chapter 1.XXXVIII.—How Gargantua did eat up
six pilgrims in a salad.
The story requireth that we relate that which happened unto six pilgrims
who came from Sebastian near to Nantes, and who for shelter that night,
being afraid of the enemy, had hid themselves in the garden upon the
chichling peas, among the cabbages and lettuces. Gargantua finding himself
somewhat dry, asked whether they could get any lettuce to make him a
salad; and hearing that there were the greatest and fairest in the country, for
they were as great as plum-trees or as walnut-trees, he would go thither
himself, and brought thence in his hand what he thought good, and withal
carried away the six pilgrims, who were in so great fear that they did not
dare to speak nor cough.
Washing them, therefore, first at the fountain, the pilgrims said one to
another softly, What shall we do? We are almost drowned here amongst
these lettuce, shall we speak? But if we speak, he will kill us for spies. And,
as they were thus deliberating what to do, Gargantua put them with the
lettuce into a platter of the house, as large as the huge tun of the White
Friars of the Cistercian order; which done, with oil, vinegar, and salt, he ate
them up, to refresh himself a little before supper, and had already
swallowed up five of the pilgrims, the sixth being in the platter, totally hid
under a lettuce, except his bourdon or staff that appeared, and nothing else.
Which Grangousier seeing, said to Gargantua, I think that is the horn of a
shell-snail, do not eat it. Why not? said Gargantua, they are good all this
month: which he no sooner said, but, drawing up the staff, and therewith
taking up the pilgrim, he ate him very well, then drank a terrible draught of
excellent white wine. The pilgrims, thus devoured, made shift to save
themselves as well as they could, by withdrawing their bodies out of the
reach of the grinders of his teeth, but could not escape from thinking they
had been put in the lowest dungeon of a prison. And when Gargantua
whiffed the great draught, they thought to have been drowned in his mouth,
and the flood of wine had almost carried them away into the gulf of his
stomach. Nevertheless, skipping with their bourdons, as St. Michael’s
palmers use to do, they sheltered themselves from the danger of that

inundation under the banks of his teeth. But one of them by chance, groping
or sounding the country with his staff, to try whether they were in safety or
no, struck hard against the cleft of a hollow tooth, and hit the mandibulary
sinew or nerve of the jaw, which put Gargantua to very great pain, so that
he began to cry for the rage that he felt. To ease himself therefore of his
smarting ache, he called for his toothpicker, and rubbing towards a young
walnut-tree, where they lay skulking, unnestled you my gentlemen pilgrims.
For he caught one by the legs, another by the scrip, another by the
pocket, another by the scarf, another by the band of the breeches, and the
poor fellow that had hurt him with the bourdon, him he hooked to him by
the codpiece, which snatch nevertheless did him a great deal of good, for it
pierced unto him a pocky botch he had in the groin, which grievously
tormented him ever since they were past Ancenis. The pilgrims, thus
dislodged, ran away athwart the plain a pretty fast pace, and the pain
ceased, even just at the time when by Eudemon he was called to supper, for
all was ready. I will go then, said he, and piss away my misfortune; which
he did do in such a copious measure, that the urine taking away the feet
from the pilgrims, they were carried along with the stream unto the bank of
a tuft of trees. Upon which, as soon as they had taken footing, and that for
their self-preservation they had run a little out of the road, they on a sudden
fell all six, except Fourniller, into a trap that had been made to take wolves
by a train, out of which, nevertheless, they escaped by the industry of the
said Fourniller, who broke all the snares and ropes. Being gone from thence,
they lay all the rest of that night in a lodge near unto Coudray, where they
were comforted in their miseries by the gracious words of one of their
company, called Sweer-to-go, who showed them that this adventure had
been foretold by the prophet David, Psalm. Quum exsurgerent homines in
nos, forte vivos deglutissent nos; when we were eaten in the salad, with salt,
oil, and vinegar. Quum irasceretur furor eorum in nos, forsitan aqua
absorbuisset nos; when he drank the great draught. Torrentem pertransivit
anima nostra; when the stream of his water carried us to the thicket.
Forsitan pertransisset anima nostra aquam intolerabilem; that is, the water
of his urine, the flood whereof, cutting our way, took our feet from us.
Benedictus Dominus qui non dedit nos in captionem dentibus eorum.
Anima nostra sicut passer erepta est de laqueo venantium; when we fell in
the trap. Laqueus contritus est, by Fourniller, et nos liberati sumus.
Adjutorium nostrum, &c.

Chapter 1.XXXIX.—How the Monk was feasted
by Gargantua, and of the jovial discourse they
had at supper.
When Gargantua was set down at table, after all of them had somewhat
stayed their stomachs by a snatch or two of the first bits eaten heartily,
Grangousier began to relate the source and cause of the war raised between
him and Picrochole; and came to tell how Friar John of the Funnels had
triumphed at the defence of the close of the abbey, and extolled him for his
valour above Camillus, Scipio, Pompey, Caesar, and Themistocles. Then
Gargantua desired that he might be presently sent for, to the end that with
him they might consult of what was to be done. Whereupon, by a joint
consent, his steward went for him, and brought him along merrily, with his
staff of the cross, upon Grangousier’s mule. When he was come, a thousand
huggings, a thousand embracements, a thousand good days were given. Ha,
Friar John, my friend Friar John, my brave cousin Friar John from the devil!
Let me clip thee, my heart, about the neck; to me an armful. I must grip
thee, my ballock, till thy back crack with it. Come, my cod, let me coll thee
till I kill thee. And Friar John, the gladdest man in the world, never was
man made welcomer, never was any more courteously and graciously
received than Friar John. Come, come, said Gargantua, a stool here close by
me at this end. I am content, said the monk, seeing you will have it so.
Some water, page; fill, my boy, fill; it is to refresh my liver. Give me some,
child, to gargle my throat withal. Deposita cappa, said Gymnast, let us pull
off this frock. Ho, by G—, gentlemen, said the monk, there is a chapter in
Statutis Ordinis which opposeth my laying of it down. Pish! said Gymnast,
a fig for your chapter! This frock breaks both your shoulders, put it off. My
friend, said the monk, let me alone with it; for, by G—, I’ll drink the better
that it is on. It makes all my body jocund. If I should lay it aside, the
waggish pages would cut to themselves garters out of it, as I was once
served at Coulaines. And, which is worse, I shall lose my appetite. But if in
this habit I sit down at table, I will drink, by G—, both to thee and to thy
horse, and so courage, frolic, God save the company! I have already

supped, yet will I eat never a whit the less for that; for I have a paved
stomach, as hollow as a butt of malvoisie or St. Benedictus’ boot (butt), and
always open like a lawyer’s pouch. Of all fishes but the tench take the wing
of a partridge or the thigh of a nun. Doth not he die like a good fellow that
dies with a stiff catso? Our prior loves exceedingly the white of a capon. In
that, said Gymnast, he doth not resemble the foxes; for of the capons, hens,
and pullets which they carry away they never eat the white. Why? said the
monk. Because, said Gymnast, they have no cooks to dress them; and, if
they be not competently made ready, they remain red and not white; the
redness of meats being a token that they have not got enough of the fire,
whether by boiling, roasting, or otherwise, except the shrimps, lobsters,
crabs, and crayfishes, which are cardinalized with boiling. By God’s feast-
gazers, said the monk, the porter of our abbey then hath not his head well
boiled, for his eyes are as red as a mazer made of an alder-tree. The thigh of
this leveret is good for those that have the gout. To the purpose of the truel,
—what is the reason that the thighs of a gentlewoman are always fresh and
cool? This problem, said Gargantua, is neither in Aristotle, in Alexander
Aphrodiseus, nor in Plutarch. There are three causes, said the monk, by
which that place is naturally refreshed. Primo, because the water runs all
along by it. Secundo, because it is a shady place, obscure and dark, upon
which the sun never shines. And thirdly, because it is continually flabbelled,
blown upon, and aired by the north winds of the hole arstick, the fan of the
smock, and flipflap of the codpiece. And lusty, my lads. Some bousing
liquor, page! So! crack, crack, crack. O how good is God, that gives us of
this excellent juice! I call him to witness, if I had been in the time of Jesus
Christ, I would have kept him from being taken by the Jews in the garden of
Olivet. And the devil fail me, if I should have failed to cut off the hams of
these gentlemen apostles who ran away so basely after they had well
supped, and left their good master in the lurch. I hate that man worse than
poison that offers to run away when he should fight and lay stoutly about
him. Oh that I were but King of France for fourscore or a hundred years! By
G—, I should whip like curtail-dogs these runaways of Pavia. A plague take
them; why did they not choose rather to die there than to leave their good
prince in that pinch and necessity? Is it not better and more honourable to
perish in fighting valiantly than to live in disgrace by a cowardly running
away? We are like to eat no great store of goslings this year; therefore,
friend, reach me some of that roasted pig there.

Diavolo, is there no more must? No more sweet wine? Germinavit radix
Jesse. Je renie ma vie, je meurs de soif; I renounce my life, I rage for thirst.
This wine is none of the worst. What wine drink you at Paris? I give myself
to the devil, if I did not once keep open house at Paris for all comers six
months together. Do you know Friar Claude of the high kilderkins? Oh the
good fellow that he is! But I do not know what fly hath stung him of late, he
is become so hard a student. For my part, I study not at all. In our abbey we
never study for fear of the mumps, which disease in horses is called the
mourning in the chine. Our late abbot was wont to say that it is a monstrous
thing to see a learned monk. By G—, master, my friend, Magis magnos
clericos non sunt magis magnos sapientes. You never saw so many hares as
there are this year. I could not anywhere come by a goshawk nor tassel of
falcon. My Lord Belloniere promised me a lanner, but he wrote to me not
long ago that he was become pursy. The partridges will so multiply
henceforth, that they will go near to eat up our ears. I take no delight in the
stalking-horse, for I catch such cold that I am like to founder myself at that
sport. If I do not run, toil, travel, and trot about, I am not well at ease. True
it is that in leaping over the hedges and bushes my frock leaves always
some of its wool behind it. I have recovered a dainty greyhound; I give him
to the devil, if he suffer a hare to escape him. A groom was leading him to
my Lord Huntlittle, and I robbed him of him. Did I ill? No, Friar John, said
Gymnast, no, by all the devils that are, no! So, said the monk, do I attest
these same devils so long as they last, or rather, virtue (of) G—, what could
that gouty limpard have done with so fine a dog? By the body of G—, he is
better pleased when one presents him with a good yoke of oxen. How now,
said Ponocrates, you swear, Friar John. It is only, said the monk, but to
grace and adorn my speech. They are colours of a Ciceronian rhetoric.

Chapter 1.XL.—Why monks are the outcasts of
the world; and wherefore some have bigger noses
than others.
By the faith of a Christian, said Eudemon, I do wonderfully dote and
enter in a great ecstasy when I consider the honesty and good fellowship of
this monk, for he makes us here all merry. How is it, then, that they exclude
the monks from all good companies, calling them feast-troublers, marrers of
mirth, and disturbers of all civil conversation, as the bees drive away the
drones from their hives? Ignavum fucos pecus, said Maro, a praesepibus
arcent. Hereunto, answered Gargantua, there is nothing so true as that the
frock and cowl draw unto itself the opprobries, injuries, and maledictions of
the world, just as the wind called Cecias attracts the clouds. The peremptory
reason is, because they eat the ordure and excrements of the world, that is to
say, the sins of the people, and, like dung-chewers and excrementitious
eaters, they are cast into the privies and secessive places, that is, the
convents and abbeys, separated from political conversation, as the jakes and
retreats of a house are. But if you conceive how an ape in a family is always
mocked and provokingly incensed, you shall easily apprehend how monks
are shunned of all men, both young and old. The ape keeps not the house as
a dog doth, he draws not in the plough as the ox, he yields neither milk nor
wool as the sheep, he carrieth no burden as a horse doth. That which he
doth, is only to conskite, spoil, and defile all, which is the cause wherefore
he hath of all men mocks, frumperies, and bastinadoes.
After the same manner a monk—I mean those lither, idle, lazy monks—
doth not labour and work, as do the peasant and artificer; doth not ward and
defend the country, as doth the man of war; cureth not the sick and
diseased, as the physician doth; doth neither preach nor teach, as do the
evangelical doctors and schoolmasters; doth not import commodities and
things necessary for the commonwealth, as the merchant doth. Therefore is
it that by and of all men they are hooted at, hated, and abhorred. Yea, but,
said Grangousier, they pray to God for us. Nothing less, answered
Gargantua. True it is, that with a tingle tangle jangling of bells they trouble

and disquiet all their neighbours about them. Right, said the monk; a mass,
a matin, a vesper well rung, are half said. They mumble out great store of
legends and psalms, by them not at all understood; they say many
paternosters interlarded with Ave-Maries, without thinking upon or
apprehending the meaning of what it is they say, which truly I call mocking
of God, and not prayers. But so help them God, as they pray for us, and not
for being afraid to lose their victuals, their manchots, and good fat pottage.
All true Christians, of all estates and conditions, in all places and at all
times, send up their prayers to God, and the Mediator prayeth and
intercedeth for them, and God is gracious to them. Now such a one is our
good Friar John; therefore every man desireth to have him in his company.
He is no bigot or hypocrite; he is not torn and divided betwixt reality and
appearance; no wretch of a rugged and peevish disposition, but honest,
jovial, resolute, and a good fellow. He travels, he labours, he defends the
oppressed, comforts the afflicted, helps the needy, and keeps the close of
the abbey. Nay, said the monk, I do a great deal more than that; for whilst
we are in despatching our matins and anniversaries in the choir, I make
withal some crossbow-strings, polish glass bottles and bolts, I twist lines
and weave purse nets wherein to catch coneys. I am never idle. But now,
hither come, some drink, some drink here! Bring the fruit. These chestnuts
are of the wood of Estrox, and with good new wine are able to make you a
fine cracker and composer of bum-sonnets. You are not as yet, it seems,
well moistened in this house with the sweet wine and must. By G—, I drink
to all men freely, and at all fords, like a proctor or promoter’s horse. Friar
John, said Gymnast, take away the snot that hangs at your nose. Ha, ha, said
the monk, am not I in danger of drowning, seeing I am in water even to the
nose? No, no, Quare? Quia, though some water come out from thence, there
never goes in any; for it is well antidoted with pot-proof armour and syrup
of the vine-leaf.
Oh, my friend, he that hath winter-boots made of such leather may boldly
fish for oysters, for they will never take water. What is the cause, said
Gargantua, that Friar John hath such a fair nose? Because, said Grangousier,
that God would have it so, who frameth us in such form and for such end as
is most agreeable with his divine will, even as a potter fashioneth his
vessels. Because, said Ponocrates, he came with the first to the fair of noses,
and therefore made choice of the fairest and the greatest. Pish, said the
monk, that is not the reason of it, but, according to the true monastical

philosophy, it is because my nurse had soft teats, by virtue whereof, whilst
she gave me suck, my nose did sink in as in so much butter. The hard
breasts of nurses make children short-nosed. But hey, gay, Ad formam nasi
cognoscitur ad te levavi. I never eat any confections, page, whilst I am at
the bibbery. Item, bring me rather some toasts.

Chapter 1.XLI.—How the Monk made Gargantua
sleep, and of his hours and breviaries.
Supper being ended, they consulted of the business in hand, and
concluded that about midnight they should fall unawares upon the enemy,
to know what manner of watch and ward they kept, and that in the
meanwhile they should take a little rest the better to refresh themselves. But
Gargantua could not sleep by any means, on which side soever he turned
himself. Whereupon the monk said to him, I never sleep soundly but when I
am at sermon or prayers. Let us therefore begin, you and I, the seven
penitential psalms, to try whether you shall not quickly fall asleep. The
conceit pleased Gargantua very well, and, beginning the first of these
psalms, as soon as they came to the words Beati quorum they fell asleep,
both the one and the other. But the monk, for his being formerly
accustomed to the hour of claustral matins, failed not to awake a little
before midnight, and, being up himself, awaked all the rest, in singing
aloud, and with a full clear voice, the song:

Awake, O Reinian, ho, awake!
Awake, O Reinian, ho!
Get up, you no more sleep must take;
Get up, for we must go.

When they were all roused and up, he said, My masters, it is a usual
saying, that we begin matins with coughing and supper with drinking. Let
us now, in doing clean contrarily, begin our matins with drinking, and at
night before supper we shall cough as hard as we can. What, said
Gargantua, to drink so soon after sleep? This is not to live according to the
diet and prescript rule of the physicians, for you ought first to scour and
cleanse your stomach of all its superfluities and excrements. Oh, well
physicked, said the monk; a hundred devils leap into my body, if there be
not more old drunkards than old physicians! I have made this paction and
covenant with my appetite, that it always lieth down and goes to bed with
myself, for to that I every day give very good order; then the next morning
it also riseth with me and gets up when I am awake. Mind you your charges,
gentlemen, or tend your cures as much as you will. I will get me to my

drawer; in terms of falconry, my tiring. What drawer or tiring do you mean?
said Gargantua. My breviary, said the monk, for just as the falconers, before
they feed their hawks, do make them draw at a hen’s leg to purge their
brains of phlegm and sharpen them to a good appetite, so, by taking this
merry little breviary in the morning, I scour all my lungs and am presently
ready to drink.
After what manner, said Gargantua, do you say these fair hours and
prayers of yours? After the manner of Whipfield (Fessecamp, and corruptly
Fecan.), said the monk, by three psalms and three lessons, or nothing at all,
he that will. I never tie myself to hours, prayers, and sacraments; for they
are made for the man and not the man for them. Therefore is it that I make
my prayers in fashion of stirrup-leathers; I shorten or lengthen them when I
think good. Brevis oratio penetrat caelos et longa potatio evacuat scyphos.
Where is that written? By my faith, said Ponocrates, I cannot tell, my
pillicock, but thou art more worth than gold. Therein, said the monk, I am
like you; but, venite, apotemus. Then made they ready store of carbonadoes,
or rashers on the coals, and good fat soups, or brewis with sippets; and the
monk drank what he pleased. Some kept him company, and the rest did
forbear, for their stomachs were not as yet opened. Afterwards every man
began to arm and befit himself for the field. And they armed the monk
against his will; for he desired no other armour for back and breast but his
frock, nor any other weapon in his hand but the staff of the cross. Yet at
their pleasure was he completely armed cap-a-pie, and mounted upon one
of the best horses in the kingdom, with a good slashing shable by his side,
together with Gargantua, Ponocrates, Gymnast, Eudemon, and five-and-
twenty more of the most resolute and adventurous of Grangousier’s house,
all armed at proof with their lances in their hands, mounted like St. George,
and everyone of them having an arquebusier behind him.

Chapter 1.XLII.—How the Monk encouraged his
fellow-champions, and how he hanged upon a
tree.

Thus went out those valiant champions on their adventure, in full
resolution to know what enterprise they should undertake, and what to take
heed of and look well to in the day of the great and horrible battle. And the
monk encouraged them, saying, My children, do not fear nor doubt, I will

conduct you safely. God and Sanct Benedict be with us! If I had strength
answerable to my courage, by’s death, I would plume them for you like
ducks. I fear nothing but the great ordnance; yet I know of a charm by way
of prayer, which the subsexton of our abbey taught me, that will preserve a
man from the violence of guns and all manner of fire-weapons and engines;
but it will do me no good, because I do not believe it. Nevertheless, I hope
my staff of the cross shall this day play devilish pranks amongst them. By G
—, whoever of our party shall offer to play the duck, and shrink when
blows are a-dealing, I give myself to the devil, if I do not make a monk of
him in my stead, and hamper him within my frock, which is a sovereign
cure against cowardice. Did you never hear of my Lord Meurles his
greyhound, which was not worth a straw in the fields? He put a frock about
his neck: by the body of G—, there was neither hare nor fox that could
escape him, and, which is more, he lined all the bitches in the country,
though before that he was feeble-reined and ex frigidis et maleficiatis.
The monk uttering these words in choler, as he passed under a walnut-
tree, in his way towards the causey, he broached the vizor of his helmet on
the stump of a great branch of the said tree. Nevertheless, he set his spurs so
fiercely to the horse, who was full of mettle and quick on the spur, that he
bounded forwards, and the monk going about to ungrapple his vizor, let go
his hold of the bridle, and so hanged by his hand upon the bough, whilst his
horse stole away from under him. By this means was the monk left hanging
on the walnut-tree, and crying for help, murder, murder, swearing also that
he was betrayed. Eudemon perceived him first, and calling Gargantua said,
Sir, come and see Absalom hanging. Gargantua, being come, considered the
countenance of the monk, and in what posture he hanged; wherefore he said
to Eudemon, You were mistaken in comparing him to Absalom; for
Absalom hung by his hair, but this shaveling monk hangeth by the ears.
Help me, said the monk, in the devil’s name; is this a time for you to prate?
You seem to me to be like the decretalist preachers, who say that whosoever
shall see his neighbour in the danger of death, ought, upon pain of trisulk
excommunication, rather choose to admonish him to make his confession to
a priest, and put his conscience in the state of peace, than otherwise to help
and relieve him.
And therefore when I shall see them fallen into a river, and ready to be
drowned, I shall make them a fair long sermon de contemptu mundi, et fuga
seculi; and when they are stark dead, shall then go to their aid and succour

in fishing after them. Be quiet, said Gymnast, and stir not, my minion. I am
now coming to unhang thee and to set thee at freedom, for thou art a pretty
little gentle monachus. Monachus in claustro non valet ova duo; sed quando
est extra, bene valet triginta. I have seen above five hundred hanged, but I
never saw any have a better countenance in his dangling and pendilatory
swagging. Truly, if I had so good a one, I would willingly hang thus all my
lifetime. What, said the monk, have you almost done preaching? Help me,
in the name of God, seeing you will not in the name of the other spirit, or,
by the habit which I wear, you shall repent it, tempore et loco praelibatis.
Then Gymnast alighted from his horse, and, climbing up the walnut-tree,
lifted up the monk with one hand by the gussets of his armour under the
armpits, and with the other undid his vizor from the stump of the broken
branch; which done, he let him fall to the ground and himself after. As soon
as the monk was down, he put off all his armour, and threw away one piece
after another about the field, and, taking to him again his staff of the cross,
remounted up to his horse, which Eudemon had caught in his running away.
Then went they on merrily, riding along on the highway.

Chapter 1.XLIII.—How the scouts and fore-party
of Picrochole were met with by Gargantua, and
how the Monk slew Captain Drawforth
(Tirevant.), and then was taken prisoner by his
enemies.

Picrochole, at the relation of those who had escaped out of the broil and
defeat wherein Tripet was untriped, grew very angry that the devils should
have so run upon his men, and held all that night a counsel of war, at which
Rashcalf and Touchfaucet (Hastiveau, Touquedillon.), concluded his power
to be such that he was able to defeat all the devils of hell if they should
come to jostle with his forces. This Picrochole did not fully believe, though
he doubted not much of it. Therefore sent he under the command and
conduct of the Count Drawforth, for discovering of the country, the number
of sixteen hundred horsemen, all well mounted upon light horses for
skirmish and thoroughly besprinkled with holy water; and everyone for
their field-mark or cognizance had the sign of a star in his scarf, to serve at
all adventures in case they should happen to encounter with devils, that by
the virtue, as well of that Gregorian water as of the stars which they wore,
they might make them disappear and evanish.

In this equipage they made an excursion upon the country till they came
near to the Vauguyon, which is the valley of Guyon, and to the spital, but
could never find anybody to speak unto; whereupon they returned a little
back, and took occasion to pass above the aforesaid hospital to try what
intelligence they could come by in those parts. In which resolution riding
on, and by chance in a pastoral lodge or shepherd’s cottage near to Coudray
hitting upon the five pilgrims, they carried them way-bound and manacled,
as if they had been spies, for all the exclamations, adjurations, and requests
that they could make. Being come down from thence towards Seville, they
were heard by Gargantua, who said then unto those that were with him,
Comrades and fellow-soldiers, we have here met with an encounter, and
they are ten times in number more than we. Shall we charge them or no?
What a devil, said the monk, shall we do else? Do you esteem men by their
number rather than by their valour and prowess? With this he cried out,
Charge, devils, charge! Which when the enemies heard, they thought
certainly that they had been very devils, and therefore even then began all
of them to run away as hard as they could drive, Drawforth only excepted,
who immediately settled his lance on its rest, and therewith hit the monk
with all his force on the very middle of his breast, but, coming against his
horrific frock, the point of the iron being with the blow either broke off or
blunted, it was in matter of execution as if you had struck against an anvil
with a little wax-candle.
Then did the monk with his staff of the cross give him such a sturdy
thump and whirret betwixt his neck and shoulders, upon the acromion bone,
that he made him lose both sense and motion and fall down stone dead at
his horse’s feet; and, seeing the sign of the star which he wore scarfwise, he
said unto Gargantua, These men are but priests, which is but the beginning
of a monk; by St. John, I am a perfect monk, I will kill them to you like
flies. Then ran he after them at a swift and full gallop till he overtook the
rear, and felled them down like tree-leaves, striking athwart and alongst and
every way. Gymnast presently asked Gargantua if they should pursue them.
To whom Gargantua answered, By no means; for, according to right
military discipline, you must never drive your enemy unto despair, for that
such a strait doth multiply his force and increase his courage, which was
before broken and cast down; neither is there any better help or outrage of
relief for men that are amazed, out of heart, toiled, and spent, than to hope
for no favour at all. How many victories have been taken out of the hands

of the victors by the vanquished, when they would not rest satisfied with
reason, but attempt to put all to the sword, and totally to destroy their
enemies, without leaving so much as one to carry home news of the defeat
of his fellows. Open, therefore, unto your enemies all the gates and ways,
and make to them a bridge of silver rather than fail, that you may be rid of
them. Yea, but, said Gymnast, they have the monk. Have they the monk?
said Gargantua. Upon mine honour, then, it will prove to their cost. But to
prevent all dangers, let us not yet retreat, but halt here quietly as in an
ambush; for I think I do already understand the policy and judgment of our
enemies. They are truly more directed by chance and mere fortune than by
good advice and counsel. In the meanwhile, whilst these made a stop under
the walnut-trees, the monk pursued on the chase, charging all he overtook,
and giving quarter to none, until he met with a trooper who carried behind
him one of the poor pilgrims, and there would have rifled him. The pilgrim,
in hope of relief at the sight of the monk, cried out, Ha, my lord prior, my
good friend, my lord prior, save me, I beseech you, save me! Which words
being heard by those that rode in the van, they instantly faced about, and
seeing there was nobody but the monk that made this great havoc and
slaughter among them, they loaded him with blows as thick as they use to
do an ass with wood. But of all this he felt nothing, especially when they
struck upon his frock, his skin was so hard. Then they committed him to
two of the marshal’s men to keep, and, looking about, saw nobody coming
against them, whereupon they thought that Gargantua and his party were
fled. Then was it that they rode as hard as they could towards the walnut-
trees to meet with them, and left the monk there all alone, with his two
foresaid men to guard him. Gargantua heard the noise and neighing of the
horses, and said to his men, Comrades, I hear the track and beating of the
enemy’s horse-feet, and withal perceive that some of them come in a troop
and full body against us. Let us rally and close here, then set forward in
order, and by this means we shall be able to receive their charge to their loss
and our honour.

Chapter 1.XLIV.—How the Monk rid himself of
his keepers, and how Picrochole’s forlorn hope
was defeated.
The monk, seeing them break off thus without order, conjectured that
they were to set upon Gargantua and those that were with him, and was
wonderfully grieved that he could not succour them. Then considered he the
countenance of the two keepers in whose custody he was, who would have
willingly run after the troops to get some booty and plunder, and were
always looking towards the valley unto which they were going. Farther, he
syllogized, saying, These men are but badly skilled in matters of war, for
they have not required my parole, neither have they taken my sword from
me. Suddenly hereafter he drew his brackmard or horseman’s sword,
wherewith he gave the keeper which held him on the right side such a
sound slash that he cut clean through the jugulary veins and the sphagitid or
transparent arteries of the neck, with the fore-part of the throat called the
gargareon, even unto the two adenes, which are throat kernels; and,
redoubling the blow, he opened the spinal marrow betwixt the second and
third vertebrae. There fell down that keeper stark dead to the ground. Then
the monk, reining his horse to the left, ran upon the other, who, seeing his
fellow dead, and the monk to have the advantage of him, cried with a loud
voice, Ha, my lord prior, quarter; I yield, my lord prior, quarter; quarter, my
good friend, my lord prior. And the monk cried likewise, My lord posterior,
my friend, my lord posterior, you shall have it upon your posteriorums. Ha,
said the keeper, my lord prior, my minion, my gentle lord prior, I pray God
make you an abbot. By the habit, said the monk, which I wear, I will here
make you a cardinal. What! do you use to pay ransoms to religious men?
You shall therefore have by-and-by a red hat of my giving. And the fellow
cried, Ha, my lord prior, my lord prior, my lord abbot that shall be, my lord
cardinal, my lord all! Ha, ha, hes, no, my lord prior, my good little lord the
prior, I yield, render and deliver myself up to you. And I deliver thee, said
the monk, to all the devils in hell. Then at one stroke he cut off his head,
cutting his scalp upon the temple-bones, and lifting up in the upper part of

the skull the two triangulary bones called sincipital, or the two bones
bregmatis, together with the sagittal commissure or dartlike seam which
distinguisheth the right side of the head from the left, as also a great part of
the coronal or forehead bone, by which terrible blow likewise he cut the
two meninges or films which enwrap the brain, and made a deep wound in
the brain’s two posterior ventricles, and the cranium or skull abode hanging
upon his shoulders by the skin of the pericranium behind, in form of a
doctor’s bonnet, black without and red within. Thus fell he down also to the
ground stark dead.
And presently the monk gave his horse the spur, and kept the way that
the enemy held, who had met with Gargantua and his companions in the
broad highway, and were so diminished of their number for the enormous
slaughter that Gargantua had made with his great tree amongst them, as also
Gymnast, Ponocrates, Eudemon, and the rest, that they began to retreat
disorderly and in great haste, as men altogether affrighted and troubled in
both sense and understanding, and as if they had seen the very proper
species and form of death before their eyes; or rather, as when you see an
ass with a brizze or gadbee under his tail, or fly that stings him, run hither
and thither without keeping any path or way, throwing down his load to the
ground, breaking his bridle and reins, and taking no breath nor rest, and no
man can tell what ails him, for they see not anything touch him. So fled
these people destitute of wit, without knowing any cause of flying, only
pursued by a panic terror which in their minds they had conceived. The
monk, perceiving that their whole intent was to betake themselves to their
heels, alighted from his horse and got upon a big large rock which was in
the way, and with his great brackmard sword laid such load upon those
runaways, and with main strength fetching a compass with his arm without
feigning or sparing, slew and overthrew so many that his sword broke in
two pieces. Then thought he within himself that he had slain and killed
sufficiently, and that the rest should escape to carry news. Therefore he took
up a battle-axe of those that lay there dead, and got upon the rock again,
passing his time to see the enemy thus flying and to tumble himself
amongst the dead bodies, only that he suffered none to carry pike, sword,
lance, nor gun with him, and those who carried the pilgrims bound he made
to alight, and gave their horses unto the said pilgrims, keeping them there
with him under the hedge, and also Touchfaucet, who was then his prisoner.

Chapter 1.XLV.—How the Monk carried along
with him the Pilgrims, and of the good words that
Grangousier gave them.
This skirmish being ended, Gargantua retreated with his men, excepting
the monk, and about the dawning of the day they came unto Grangousier,
who in his bed was praying unto God for their safety and victory. And
seeing them all safe and sound, he embraced them lovingly, and asked what
was become of the monk. Gargantua answered him that without doubt the
enemies had the monk. Then have they mischief and ill luck, said
Grangousier; which was very true. Therefore is it a common proverb to this
day, to give a man the monk, or, as in French, lui bailler le moine, when
they would express the doing unto one a mischief. Then commanded he a
good breakfast to be provided for their refreshment. When all was ready,
they called Gargantua, but he was so aggrieved that the monk was not to be
heard of that he would neither eat nor drink. In the meanwhile the monk
comes, and from the gate of the outer court cries out aloud, Fresh wine,
fresh wine, Gymnast my friend! Gymnast went out and saw that it was Friar
John, who brought along with him five pilgrims and Touchfaucet prisoners;
whereupon Gargantua likewise went forth to meet him, and all of them
made him the best welcome that possibly they could, and brought him
before Grangousier, who asked him of all his adventures. The monk told
him all, both how he was taken, how he rid himself of his keepers, of the
slaughter he had made by the way, and how he had rescued the pilgrims and
brought along with him Captain Touchfaucet. Then did they altogether fall
to banqueting most merrily. In the meantime Grangousier asked the
pilgrims what countrymen they were, whence they came, and whither they
went. Sweer-to-go in the name of the rest answered, My sovereign lord, I
am of Saint Genou in Berry, this man is of Palvau, this other is of Onzay,
this of Argy, this of St. Nazarand, and this man of Villebrenin. We come
from Saint Sebastian near Nantes, and are now returning, as we best may,
by easy journeys. Yea, but, said Grangousier, what went you to do at Saint
Sebastian? We went, said Sweer-to-go, to offer up unto that sanct our vows

against the plague. Ah, poor men! said Grangousier, do you think that the
plague comes from Saint Sebastian? Yes, truly, answered Sweer-to-go, our
preachers tell us so indeed. But is it so, said Grangousier, do the false
prophets teach you such abuses? Do they thus blaspheme the sancts and
holy men of God, as to make them like unto the devils, who do nothing but
hurt unto mankind,—as Homer writeth, that the plague was sent into the
camp of the Greeks by Apollo, and as the poets feign a great rabble of
Vejoves and mischievous gods. So did a certain cafard or dissembling
religionary preach at Sinay, that Saint Anthony sent the fire into men’s legs,
that Saint Eutropius made men hydropic, Saint Clidas, fools, and that Saint
Genou made them goutish. But I punished him so exemplarily, though he
called me heretic for it, that since that time no such hypocritical rogue durst
set his foot within my territories. And truly I wonder that your king should
suffer them in their sermons to publish such scandalous doctrine in his
dominions; for they deserve to be chastised with greater severity than those
who, by magical art, or any other device, have brought the pestilence into a
country. The pest killeth but the bodies, but such abominable imposters
empoison our very souls. As he spake these words, in came the monk very
resolute, and asked them, Whence are you, you poor wretches? Of Saint
Genou, said they. And how, said the monk, does the Abbot Gulligut, the
good drinker,—and the monks, what cheer make they? By G— body,
they’ll have a fling at your wives, and breast them to some purpose, whilst
you are upon your roaming rant and gadding pilgrimage. Hin, hen, said
Sweer-to-go, I am not afraid of mine, for he that shall see her by day will
never break his neck to come to her in the night-time. Yea, marry, said the
monk, now you have hit it. Let her be as ugly as ever was Proserpina, she
will once, by the Lord G—, be overturned, and get her skin-coat shaken, if
there dwell any monks near to her; for a good carpenter will make use of
any kind of timber. Let me be peppered with the pox, if you find not all
your wives with child at your return; for the very shadow of the steeple of
an abbey is fruitful. It is, said Gargantua, like the water of Nilus in Egypt, if
you believe Strabo and Pliny, Lib. 7, cap. 3. What virtue will there be then,
said the monk, in their bullets of concupiscence, their habits and their
bodies?
Then, said Grangousier, go your ways, poor men, in the name of God the
Creator, to whom I pray to guide you perpetually, and henceforward be not
so ready to undertake these idle and unprofitable journeys. Look to your

families, labour every man in his vocation, instruct your children, and live
as the good apostle St. Paul directeth you; in doing whereof, God, his
angels and sancts, will guard and protect you, and no evil or plague at any
time shall befall you. Then Gargantua led them into the hall to take their
refection; but the pilgrims did nothing but sigh, and said to Gargantua, O
how happy is that land which hath such a man for their lord! We have been
more edified and instructed by the talk which he had with us, than by all the
sermons that ever were preached in our town. This is, said Gargantua, that
which Plato saith, Lib. 5 de Republ., that those commonwealths are happy,
whose rulers philosophate, and whose philosophers rule. Then caused he
their wallets to be filled with victuals and their bottles with wine, and gave
unto each of them a horse to ease them upon the way, together with some
pence to live by.

Chapter 1.XLVI.—How Grangousier did very
kindly entertain Touchfaucet his prisoner.
Touchfaucet was presented unto Grangousier, and by him examined upon
the enterprise and attempt of Picrochole, what it was he could pretend to, or
aim at, by the rustling stir and tumultuary coil of this his sudden invasion.
Whereunto he answered, that his end and purpose was to conquer all the
country, if he could, for the injury done to his cake-bakers. It is too great an
undertaking, said Grangousier; and, as the proverb is, He that grips too
much, holds fast but little. The time is not now as formerly, to conquer the
kingdoms of our neighbour princes, and to build up our own greatness upon
the loss of our nearest Christian Brother. This imitation of the ancient
Herculeses, Alexanders, Hannibals, Scipios, Caesars, and other such heroes,
is quite contrary to the profession of the gospel of Christ, by which we are
commanded to preserve, keep, rule, and govern every man his own country
and lands, and not in a hostile manner to invade others; and that which
heretofore the Barbars and Saracens called prowess and valour, we do now
call robbing, thievery, and wickedness. It would have been more
commendable in him to have contained himself within the bounds of his
own territories, royally governing them, than to insult and domineer in
mine, pillaging and plundering everywhere like a most unmerciful enemy;
for, by ruling his own with discretion, he might have increased his
greatness, but by robbing me he cannot escape destruction. Go your ways in
the name of God, prosecute good enterprises, show your king what is amiss,
and never counsel him with regard unto your own particular profit, for the
public loss will swallow up the private benefit. As for your ransom, I do
freely remit it to you, and will that your arms and horse be restored to you;
so should good neighbours do, and ancient friends, seeing this our
difference is not properly war. As Plato, Lib. 5 de Repub., would not have it
called war, but sedition, when the Greeks took up arms against one another,
and that therefore, when such combustions should arise amongst them, his
advice was to behave themselves in the managing of them with all
discretion and modesty. Although you call it war, it is but superficial; it
entereth not into the closet and inmost cabinet of our hearts. For neither of

us hath been wronged in his honour, nor is there any question betwixt us in
the main, but only how to redress, by the bye, some petty faults committed
by our men,—I mean, both yours and ours, which, although you knew, you
ought to let pass; for these quarrelsome persons deserve rather to be
contemned than mentioned, especially seeing I offered them satisfaction
according to the wrong. God shall be the just judge of our variances, whom
I beseech by death rather to take me out of this life, and to permit my goods
to perish and be destroyed before mine eyes, than that by me or mine he
should in any sort be wronged. These words uttered, he called the monk,
and before them all thus spoke unto him, Friar John, my good friend, it is
you that took prisoner the Captain Touchfaucet here present? Sir, said the
monk, seeing himself is here, and that he is of the years of discretion, I had
rather you should know it by his confession than by any words of mine.
Then said Touchfaucet, My sovereign lord it is he indeed that took me, and
I do therefore most freely yield myself his prisoner. Have you put him to
any ransom? said Grangousier to the monk. No, said the monk, of that I
take no care. How much would you have for having taken him? Nothing,
nothing, said the monk; I am not swayed by that, nor do I regard it. Then
Grangousier commanded that, in presence of Touchfaucet, should be
delivered to the monk for taking him the sum of three score and two
thousand saluts (in English money, fifteen thousand and five hundred
pounds), which was done, whilst they made a collation or little banquet to
the said Touchfaucet, of whom Grangousier asked if he would stay with
him, or if he loved rather to return to his king. Touchfaucet answered that he
was content to take whatever course he would advise him to. Then, said
Grangousier, return unto your king, and God be with you.
Then he gave him an excellent sword of a Vienne blade, with a golden
scabbard wrought with vine-branch-like flourishes, of fair goldsmith’s
work, and a collar or neck-chain of gold, weighing seven hundred and two
thousand marks (at eight ounces each), garnished with precious stones of
the finest sort, esteemed at a hundred and sixty thousand ducats, and ten
thousand crowns more, as an honourable donative, by way of present.
After this talk Touchfaucet got to his horse, and Gargantua for his safety
allowed him the guard of thirty men-at-arms and six score archers to attend
him, under the conduct of Gymnast, to bring him even unto the gate of the
rock Clermond, if there were need. As soon as he was gone, the monk
restored unto Grangousier the three score and two thousand saluts which he

had received, saying, Sir, it is not as yet the time for you to give such gifts;
stay till this war be at an end, for none can tell what accidents may occur,
and war begun without good provision of money beforehand for going
through with it, is but as a breathing of strength, and blast that will quickly
pass away. Coin is the sinews of war. Well then, said Grangousier, at the
end I will content you by some honest recompense, as also all those who
shall do me good service.

Chapter 1.XLVII.—How Grangousier sent for his
legions, and how Touchfaucet slew Rashcalf, and
was afterwards executed by the command of
Picrochole.
About this same time those of Besse, of the Old Market, of St. James’
Bourg, of the Draggage, of Parille, of the Rivers, of the rocks St. Pol, of the
Vaubreton, of Pautille, of the Brehemont, of Clainbridge, of Cravant, of
Grammont, of the town at the Badgerholes, of Huymes, of Segre, of Husse,
of St. Lovant, of Panzoust, of the Coldraux, of Verron, of Coulaines, of
Chose, of Varenes, of Bourgueil, of the Bouchard Island, of the Croullay, of
Narsay, of Cande, of Montsoreau, and other bordering places, sent
ambassadors unto Grangousier, to tell him that they were advised of the
great wrongs which Picrochole had done him, and, in regard of their ancient
confederacy, offered him what assistance they could afford, both in men,
money, victuals, and ammunition, and other necessaries for war. The money
which by the joint agreement of them all was sent unto him, amounted to
six score and fourteen millions, two crowns and a half of pure gold. The
forces wherewith they did assist him did consist in fifteen thousand
cuirassiers, two-and-thirty thousand light horsemen, four score and nine
thousand dragoons, and a hundred-and-forty thousand volunteer
adventurers. These had with them eleven thousand and two hundred
cannons, double cannons, long pieces of artillery called basilisks, and
smaller sized ones known by the name of spirols, besides the mortar-pieces
and grenadoes. Of pioneers they had seven-and-forty thousand, all
victualled and paid for six months and four days of advance. Which offer
Gargantua did not altogether refuse, nor wholly accept of; but, giving them
hearty thanks, said that he would compose and order the war by such a
device, that there should not be found great need to put so many honest men
to trouble in the managing of it; and therefore was content at that time to
give order only for bringing along the legions which he maintained in his
ordinary garrison towns of the Deviniere, of Chavigny, of Gravot, and of
the Quinquenais, amounting to the number of two thousand cuirassiers,

three score and six thousand foot-soldiers, six-and-twenty thousand
dragoons, attended by two hundred pieces of great ordnance, two-and-
twenty thousand pioneers, and six thousand light horsemen, all drawn up in
troops, so well befitted and accommodated with their commissaries, sutlers,
farriers, harness-makers, and other such like necessary members in a
military camp, so fully instructed in the art of warfare, so perfectly knowing
and following their colours, so ready to hear and obey their captains, so
nimble to run, so strong at their charging, so prudent in their adventures,
and every day so well disciplined, that they seemed rather to be a concert of
organ-pipes, or mutual concord of the wheels of a clock, than an infantry
and cavalry, or army of soldiers.
Touchfaucet immediately after his return presented himself before
Picrochole, and related unto him at large all that he had done and seen, and
at last endeavoured to persuade him with strong and forcible arguments to
capitulate and make an agreement with Grangousier, whom he found to be
the honestest man in the world; saying further, that it was neither right nor
reason thus to trouble his neighbours, of whom they had never received
anything but good. And in regard of the main point, that they should never
be able to go through stitch with that war, but to their great damage and
mischief; for the forces of Picrochole were not so considerable but that
Grangousier could easily overthrow them.
He had not well done speaking when Rashcalf said out aloud, Unhappy is
that prince which is by such men served, who are so easily corrupted, as I
know Touchfaucet is. For I see his courage so changed that he had willingly
joined with our enemies to fight against us and betray us, if they would
have received him; but as virtue is of all, both friends and foes, praised and
esteemed, so is wickedness soon known and suspected, and although it
happen the enemies to make use thereof for their profit, yet have they
always the wicked and the traitors in abomination.
Touchfaucet being at these words very impatient, drew out his sword, and
therewith ran Rashcalf through the body, a little under the nipple of his left
side, whereof he died presently, and pulling back his sword out of his body
said boldly, So let him perish that shall a faithful servant blame. Picrochole
incontinently grew furious, and seeing Touchfaucet’s new sword and his
scabbard so richly diapered with flourishes of most excellent workmanship,
said, Did they give thee this weapon so feloniously therewith to kill before

my face my so good friend Rashcalf? Then immediately commanded he his
guard to hew him in pieces, which was instantly done, and that so cruelly
that the chamber was all dyed with blood. Afterwards he appointed the
corpse of Rashcalf to be honourably buried, and that of Touchfaucet to be
cast over the walls into the ditch.
The news of these excessive violences were quickly spread through all
the army; whereupon many began to murmur against Picrochole, in so far
that Pinchpenny said to him, My sovereign lord, I know not what the issue
of this enterprise will be. I see your men much dejected, and not well
resolved in their minds, by considering that we are here very ill provided of
victual, and that our number is already much diminished by three or four
sallies. Furthermore, great supplies and recruits come daily in to your
enemies; but we so moulder away that, if we be once besieged, I do not see
how we can escape a total destruction. Tush, pish, said Picrochole, you are
like the Melun eels, you cry before they come to you. Let them come, let
them come, if they dare.

Chapter 1.XLVIII.—How Gargantua set upon
Picrochole within the rock Clermond, and utterly
defeated the army of the said Picrochole.
Gargantua had the charge of the whole army, and his father Grangousier
stayed in his castle, who, encouraging them with good words, promised
great rewards unto those that should do any notable service. Having thus set
forward, as soon as they had gained the pass at the ford of Vede, with boats
and bridges speedily made they passed over in a trice. Then considering the
situation of the town, which was on a high and advantageous place,
Gargantua thought fit to call his council, and pass that night in deliberation
upon what was to be done. But Gymnast said unto him, My sovereign lord,
such is the nature and complexion of the French, that they are worth
nothing but at the first push. Then are they more fierce than devils. But if
they linger a little and be wearied with delays, they’ll prove more faint and
remiss than women. My opinion is, therefore, that now presently, after your
men have taken breath and some small refection, you give order for a
resolute assault, and that we storm them instantly. His advice was found
very good, and for effectuating thereof he brought forth his army into the
plain field, and placed the reserves on the skirt or rising of a little hill. The
monk took along with him six companies of foot and two hundred
horsemen well armed, and with great diligence crossed the marsh, and
valiantly got upon the top of the green hillock even unto the highway which
leads to Loudun. Whilst the assault was thus begun, Picrochole’s men could
not tell well what was best, to issue out and receive the assailants, or keep
within the town and not to stir. Himself in the mean time, without
deliberation, sallied forth in a rage with the cavalry of his guard, who were
forthwith received and royally entertained with great cannon-shot that fell
upon them like hail from the high grounds on which the artillery was
planted. Whereupon the Gargantuists betook themselves unto the valleys, to
give the ordnance leave to play and range with the larger scope.
Those of the town defended themselves as well as they could, but their
shot passed over us without doing us any hurt at all. Some of Picrochole’s

men that had escaped our artillery set most fiercely upon our soldiers, but
prevailed little; for they were all let in betwixt the files, and there knocked
down to the ground, which their fellow-soldiers seeing, they would have
retreated, but the monk having seized upon the pass by the which they were
to return, they ran away and fled in all the disorder and confusion that could
be imagined.
Some would have pursued after them and followed the chase, but the
monk withheld them, apprehending that in their pursuit the pursuers might
lose their ranks, and so give occasion to the besieged to sally out of the
town upon them. Then staying there some space and none coming against
him, he sent the Duke Phrontist to advise Gargantua to advance towards the
hill upon the left hand, to hinder Picrochole’s retreat at that gate; which
Gargantua did with all expedition, and sent thither four brigades under the
conduct of Sebast, which had no sooner reached the top of the hill, but they
met Picrochole in the teeth, and those that were with him scattered.
Then charged they upon them stoutly, yet were they much endamaged by
those that were upon the walls, who galled them with all manner of shot,
both from the great ordnance, small guns, and bows. Which Gargantua
perceiving, he went with a strong party to their relief, and with his artillery
began to thunder so terribly upon that canton of the wall, and so long, that
all the strength within the town, to maintain and fill up the breach, was
drawn thither. The monk seeing that quarter which he kept besieged void of
men and competent guards, and in a manner altogether naked and
abandoned, did most magnanimously on a sudden lead up his men towards
the fort, and never left it till he had got up upon it, knowing that such as
come to the reserve in a conflict bring with them always more fear and
terror than those that deal about them with they hands in the fight.
Nevertheless, he gave no alarm till all his soldiers had got within the
wall, except the two hundred horsemen, whom he left without to secure his
entry. Then did he give a most horrible shout, so did all these who were
with him, and immediately thereafter, without resistance, putting to the edge
of the sword the guard that was at that gate, they opened it to the horsemen,
with whom most furiously they altogether ran towards the east gate, where
all the hurlyburly was, and coming close upon them in the rear overthrew
all their forces.

The besieged, seeing that the Gargantuists had won the town upon them,
and that they were like to be secure in no corner of it, submitted themselves
unto the mercy of the monk, and asked for quarter, which the monk very
nobly granted to them, yet made them lay down their arms; then, shutting
them up within churches, gave order to seize upon all the staves of the
crosses, and placed men at the doors to keep them from coming forth. Then
opening that east gate, he issued out to succour and assist Gargantua. But
Picrochole, thinking it had been some relief coming to him from the town,
adventured more forwardly than before, and was upon the giving of a most
desperate home-charge, when Gargantua cried out, Ha, Friar John, my
friend Friar John, you are come in a good hour. Which unexpected accident
so affrighted Picrochole and his men, that, giving all for lost, they betook
themselves to their heels, and fled on all hands. Gargantua chased them till
they came near to Vaugaudry, killing and slaying all the way, and then
sounded the retreat.

Chapter 1.XLIX.—How Picrochole in his flight
fell into great misfortunes, and what Gargantua
did after the battle.
Picrochole thus in despair fled towards the Bouchard Island, and in the
way to Riviere his horse stumbled and fell down, whereat he on a sudden
was so incensed, that he with his sword without more ado killed him in his
choler; then, not finding any that would remount him, he was about to have
taken an ass at the mill that was thereby; but the miller’s men did so baste
his bones and so soundly bethwack him that they made him both black and
blue with strokes; then stripping him of all his clothes, gave him a scurvy
old canvas jacket wherewith to cover his nakedness. Thus went along this
poor choleric wretch, who, passing the water at Port-Huaulx, and relating
his misadventurous disasters, was foretold by an old Lourpidon hag that his
kingdom should be restored to him at the coming of the Cocklicranes,
which she called Coquecigrues. What is become of him since we cannot
certainly tell, yet was I told that he is now a porter at Lyons, as testy and
pettish in humour as ever he was before, and would be always with great
lamentation inquiring at all strangers of the coming of the Cocklicranes,
expecting assuredly, according to the old woman’s prophecy, that at their
coming he shall be re-established in his kingdom. The first thing Gargantua
did after his return into the town was to call the muster-roll of his men,
which when he had done, he found that there were very few either killed or
wounded, only some few foot of Captain Tolmere’s company, and
Ponocrates, who was shot with a musket-ball through the doublet. Then he
caused them all at and in their several posts and divisions to take a little
refreshment, which was very plenteously provided for them in the best
drink and victuals that could be had for money, and gave order to the
treasurers and commissaries of the army to pay for and defray that repast,
and that there should be no outrage at all nor abuse committed in the town,
seeing it was his own. And furthermore commanded, that immediately after
the soldiers had done with eating and drinking for that time sufficiently and
to their own hearts’ desire, a gathering should be beaten for bringing them

altogether, to be drawn up on the piazza before the castle, there to receive
six months’ pay completely. All which was done. After this, by his
direction, were brought before him in the said place all those that remained
of Picrochole’s party, unto whom, in the presence of the princes, nobles,
and officers of his court and army, he spoke as followeth.

Chapter 1.L.—Gargantua’s speech to the
vanquished.
Our forefathers and ancestors of all times have been of this nature and
disposition, that, upon the winning of a battle, they have chosen rather, for a
sign and memorial of their triumphs and victories, to erect trophies and
monuments in the hearts of the vanquished by clemency than by
architecture in the lands which they had conquered. For they did hold in
greater estimation the lively remembrance of men purchased by liberality
than the dumb inscription of arches, pillars, and pyramids, subject to the
injury of storms and tempests, and to the envy of everyone. You may very
well remember of the courtesy which by them was used towards the
Bretons in the battle of St. Aubin of Cormier and at the demolishing of
Partenay. You have heard, and hearing admire, their gentle comportment
towards those at the barriers (the barbarians) of Spaniola, who had
plundered, wasted, and ransacked the maritime borders of Olone and
Thalmondois. All this hemisphere of the world was filled with the praises
and congratulations which yourselves and your fathers made, when
Alpharbal, King of Canarre, not satisfied with his own fortunes, did most
furiously invade the land of Onyx, and with cruel piracies molest all the
Armoric Islands and confine regions of Britany. Yet was he in a set naval
fight justly taken and vanquished by my father, whom God preserve and
protect. But what? Whereas other kings and emperors, yea, those who
entitle themselves Catholics, would have dealt roughly with him, kept him a
close prisoner, and put him to an extreme high ransom, he entreated him
very courteously, lodged him kindly with himself in his own palace, and out
of his incredible mildness and gentle disposition sent him back with a safe
conduct, laden with gifts, laden with favours, laden with all offices of
friendship. What fell out upon it? Being returned into his country, he called
a parliament, where all the princes and states of his kingdom being
assembled, he showed them the humanity which he had found in us, and
therefore wished them to take such course by way of compensation therein
as that the whole world might be edified by the example, as well of their
honest graciousness to us as of our gracious honesty towards them. The

result hereof was, that it was voted and decreed by an unanimous consent,
that they should offer up entirely their lands, dominions, and kingdoms, to
be disposed of by us according to our pleasure.
Alpharbal in his own person presently returned with nine thousand and
thirty-eight great ships of burden, bringing with him the treasures, not only
of his house and royal lineage, but almost of all the country besides. For he
embarking himself, to set sail with a west-north-east wind, everyone in
heaps did cast into the ship gold, silver, rings, jewels, spices, drugs, and
aromatical perfumes, parrots, pelicans, monkeys, civet-cats, black-spotted
weasels, porcupines, &c. He was accounted no good mother’s son that did
not cast in all the rare and precious things he had.
Being safely arrived, he came to my said father, and would have kissed
his feet. That action was found too submissively low, and therefore was not
permitted, but in exchange he was most cordially embraced. He offered his
presents; they were not received, because they were too excessive: he
yielded himself voluntarily a servant and vassal, and was content his whole
posterity should be liable to the same bondage; this was not accepted of,
because it seemed not equitable: he surrendered, by virtue of the decree of
his great parliamentary council, his whole countries and kingdoms to him,
offering the deed and conveyance, signed, sealed, and ratified by all those
that were concerned in it; this was altogether refused, and the parchments
cast into the fire. In end, this free goodwill and simple meaning of the
Canarians wrought such tenderness in my father’s heart that he could not
abstain from shedding tears, and wept most profusely; then, by choice
words very congruously adapted, strove in what he could to diminish the
estimation of the good offices which he had done them, saying, that any
courtesy he had conferred upon them was not worth a rush, and what favour
soever he had showed them he was bound to do it. But so much the more
did Alpharbal augment the repute thereof. What was the issue? Whereas for
his ransom, in the greatest extremity of rigour and most tyrannical dealing,
could not have been exacted above twenty times a hundred thousand
crowns, and his eldest sons detained as hostages till that sum had been paid,
they made themselves perpetual tributaries, and obliged to give us every
year two millions of gold at four-and-twenty carats fine. The first year we
received the whole sum of two millions; the second year of their own
accord they paid freely to us three-and-twenty hundred thousand crowns;
the third year, six-and-twenty hundred thousand; the fourth year, three

millions, and do so increase it always out of their own goodwill that we
shall be constrained to forbid them to bring us any more. This is the nature
of gratitude and true thankfulness. For time, which gnaws and diminisheth
all things else, augments and increaseth benefits; because a noble action of
liberality, done to a man of reason, doth grow continually by his generous
thinking of it and remembering it.
Being unwilling therefore any way to degenerate from the hereditary
mildness and clemency of my parents, I do now forgive you, deliver you
from all fines and imprisonments, fully release you, set you at liberty, and
every way make you as frank and free as ever you were before. Moreover,
at your going out of the gate, you shall have every one of you three months’
pay to bring you home into your houses and families, and shall have a safe
convoy of six hundred cuirassiers and eight thousand foot under the conduct
of Alexander, esquire of my body, that the clubmen of the country may not
do you any injury. God be with you! I am sorry from my heart that
Picrochole is not here; for I would have given him to understand that this
war was undertaken against my will and without any hope to increase either
my goods or renown. But seeing he is lost, and that no man can tell where
nor how he went away, it is my will that his kingdom remain entire to his
son; who, because he is too young, he not being yet full five years old, shall
be brought up and instructed by the ancient princes and learned men of the
kingdom. And because a realm thus desolate may easily come to ruin, if the
covetousness and avarice of those who by their places are obliged to
administer justice in it be not curbed and restrained, I ordain and will have
it so, that Ponocrates be overseer and superintendent above all his
governors, with whatever power and authority is requisite thereto, and that
he be continually with the child until he find him able and capable to rule
and govern by himself.
Now I must tell you, that you are to understand how a too feeble and
dissolute facility in pardoning evildoers giveth them occasion to commit
wickedness afterwards more readily, upon this pernicious confidence of
receiving favour. I consider that Moses, the meekest man that was in his
time upon the earth, did severely punish the mutinous and seditious people
of Israel. I consider likewise that Julius Caesar, who was so gracious an
emperor that Cicero said of him that his fortune had nothing more excellent
than that he could, and his virtue nothing better than that he would always
save and pardon every man—he, notwithstanding all this, did in certain

places most rigorously punish the authors of rebellion. After the example of
these good men, it is my will and pleasure that you deliver over unto me
before you depart hence, first, that fine fellow Marquet, who was the prime
cause, origin, and groundwork of this war by his vain presumption and
overweening; secondly, his fellow cake-bakers, who were neglective in
checking and reprehending his idle hairbrained humour in the instant time;
and lastly, all the councillors, captains, officers, and domestics of
Picrochole, who had been incendiaries or fomenters of the war by
provoking, praising, or counselling him to come out of his limits thus to
trouble us.

Chapter 1.LI.—How the victorious Gargantuists
were recompensed after the battle.
When Gargantua had finished his speech, the seditious men whom he
required were delivered up unto him, except Swashbuckler, Dirt-tail, and
Smalltrash, who ran away six hours before the battle—one of them as far as
to Lainiel-neck at one course, another to the valley of Vire, and the third
even unto Logroine, without looking back or taking breath by the way—and
two of the cake-bakers who were slain in the fight. Gargantua did them no
other hurt but that he appointed them to pull at the presses of his printing-
house which he had newly set up. Then those who died there he caused to
be honourably buried in Black-soile valley and Burn-hag field, and gave
order that the wounded should be dressed and had care of in his great
hospital or nosocome. After this, considering the great prejudice done to the
town and its inhabitants, he reimbursed their charges and repaired all the
losses that by their confession upon oath could appear they had sustained;
and, for their better defence and security in times coming against all sudden
uproars and invasions, commanded a strong citadel to be built there with a
competent garrison to maintain it. At his departure he did very graciously
thank all the soldiers of the brigades that had been at this overthrow, and
sent them back to their winter-quarters in their several stations and
garrisons; the decumane legion only excepted, whom in the field on that
day he saw do some great exploit, and their captains also, whom he brought
along with himself unto Grangousier.
At the sight and coming of them, the good man was so joyful, that it is
not possible fully to describe it. He made them a feast the most magnificent,
plentiful, and delicious that ever was seen since the time of the king
Ahasuerus. At the taking up of the table he distributed amongst them his
whole cupboard of plate, which weighed eight hundred thousand and
fourteen bezants (Each bezant is worth five pounds English money.) of
gold, in great antique vessels, huge pots, large basins, big tasses, cups,
goblets, candlesticks, comfit-boxes, and other such plate, all of pure massy
gold, besides the precious stones, enamelling, and workmanship, which by
all men’s estimation was more worth than the matter of the gold. Then unto

every one of them out of his coffers caused he to be given the sum of twelve
hundred thousand crowns ready money. And, further, he gave to each of
them for ever and in perpetuity, unless he should happen to decease without
heirs, such castles and neighbouring lands of his as were most commodious
for them. To Ponocrates he gave the rock Clermond; to Gymnast, the
Coudray; to Eudemon, Montpensier; Rivau, to Tolmere, to Ithibolle,
Montsoreau; to Acamas, Cande; Varenes, to Chironacte; Gravot, to Sebast;
Quinquenais, to Alexander; Legre, to Sophrone, and so of his other places.

Chapter 1.LII.—How Gargantua caused to be
built for the Monk the Abbey of Theleme.
There was left only the monk to provide for, whom Gargantua would
have made Abbot of Seville, but he refused it. He would have given him the
Abbey of Bourgueil, or of Sanct Florent, which was better, or both, if it
pleased him; but the monk gave him a very peremptory answer, that he
would never take upon him the charge nor government of monks. For how
shall I be able, said he, to rule over others, that have not full power and
command of myself? If you think I have done you, or may hereafter do any
acceptable service, give me leave to found an abbey after my own mind and
fancy. The motion pleased Gargantua very well, who thereupon offered him
all the country of Theleme by the river of Loire till within two leagues of
the great forest of Port-Huaulx. The monk then requested Gargantua to
institute his religious order contrary to all others. First, then, said
Gargantua, you must not build a wall about your convent, for all other
abbeys are strongly walled and mured about. See, said the monk, and not
without cause (seeing wall and mur signify but one and the same thing);
where there is mur before and mur behind, there is store of murmur, envy,
and mutual conspiracy. Moreover, seeing there are certain convents in the
world whereof the custom is, if any woman come in, I mean chaste and
honest women, they immediately sweep the ground which they have trod
upon; therefore was it ordained, that if any man or woman entered into
religious orders should by chance come within this new abbey, all the
rooms should be thoroughly washed and cleansed through which they had
passed. And because in all other monasteries and nunneries all is
compassed, limited, and regulated by hours, it was decreed that in this new
structure there should be neither clock nor dial, but that according to the
opportunities and incident occasions all their hours should be disposed of;
for, said Gargantua, the greatest loss of time that I know is to count the
hours. What good comes of it? Nor can there be any greater dotage in the
world than for one to guide and direct his courses by the sound of a bell,
and not by his own judgment and discretion.

Item, Because at that time they put no women into nunneries but such as
were either purblind, blinkards, lame, crooked, ill-favoured, misshapen,
fools, senseless, spoiled, or corrupt; nor encloistered any men but those that
were either sickly, subject to defluxions, ill-bred louts, simple sots, or
peevish trouble-houses. But to the purpose, said the monk. A woman that is
neither fair nor good, to what use serves she? To make a nun of, said
Gargantua. Yea, said the monk, and to make shirts and smocks. Therefore
was it ordained that into this religious order should be admitted no women
that were not fair, well-featured, and of a sweet disposition; nor men that
were not comely, personable, and well conditioned.
Item, Because in the convents of women men come not but underhand,
privily, and by stealth, it was therefore enacted that in this house there shall
be no women in case there be not men, nor men in case there be not
women.
Item, Because both men and women that are received into religious
orders after the expiring of their noviciate or probation year were
constrained and forced perpetually to stay there all the days of their life, it
was therefore ordered that all whatever, men or women, admitted within
this abbey, should have full leave to depart with peace and contentment
whensoever it should seem good to them so to do.
Item, for that the religious men and women did ordinarily make three
vows, to wit, those of chastity, poverty, and obedience, it was therefore
constituted and appointed that in this convent they might be honourably
married, that they might be rich, and live at liberty. In regard of the
legitimate time of the persons to be initiated, and years under and above
which they were not capable of reception, the women were to be admitted
from ten till fifteen, and the men from twelve till eighteen.

Chapter 1.LIII.—How the abbey of the
Thelemites was built and endowed.
For the fabric and furniture of the abbey Gargantua caused to be
delivered out in ready money seven-and-twenty hundred thousand, eight
hundred and one-and-thirty of those golden rams of Berry which have a
sheep stamped on the one side and a flowered cross on the other; and for
every year, until the whole work were completed, he allotted threescore
nine thousand crowns of the sun, and as many of the seven stars, to be
charged all upon the receipt of the custom. For the foundation and
maintenance thereof for ever, he settled a perpetual fee-farm-rent of three-
and-twenty hundred, three score and nine thousand, five hundred and
fourteen rose nobles, exempted from all homage, fealty, service, or burden
whatsoever, and payable every year at the gate of the abbey; and of this by
letters patent passed a very good grant. The architecture was in a figure
hexagonal, and in such a fashion that in every one of the six corners there
was built a great round tower of threescore foot in diameter, and were all of
a like form and bigness. Upon the north side ran along the river of Loire, on
the bank whereof was situated the tower called Arctic. Going towards the
east, there was another called Calaer,—the next following Anatole,—the
next Mesembrine,—the next Hesperia, and the last Criere. Every tower was
distant from other the space of three hundred and twelve paces. The whole
edifice was everywhere six storeys high, reckoning the cellars underground
for one. The second was arched after the fashion of a basket-handle; the rest
were ceiled with pure wainscot, flourished with Flanders fretwork, in the
form of the foot of a lamp, and covered above with fine slates, with an
endorsement of lead, carrying the antique figures of little puppets and
animals of all sorts, notably well suited to one another, and gilt, together
with the gutters, which, jutting without the walls from betwixt the crossbars
in a diagonal figure, painted with gold and azure, reached to the very
ground, where they ended into great conduit-pipes, which carried all away
unto the river from under the house.
This same building was a hundred times more sumptuous and
magnificent than ever was Bonnivet, Chambourg, or Chantilly; for there

were in it nine thousand, three hundred and two-and-thirty chambers, every
one whereof had a withdrawing-room, a handsome closet, a wardrobe, an
oratory, and neat passage, leading into a great and spacious hall. Between
every tower in the midst of the said body of building there was a pair of
winding, such as we now call lantern stairs, whereof the steps were part of
porphyry, which is a dark red marble spotted with white, part of Numidian
stone, which is a kind of yellowishly-streaked marble upon various colours,
and part of serpentine marble, with light spots on a dark green ground, each
of those steps being two-and-twenty foot in length and three fingers thick,
and the just number of twelve betwixt every rest, or, as we now term it,
landing-place. In every resting-place were two fair antique arches where the
light came in: and by those they went into a cabinet, made even with and of
the breadth of the said winding, and the reascending above the roofs of the
house ended conically in a pavilion. By that vise or winding they entered on
every side into a great hall, and from the halls into the chambers. From the
Arctic tower unto the Criere were the fair great libraries in Greek, Latin,
Hebrew, French, Italian, and Spanish, respectively distributed in their
several cantons, according to the diversity of these languages. In the midst
there was a wonderful scalier or winding-stair, the entry whereof was
without the house, in a vault or arch six fathom broad. It was made in such
symmetry and largeness that six men-at-arms with their lances in their rests
might together in a breast ride all up to the very top of all the palace. From
the tower Anatole to the Mesembrine were fair spacious galleries, all
coloured over and painted with the ancient prowesses, histories, and
descriptions of the world. In the midst thereof there was likewise such
another ascent and gate as we said there was on the river-side. Upon that
gate was written in great antique letters that which followeth.

Chapter 1.LIV.—The inscription set upon the
great gate of Theleme.
Here enter not vile bigots, hypocrites, Externally devoted apes, base
snites, Puffed-up, wry-necked beasts, worse than the Huns, Or Ostrogoths,
forerunners of baboons: Cursed snakes, dissembled varlets, seeming sancts,
Slipshod caffards, beggars pretending wants, Fat chuffcats, smell-feast
knockers, doltish gulls, Out-strouting cluster-fists, contentious bulls,
Fomenters of divisions and debates, Elsewhere, not here, make sale of your
deceits.

Your filthy trumperies
Stuffed with pernicious lies
(Not worth a bubble),
Would do but trouble
Our earthly paradise,
Your filthy trumperies.

Here enter not attorneys, barristers, Nor bridle-champing law-
practitioners: Clerks, commissaries, scribes, nor pharisees, Wilful disturbers
of the people’s ease: Judges, destroyers, with an unjust breath, Of honest
men, like dogs, even unto death. Your salary is at the gibbet-foot: Go drink
there! for we do not here fly out On those excessive courses, which may
draw A waiting on your courts by suits in law.

Lawsuits, debates, and wrangling
Hence are exiled, and jangling.
Here we are very
Frolic and merry,
And free from all entangling,
Lawsuits, debates, and wrangling.

Here enter not base pinching usurers, Pelf-lickers, everlasting gatherers,
Gold-graspers, coin-gripers, gulpers of mists, Niggish deformed sots, who,
though your chests Vast sums of money should to you afford, Would
ne’ertheless add more unto that hoard, And yet not be content,—you
clunchfist dastards, Insatiable fiends, and Pluto’s bastards, Greedy
devourers, chichy sneakbill rogues, Hell-mastiffs gnaw your bones, you
ravenous dogs.

You beastly-looking fellows,
Reason doth plainly tell us
That we should not
To you allot
Room here, but at the gallows,
You beastly-looking fellows.

Here enter not fond makers of demurs In love adventures, peevish,
jealous curs, Sad pensive dotards, raisers of garboils, Hags, goblins, ghosts,
firebrands of household broils, Nor drunkards, liars, cowards, cheaters,
clowns, Thieves, cannibals, faces o’ercast with frowns, Nor lazy slugs,
envious, covetous, Nor blockish, cruel, nor too credulous,— Here mangy,
pocky folks shall have no place, No ugly lusks, nor persons of disgrace.

Grace, honour, praise, delight,
Here sojourn day and night.
Sound bodies lined
With a good mind,
Do here pursue with might
Grace, honour, praise, delight.

Here enter you, and welcome from our hearts, All noble sparks, endowed
with gallant parts. This is the glorious place, which bravely shall Afford
wherewith to entertain you all. Were you a thousand, here you shall not
want For anything; for what you’ll ask we’ll grant. Stay here, you lively,
jovial, handsome, brisk, Gay, witty, frolic, cheerful, merry, frisk, Spruce,
jocund, courteous, furtherers of trades, And, in a word, all worthy gentle
blades.

Blades of heroic breasts
Shall taste here of the feasts,
Both privily
And civilly
Of the celestial guests,
Blades of heroic breasts.

Here enter you, pure, honest, faithful, true Expounders of the Scriptures
old and new. Whose glosses do not blind our reason, but Make it to see the
clearer, and who shut Its passages from hatred, avarice, Pride, factions,
covenants, and all sort of vice. Come, settle here a charitable faith, Which
neighbourly affection nourisheth. And whose light chaseth all corrupters
hence, Of the blest word, from the aforesaid sense.

The holy sacred Word,
May it always afford
T’ us all in common,

Both man and woman,
A spiritual shield and sword,
The holy sacred Word.

Here enter you all ladies of high birth, Delicious, stately, charming, full
of mirth, Ingenious, lovely, miniard, proper, fair, Magnetic, graceful,
splendid, pleasant, rare, Obliging, sprightly, virtuous, young, solacious,
Kind, neat, quick, feat, bright, compt, ripe, choice, dear, precious. Alluring,
courtly, comely, fine, complete, Wise, personable, ravishing, and sweet,
Come joys enjoy. The Lord celestial Hath given enough wherewith to
please us all.

Gold give us, God forgive us,
And from all woes relieve us;
That we the treasure
May reap of pleasure,
And shun whate’er is grievous,
Gold give us, God forgive us.

Chapter 1.LV.—What manner of dwelling the
Thelemites had.
In the middle of the lower court there was a stately fountain of fair
alabaster. Upon the top thereof stood the three Graces, with their
cornucopias, or horns of abundance, and did jet out the water at their
breasts, mouth, ears, eyes, and other open passages of the body. The inside
of the buildings in this lower court stood upon great pillars of chalcedony
stone and porphyry marble made archways after a goodly antique fashion.
Within those were spacious galleries, long and large, adorned with curious
pictures, the horns of bucks and unicorns: with rhinoceroses, water-horses
called hippopotames, the teeth and tusks of elephants, and other things well
worth the beholding. The lodging of the ladies, for so we may call those
gallant women, took up all from the tower Arctic unto the gate Mesembrine.
The men possessed the rest. Before the said lodging of the ladies, that they
might have their recreation, between the two first towers, on the outside,
were placed the tiltyard, the barriers or lists for tournaments, the
hippodrome or riding-court, the theatre or public playhouse, and natatory or
place to swim in, with most admirable baths in three stages, situated above
one another, well furnished with all necessary accommodation, and store of
myrtle-water. By the river-side was the fair garden of pleasure, and in the
midst of that the glorious labyrinth. Between the two other towers were the
courts for the tennis and the balloon. Towards the tower Criere stood the
orchard full of all fruit-trees, set and ranged in a quincuncial order. At the
end of that was the great park, abounding with all sort of venison. Betwixt
the third couple of towers were the butts and marks for shooting with a
snapwork gun, an ordinary bow for common archery, or with a crossbow.
The office-houses were without the tower Hesperia, of one storey high. The
stables were beyond the offices, and before them stood the falconry,
managed by ostrich-keepers and falconers very expert in the art, and it was
yearly supplied and furnished by the Candians, Venetians, Sarmates, now
called Muscoviters, with all sorts of most excellent hawks, eagles,
gerfalcons, goshawks, sacres, lanners, falcons, sparrowhawks, marlins, and
other kinds of them, so gentle and perfectly well manned, that, flying of

themselves sometimes from the castle for their own disport, they would not
fail to catch whatever they encountered. The venery, where the beagles and
hounds were kept, was a little farther off, drawing towards the park.
All the halls, chambers, and closets or cabinets were richly hung with
tapestry and hangings of divers sorts, according to the variety of the seasons
of the year. All the pavements and floors were covered with green cloth.
The beds were all embroidered. In every back-chamber or withdrawing-
room there was a looking-glass of pure crystal set in a frame of fine gold,
garnished all about with pearls, and was of such greatness that it would
represent to the full the whole lineaments and proportion of the person that
stood before it. At the going out of the halls which belong to the ladies’
lodgings were the perfumers and trimmers through whose hands the
gallants passed when they were to visit the ladies. Those sweet artificers did
every morning furnish the ladies’ chambers with the spirit of roses, orange-
flower-water, and angelica; and to each of them gave a little precious casket
vapouring forth the most odoriferous exhalations of the choicest aromatical
scents.

Chapter 1.LVI.—How the men and women of the
religious order of Theleme were apparelled.
The ladies at the foundation of this order were apparelled after their own
pleasure and liking; but, since that of their own accord and free will they
have reformed themselves, their accoutrement is in manner as followeth.
They wore stockings of scarlet crimson, or ingrained purple dye, which
reached just three inches above the knee, having a list beautified with
exquisite embroideries and rare incisions of the cutter’s art. Their garters
were of the colour of their bracelets, and circled the knee a little both over
and under. Their shoes, pumps, and slippers were either of red, violet, or
crimson-velvet, pinked and jagged like lobster waddles.
Next to their smock they put on the pretty kirtle or vasquin of pure silk
camlet: above that went the taffety or tabby farthingale, of white, red,
tawny, grey, or of any other colour. Above this taffety petticoat they had
another of cloth of tissue or brocade, embroidered with fine gold and
interlaced with needlework, or as they thought good, and according to the
temperature and disposition of the weather had their upper coats of satin,
damask, or velvet, and those either orange, tawny, green, ash-coloured,
blue, yellow, bright red, crimson, or white, and so forth; or had them of
cloth of gold, cloth of silver, or some other choice stuff, enriched with purl,
or embroidered according to the dignity of the festival days and times
wherein they wore them.
Their gowns, being still correspondent to the season, were either of cloth
of gold frizzled with a silver-raised work; of red satin, covered with gold
purl; of tabby, or taffety, white, blue, black, tawny, &c., of silk serge, silk
camlet, velvet, cloth of silver, silver tissue, cloth of gold, gold wire, figured
velvet, or figured satin tinselled and overcast with golden threads, in divers
variously purfled draughts.
In the summer some days instead of gowns they wore light handsome
mantles, made either of the stuff of the aforesaid attire, or like Moresco
rugs, of violet velvet frizzled, with a raised work of gold upon silver purl, or
with a knotted cord-work of gold embroidery, everywhere garnished with

little Indian pearls. They always carried a fair panache, or plume of
feathers, of the colour of their muff, bravely adorned and tricked out with
glistering spangles of gold. In the winter time they had their taffety gowns
of all colours, as above-named, and those lined with the rich furrings of
hind-wolves, or speckled lynxes, black-spotted weasels, martlet skins of
Calabria, sables, and other costly furs of an inestimable value. Their beads,
rings, bracelets, collars, carcanets, and neck-chains were all of precious
stones, such as carbuncles, rubies, baleus, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds,
turquoises, garnets, agates, beryls, and excellent margarites. Their head-
dressing also varied with the season of the year, according to which they
decked themselves. In winter it was of the French fashion; in the spring, of
the Spanish; in summer, of the fashion of Tuscany, except only upon the
holy days and Sundays, at which times they were accoutred in the French
mode, because they accounted it more honourable and better befitting the
garb of a matronal pudicity.
The men were apparelled after their fashion. Their stockings were of
tamine or of cloth serge, of white, black, scarlet, or some other ingrained
colour. Their breeches were of velvet, of the same colour with their
stockings, or very near, embroidered and cut according to their fancy. Their
doublet was of cloth of gold, of cloth of silver, of velvet, satin, damask,
taffeties, &c., of the same colours, cut, embroidered, and suitably trimmed
up in perfection. The points were of silk of the same colours; the tags were
of gold well enamelled. Their coats and jerkins were of cloth of gold, cloth
of silver, gold, tissue or velvet embroidered, as they thought fit. Their
gowns were every whit as costly as those of the ladies. Their girdles were of
silks, of the colour of their doublets. Every one had a gallant sword by his
side, the hilt and handle whereof were gilt, and the scabbard of velvet, of
the colour of his breeches, with a chape of gold, and pure goldsmith’s work.
The dagger was of the same. Their caps or bonnets were of black velvet,
adorned with jewels and buttons of gold. Upon that they wore a white
plume, most prettily and minion-like parted by so many rows of gold
spangles, at the end whereof hung dangling in a more sparkling
resplendency fair rubies, emeralds, diamonds, &c., but there was such a
sympathy betwixt the gallants and the ladies, that every day they were
apparelled in the same livery. And that they might not miss, there were
certain gentlemen appointed to tell the youths every morning what
vestments the ladies would on that day wear: for all was done according to

the pleasure of the ladies. In these so handsome clothes, and habiliments so
rich, think not that either one or other of either sex did waste any time at all;
for the masters of the wardrobes had all their raiments and apparel so ready
for every morning, and the chamber-ladies so well skilled, that in a trice
they would be dressed and completely in their clothes from head to foot.
And to have those accoutrements with the more conveniency, there was
about the wood of Theleme a row of houses of the extent of half a league,
very neat and cleanly, wherein dwelt the goldsmiths, lapidaries, jewellers,
embroiderers, tailors, gold-drawers, velvet-weavers, tapestry-makers and
upholsterers, who wrought there every one in his own trade, and all for the
aforesaid jolly friars and nuns of the new stamp. They were furnished with
matter and stuff from the hands of the Lord Nausiclete, who every year
brought them seven ships from the Perlas and Cannibal Islands, laden with
ingots of gold, with raw silk, with pearls and precious stones. And if any
margarites, called unions, began to grow old and lose somewhat of their
natural whiteness and lustre, those with their art they did renew by
tendering them to eat to some pretty cocks, as they use to give casting unto
hawks.

Chapter 1.LVII.—How the Thelemites were
governed, and of their manner of living.
All their life was spent not in laws, statutes, or rules, but according to
their own free will and pleasure. They rose out of their beds when they
thought good; they did eat, drink, labour, sleep, when they had a mind to it
and were disposed for it. None did awake them, none did offer to constrain
them to eat, drink, nor to do any other thing; for so had Gargantua
established it. In all their rule and strictest tie of their order there was but
this one clause to be observed,
Do What Thou Wilt;
because men that are free, well-born, well-bred, and conversant in honest
companies, have naturally an instinct and spur that prompteth them unto
virtuous actions, and withdraws them from vice, which is called honour.
Those same men, when by base subjection and constraint they are brought
under and kept down, turn aside from that noble disposition by which they
formerly were inclined to virtue, to shake off and break that bond of
servitude wherein they are so tyrannously enslaved; for it is agreeable with
the nature of man to long after things forbidden and to desire what is denied
us.
By this liberty they entered into a very laudable emulation to do all of
them what they saw did please one. If any of the gallants or ladies should
say, Let us drink, they would all drink. If any one of them said, Let us play,
they all played. If one said, Let us go a-walking into the fields they went all.
If it were to go a-hawking or a-hunting, the ladies mounted upon dainty
well-paced nags, seated in a stately palfrey saddle, carried on their lovely
fists, miniardly begloved every one of them, either a sparrowhawk or a
laneret or a marlin, and the young gallants carried the other kinds of hawks.
So nobly were they taught, that there was neither he nor she amongst them
but could read, write, sing, play upon several musical instruments, speak
five or six several languages, and compose in them all very quaintly, both in
verse and prose. Never were seen so valiant knights, so noble and worthy,
so dexterous and skilful both on foot and a-horse-back, more brisk and

lively, more nimble and quick, or better handling all manner of weapons
than were there. Never were seen ladies so proper and handsome, so
miniard and dainty, less froward, or more ready with their hand and with
their needle in every honest and free action belonging to that sex, than were
there. For this reason, when the time came that any man of the said abbey,
either at the request of his parents, or for some other cause, had a mind to
go out of it, he carried along with him one of the ladies, namely, her whom
he had before that chosen for his mistress, and (they) were married together.
And if they had formerly in Theleme lived in good devotion and amity, they
did continue therein and increase it to a greater height in their state of
matrimony; and did entertain that mutual love till the very last day of their
life, in no less vigour and fervency than at the very day of their wedding.
Here must not I forget to set down unto you a riddle which was found under
the ground as they were laying the foundation of the abbey, engraven in a
copper plate, and it was thus as followeth.

Chapter 1.LVIII.—A prophetical Riddle.
Poor mortals, who wait for a happy day,
Cheer up your hearts, and hear what I shall say:
If it be lawful firmly to believe
That the celestial bodies can us give
Wisdom to judge of things that are not yet;
Or if from heaven such wisdom we may get
As may with confidence make us discourse
Of years to come, their destiny and course;
I to my hearers give to understand
That this next winter, though it be at hand,
Yea and before, there shall appear a race
Of men who, loth to sit still in one place,
Shall boldly go before all people’s eyes,
Suborning men of divers qualities
To draw them unto covenants and sides,
In such a manner that, whate’er betides,
They’ll move you, if you give them ear, no doubt,
With both your friends and kindred to fall out.
They’ll make a vassal to gain-stand his lord,
And children their own parents; in a word,
All reverence shall then be banished,
No true respect to other shall be had.
They’ll say that every man should have his turn,
Both in his going forth and his return;
And hereupon there shall arise such woes,
Such jarrings, and confused to’s and fro’s,
That never were in history such coils
Set down as yet, such tumults and garboils.
Then shall you many gallant men see by
Valour stirr’d up, and youthful fervency,
Who, trusting too much in their hopeful time,
Live but a while, and perish in their prime.
Neither shall any, who this course shall run,
Leave off the race which he hath once begun,
Till they the heavens with noise by their contention
Have fill’d, and with their steps the earth’s dimension.
Then those shall have no less authority,
That have no faith, than those that will not lie;
For all shall be governed by a rude,
Base, ignorant, and foolish multitude;
The veriest lout of all shall be their judge,
O horrible and dangerous deluge!
Deluge I call it, and that for good reason,
For this shall be omitted in no season;
Nor shall the earth of this foul stir be free,
Till suddenly you in great store shall see
The waters issue out, with whose streams the
Most moderate of all shall moistened be,
And justly too; because they did not spare
The flocks of beasts that innocentest are,
But did their sinews and their bowels take,
Not to the gods a sacrifice to make,

But usually to serve themselves for sport:
And now consider, I do you exhort,
In such commotions so continual,
What rest can take the globe terrestrial?
Most happy then are they, that can it hold,
And use it carefully as precious gold,
By keeping it in gaol, whence it shall have
No help but him who being to it gave.
And to increase his mournful accident,
The sun, before it set in th’ occident,
Shall cease to dart upon it any light,
More than in an eclipse, or in the night,—
So that at once its favour shall be gone,
And liberty with it be left alone.
And yet, before it come to ruin thus,
Its quaking shall be as impetuous
As Aetna’s was when Titan’s sons lay under,
And yield, when lost, a fearful sound like thunder.
Inarime did not more quickly move,
When Typheus did the vast huge hills remove,
And for despite into the sea them threw.
Thus shall it then be lost by ways not few,
And changed suddenly, when those that have it
To other men that after come shall leave it.
Then shall it be high time to cease from this
So long, so great, so tedious exercise;
For the great waters told you now by me,
Will make each think where his retreat shall be;
And yet, before that they be clean disperst,
You may behold in th’ air, where nought was erst,
The burning heat of a great flame to rise,
Lick up the water, and the enterprise.
It resteth after those things to declare,
That those shall sit content who chosen are,
With all good things, and with celestial man (ne,)
And richly recompensed every man:
The others at the last all stripp’d shall be,
That after this great work all men may see,
How each shall have his due. This is their lot;
O he is worthy praise that shrinketh not!

No sooner was this enigmatical monument read over, but Gargantua,
fetching a very deep sigh, said unto those that stood by, It is not now only, I
perceive, that people called to the faith of the gospel, and convinced with
the certainty of evangelical truths, are persecuted. But happy is that man
that shall not be scandalized, but shall always continue to the end in aiming
at that mark which God by his dear Son hath set before us, without being
distracted or diverted by his carnal affections and depraved nature.
The monk then said, What do you think in your conscience is meant and
signified by this riddle? What? said Gargantua,—the progress and carrying
on of the divine truth. By St. Goderan, said the monk, that is not my
exposition. It is the style of the prophet Merlin. Make upon it as many grave
allegories and glosses as you will, and dote upon it you and the rest of the

world as long as you please; for my part, I can conceive no other meaning
in it but a description of a set at tennis in dark and obscure terms. The
suborners of men are the makers of matches, which are commonly friends.
After the two chases are made, he that was in the upper end of the tennis-
court goeth out, and the other cometh in. They believe the first that saith the
ball was over or under the line. The waters are the heats that the players
take till they sweat again. The cords of the rackets are made of the guts of
sheep or goats. The globe terrestrial is the tennis-ball. After playing, when
the game is done, they refresh themselves before a clear fire, and change
their shirts; and very willingly they make all good cheer, but most merrily
those that have gained. And so, farewell!
End book 1

THE SECOND BOOK.

For the Reader.

The Reader here may be pleased to take notice that the copy of verses by
the title of ‘Rablophila’, premised to the first book of this translation, being
but a kind of mock poem, in imitation of somewhat lately published (as to
any indifferent observer will easily appear, by the false quantities in the
Latin, the abusive strain of the English, and extravagant subscription to
both), and as such, by a friend of the translator’s, at the desire of some frolic
gentlemen of his acquaintance, more for a trial of skill than prejudicacy to
any, composed in his jollity to please their fancies, was only ordained to be
prefixed to a dozen of books, and no more, thereby to save the labour of

transcribing so many as were requisite for satisfying the curiosity of a
company of just that number; and that, therefore, the charging of the whole
impression with it is merely to be imputed to the negligence of the
pressmen, who, receiving it about the latter end of the night, were so eager
before the next morning to afford complete books, that, as they began, they
went on, without animadverting what was recommended to their discretion.
This is hoped will suffice to assure the ingenuous Reader that in no treatise
of the translator’s, whether original or translatitious, shall willingly be
offered the meanest rub to the reputation of any worthy gentleman, and that,
however providence dispose of him, no misfortune shall be able to induce
his mind to any complacency in the disparagement of another.
Again.
The Pentateuch of Rabelais mentioned in the title-page of the first book
of this translation being written originally in the French tongue (as it
comprehendeth some of its brusquest dialects), with so much ingeniosity
and wit, that more impressions have been sold thereof in that language than
of any other book that hath been set forth at any time within these fifteen
hundred years; so difficult nevertheless to be turned into any other speech
that many prime spirits in most of the nations of Europe, since the year
1573, which was fourscore years ago, after having attempted it, were
constrained with no small regret to give it over as a thing impossible to be
done, is now in its translation thus far advanced, and the remainder
faithfully undertaken with the same hand to be rendered into English by a
person of quality, who (though his lands be sequestered, his house
garrisoned, his other goods sold, and himself detained a prisoner of war at
London, for his having been at Worcester fight) hath, at the most earnest
entreaty of some of his especial friends well acquainted with his inclination
to the performance of conducible singularities, promised, besides his
version of these two already published, very speedily to offer up unto this
Isle of Britain the virginity of the translation of the other three most
admirable books of the aforesaid author; provided that by the plurality of
judicious and understanding men it be not declared he hath already
proceeded too far, or that the continuation of the rigour whereby he is
dispossessed of all his both real and personal estate, by pressing too hard
upon him, be not an impediment thereto, and to other more eminent
undertakings of his, as hath been oftentimes very fully mentioned by the
said translator in several original treatises of his own penning, lately by him

so numerously dispersed that there is scarce any, who being skilful in the
English idiom, or curious of any new ingenious invention, hath not either
read them or heard of them.
Mr. Hugh Salel to Rabelais.

If profit mixed with pleasure may suffice
T’ extol an author’s worth above the skies,
Thou certainly for both must praised be:
I know it; for thy judgment hath in the
Contexture of this book set down such high
Contentments, mingled with utility,
That (as I think) I see Democritus
Laughing at men as things ridiculous.
Insist in thy design; for, though we prove
Ungrate on earth, thy merit is above.

The Author’s Prologue.
Most illustrious and thrice valorous champions, gentlemen and others,
who willingly apply your minds to the entertainment of pretty conceits and
honest harmless knacks of wit; you have not long ago seen, read, and
understood the great and inestimable Chronicle of the huge and mighty
giant Gargantua, and, like upright faithfullists, have firmly believed all to be
true that is contained in them, and have very often passed your time with
them amongst honourable ladies and gentlewomen, telling them fair long
stories, when you were out of all other talk, for which you are worthy of
great praise and sempiternal memory. And I do heartily wish that every man
would lay aside his own business, meddle no more with his profession nor
trade, and throw all affairs concerning himself behind his back, to attend
this wholly, without distracting or troubling his mind with anything else,
until he have learned them without book; that if by chance the art of
printing should cease, or in case that in time to come all books should
perish, every man might truly teach them unto his children, and deliver
them over to his successors and survivors from hand to hand as a religious
cabal; for there is in it more profit than a rabble of great pocky loggerheads
are able to discern, who surely understand far less in these little merriments
than the fool Raclet did in the Institutions of Justinian.
I have known great and mighty lords, and of those not a few, who, going
a-deer-hunting, or a-hawking after wild ducks, when the chase had not
encountered with the blinks that were cast in her way to retard her course,
or that the hawk did but plain and smoothly fly without moving her wings,
perceiving the prey by force of flight to have gained bounds of her, have
been much chafed and vexed, as you understand well enough; but the
comfort unto which they had refuge, and that they might not take cold, was
to relate the inestimable deeds of the said Gargantua. There are others in the
world—these are no flimflam stories, nor tales of a tub—who, being much
troubled with the toothache, after they had spent their goods upon
physicians without receiving at all any ease of their pain, have found no
more ready remedy than to put the said Chronicles betwixt two pieces of
linen cloth made somewhat hot, and so apply them to the place that

smarteth, sinapizing them with a little powder of projection, otherwise
called doribus.
But what shall I say of those poor men that are plagued with the pox and
the gout? O how often have we seen them, even immediately after they
were anointed and thoroughly greased, till their faces did glister like the
keyhole of a powdering tub, their teeth dance like the jacks of a pair of little
organs or virginals when they are played upon, and that they foamed from
their very throats like a boar which the mongrel mastiff-hounds have driven
in and overthrown amongst the toils,—what did they then? All their
consolation was to have some page of the said jolly book read unto them.
And we have seen those who have given themselves to a hundred
puncheons of old devils, in case that they did not feel a manifest ease and
assuagement of pain at the hearing of the said book read, even when they
were kept in a purgatory of torment; no more nor less than women in travail
use to find their sorrow abated when the life of St. Margaret is read unto
them. Is this nothing? Find me a book in any language, in any faculty or
science whatsoever, that hath such virtues, properties, and prerogatives, and
I will be content to pay you a quart of tripes. No, my masters, no; it is
peerless, incomparable, and not to be matched; and this am I resolved for
ever to maintain even unto the fire exclusive. And those that will
pertinaciously hold the contrary opinion, let them be accounted abusers,
predestinators, impostors, and seducers of the people. It is very true that
there are found in some gallant and stately books, worthy of high
estimation, certain occult and hid properties; in the number of which are
reckoned Whippot, Orlando Furioso, Robert the Devil, Fierabras, William
without Fear, Huon of Bordeaux, Monteville, and Matabrune: but they are
not comparable to that which we speak of, and the world hath well known
by infallible experience the great emolument and utility which it hath
received by this Gargantuine Chronicle, for the printers have sold more of
them in two months’ time than there will be bought of Bibles in nine years.
I therefore, your humble slave, being very willing to increase your solace
and recreation yet a little more, do offer you for a present another book of
the same stamp, only that it is a little more reasonable and worthy of credit
than the other was. For think not, unless you wilfully will err against your
knowledge, that I speak of it as the Jews do of the Law. I was not born
under such a planet, neither did it ever befall me to lie, or affirm a thing for
true that was not. I speak of it like a lusty frolic onocrotary (Onocratal is a

bird not much unlike a swan, which sings like an ass’s braying.), I should
say crotenotary (Crotenotaire or notaire crotte, croquenotaire or notaire
croque are but allusions in derision of protonotaire, which signifieth a
pregnotary.) of the martyrized lovers, and croquenotary of love. Quod
vidimus, testamur. It is of the horrible and dreadful feats and prowesses of
Pantagruel, whose menial servant I have been ever since I was a page, till
this hour that by his leave I am permitted to visit my cow-country, and to
know if any of my kindred there be alive.
And therefore, to make an end of this Prologue, even as I give myself to a
hundred panniersful of fair devils, body and soul, tripes and guts, in case
that I lie so much as one single word in this whole history; after the like
manner, St. Anthony’s fire burn you, Mahoom’s disease whirl you, the
squinance with a stitch in your side and the wolf in your stomach truss you,
the bloody flux seize upon you, the cursed sharp inflammations of wild-fire,
as slender and thin as cow’s hair strengthened with quicksilver, enter into
your fundament, and, like those of Sodom and Gomorrah, may you fall into
sulphur, fire, and bottomless pits, in case you do not firmly believe all that I
shall relate unto you in this present Chronicle.

THE SECOND BOOK.

Chapter 2.I.—Of the original and antiquity of the
great Pantagruel.
It will not be an idle nor unprofitable thing, seeing we are at leisure, to
put you in mind of the fountain and original source whence is derived unto
us the good Pantagruel. For I see that all good historiographers have thus
handled their chronicles, not only the Arabians, Barbarians, and Latins, but
also the gentle Greeks, who were eternal drinkers. You must therefore
remark that at the beginning of the world—I speak of a long time; it is
above forty quarantains, or forty times forty nights, according to the
supputation of the ancient Druids—a little after that Abel was killed by his
brother Cain, the earth, imbrued with the blood of the just, was one year so
exceeding fertile in all those fruits which it usually produceth to us, and
especially in medlars, that ever since throughout all ages it hath been called
the year of the great medlars; for three of them did fill a bushel. In it the
kalends were found by the Grecian almanacks. There was that year nothing
of the month of March in the time of Lent, and the middle of August was in
May. In the month of October, as I take it, or at least September, that I may
not err, for I will carefully take heed of that, was the week so famous in the
annals, which they call the week of the three Thursdays; for it had three of
them by means of their irregular leap-years, called Bissextiles, occasioned
by the sun’s having tripped and stumbled a little towards the left hand, like
a debtor afraid of sergeants, coming right upon him to arrest him: and the
moon varied from her course above five fathom, and there was manifestly
seen the motion of trepidation in the firmament of the fixed stars, called
Aplanes, so that the middle Pleiade, leaving her fellows, declined towards
the equinoctial, and the star named Spica left the constellation of the Virgin
to withdraw herself towards the Balance, known by the name of Libra,
which are cases very terrible, and matters so hard and difficult that
astrologians cannot set their teeth in them; and indeed their teeth had been
pretty long if they could have reached thither.
However, account you it for a truth that everybody then did most heartily
eat of these medlars, for they were fair to the eye and in taste delicious. But
even as Noah, that holy man, to whom we are so much beholding, bound,

and obliged, for that he planted to us the vine, from whence we have that
nectarian, delicious, precious, heavenly, joyful, and deific liquor which they
call the piot or tiplage, was deceived in the drinking of it, for he was
ignorant of the great virtue and power thereof; so likewise the men and
women of that time did delight much in the eating of that fair great fruit, but
divers and very different accidents did ensue thereupon; for there fell upon
them all in their bodies a most terrible swelling, but not upon all in the same
place, for some were swollen in the belly, and their belly strouted out big
like a great tun, of whom it is written, Ventrem omnipotentem, who were all
very honest men, and merry blades. And of this race came St. Fatgulch and
Shrove Tuesday (Pansart, Mardigras.). Others did swell at the shoulders,
who in that place were so crump and knobby that they were therefore called
Montifers, which is as much to say as Hill-carriers, of whom you see some
yet in the world, of divers sexes and degrees. Of this race came Aesop,
some of whose excellent words and deeds you have in writing. Some other
puffs did swell in length by the member which they call the labourer of
nature, in such sort that it grew marvellous long, fat, great, lusty, stirring,
and crest-risen, in the antique fashion, so that they made use of it as of a
girdle, winding it five or six times about their waist: but if it happened the
foresaid member to be in good case, spooming with a full sail bunt fair
before the wind, then to have seen those strouting champions, you would
have taken them for men that had their lances settled on their rest to run at
the ring or tilting whintam (quintain). Of these, believe me, the race is
utterly lost and quite extinct, as the women say; for they do lament
continually that there are none extant now of those great, &c. You know the
rest of the song. Others did grow in matter of ballocks so enormously that
three of them would well fill a sack able to contain five quarters of wheat.
From them are descended the ballocks of Lorraine, which never dwell in
codpieces, but fall down to the bottom of the breeches. Others grew in the
legs, and to see them you would have said they had been cranes, or the
reddish-long-billed-storklike-scrank-legged sea-fowls called flamans, or
else men walking upon stilts or scatches. The little grammar-school boys,
known by the name of Grimos, called those leg-grown slangams Jambus, in
allusion to the French word jambe, which signifieth a leg. In others, their
nose did grow so, that it seemed to be the beak of a limbeck, in every part
thereof most variously diapered with the twinkling sparkles of crimson
blisters budding forth, and purpled with pimples all enamelled with thickset

wheals of a sanguine colour, bordered with gules; and such have you seen
the Canon or Prebend Panzoult, and Woodenfoot, the physician of Angiers.
Of which race there were few that looked the ptisane, but all of them were
perfect lovers of the pure Septembral juice. Naso and Ovid had their
extraction from thence, and all those of whom it is written, Ne reminiscaris.
Others grew in ears, which they had so big that out of one would have been
stuff enough got to make a doublet, a pair of breeches, and a jacket, whilst
with the other they might have covered themselves as with a Spanish cloak:
and they say that in Bourbonnois this race remaineth yet. Others grew in
length of body, and of those came the Giants, and of them Pantagruel.

And the first was Chalbroth,
Who begat Sarabroth,
Who begat Faribroth,
Who begat Hurtali, that was a brave eater of pottage, and reigned
in the time of the flood;
Who begat Nembroth,
Who begat Atlas, that with his shoulders kept the sky from falling;
Who begat Goliah,
Who begat Erix, that invented the hocus pocus plays of legerdemain;
Who begat Titius,
Who begat Eryon,
Who begat Polyphemus,
Who begat Cacus,
Who begat Etion, the first man that ever had the pox, for not drinking
fresh in summer, as Bartachin witnesseth;
Who begat Enceladus,
Who begat Ceus,
Who begat Tiphaeus,
Who begat Alaeus,
Who begat Othus,
Who begat Aegeon,
Who begat Briareus, that had a hundred hands;
Who begat Porphyrio,
Who begat Adamastor,
Who begat Anteus,
Who begat Agatho,
Who begat Porus, against whom fought Alexander the Great;
Who begat Aranthas,
Who begat Gabbara, that was the first inventor of the drinking of
healths;
Who begat Goliah of Secondille,
Who begat Offot, that was terribly well nosed for drinking at the
barrel-head;
Who begat Artachaeus,
Who begat Oromedon,
Who begat Gemmagog, the first inventor of Poulan shoes, which are
open on the foot and tied over the instep with a lachet;
Who begat Sisyphus,
Who begat the Titans, of whom Hercules was born;
Who begat Enay, the most skilful man that ever was in matter of
taking the little worms (called cirons) out of the hands;
Who begat Fierabras, that was vanquished by Oliver, peer of France
and Roland’s comrade;

Who begat Morgan, the first in the world that played at dice with
spectacles;
Who begat Fracassus, of whom Merlin Coccaius hath written, and of
him was born Ferragus,
Who begat Hapmouche, the first that ever invented the drying of
neat’s tongues in the chimney; for, before that, people salted
them as they do now gammons of bacon;
Who begat Bolivorax,
Who begat Longis,
Who begat Gayoffo, whose ballocks were of poplar, and his pr... of
the service or sorb-apple-tree;
Who begat Maschefain,
Who begat Bruslefer,
Who begat Angoulevent,
Who begat Galehaut, the inventor of flagons;
Who begat Mirelangaut,
Who begat Gallaffre,
Who begat Falourdin,
Who begat Roboast,
Who begat Sortibrant of Conimbres,
Who begat Brushant of Mommiere,
Who begat Bruyer that was overcome by Ogier the Dane, peer of
France;
Who begat Mabrun,
Who begat Foutasnon,
Who begat Haquelebac,
Who begat Vitdegrain,
Who begat Grangousier,
Who begat Gargantua,
Who begat the noble Pantagruel, my master.

I know that, reading this passage, you will make a doubt within
yourselves, and that grounded upon very good reason, which is this—how it
is possible that this relation can be true, seeing at the time of the flood all
the world was destroyed, except Noah and seven persons more with him in
the ark, into whose number Hurtali is not admitted. Doubtless the demand is
well made and very apparent, but the answer shall satisfy you, or my wit is
not rightly caulked. And because I was not at that time to tell you anything
of my own fancy, I will bring unto you the authority of the Massorets, good
honest fellows, true ballockeering blades and exact Hebraical bagpipers,
who affirm that verily the said Hurtali was not within the ark of Noah,
neither could he get in, for he was too big, but he sat astride upon it, with
one leg on the one side and another on the other, as little children use to do
upon their wooden horses; or as the great bull of Berne, which was killed at
Marinian, did ride for his hackney the great murdering piece called the
canon-pevier, a pretty beast of a fair and pleasant amble without all
question.
In that posture, he, after God, saved the said ark from danger, for with his
legs he gave it the brangle that was needful, and with his foot turned it

whither he pleased, as a ship answereth her rudder. Those that were within
sent him up victuals in abundance by a chimney, as people very thankfully
acknowledging the good that he did them. And sometimes they did talk
together as Icaromenippus did to Jupiter, according to the report of Lucian.
Have you understood all this well? Drink then one good draught without
water, for if you believe it not,—no truly do I not, quoth she.

Chapter 2.II.—Of the nativity of the most dread
and redoubted Pantagruel.
Gargantua at the age of four hundred fourscore forty and four years begat
his son Pantagruel, upon his wife named Badebec, daughter to the king of
the Amaurots in Utopia, who died in childbirth; for he was so wonderfully
great and lumpish that he could not possibly come forth into the light of the
world without thus suffocating his mother. But that we may fully
understand the cause and reason of the name of Pantagruel which at his
baptism was given him, you are to remark that in that year there was so
great drought over all the country of Africa that there passed thirty and six
months, three weeks, four days, thirteen hours and a little more without
rain, but with a heat so vehement that the whole earth was parched and
withered by it. Neither was it more scorched and dried up with heat in the
days of Elijah than it was at that time; for there was not a tree to be seen
that had either leaf or bloom upon it. The grass was without verdure or
greenness, the rivers were drained, the fountains dried up, the poor fishes,
abandoned and forsaken by their proper element, wandering and crying
upon the ground most horribly. The birds did fall down from the air for
want of moisture and dew wherewith to refresh them. The wolves, foxes,
harts, wild boars, fallow deer, hares, coneys, weasels, brocks, badgers, and
other such beasts, were found dead in the fields with their mouths open. In
respect of men, there was the pity, you should have seen them lay out their
tongues like hares that have been run six hours. Many did throw themselves
into the wells. Others entered within a cow’s belly to be in the shade; those
Homer calls Alibants. All the country was idle, and could do no virtue. It
was a most lamentable case to have seen the labour of mortals in defending
themselves from the vehemency of this horrific drought; for they had work
enough to do to save the holy water in the churches from being wasted; but
there was such order taken by the counsel of my lords the cardinals and of
our holy Father, that none did dare to take above one lick. Yet when anyone
came into the church, you should have seen above twenty poor thirsty
fellows hang upon him that was the distributor of the water, and that with a
wide open throat, gaping for some little drop, like the rich glutton in Luke,

that might fall by, lest anything should be lost. O how happy was he in that
year who had a cool cellar under ground, well plenished with fresh wine!
The philosopher reports, in moving the question, Wherefore it is that the
sea-water is salt, that at the time when Phoebus gave the government of his
resplendent chariot to his son Phaeton, the said Phaeton, unskilful in the art,
and not knowing how to keep the ecliptic line betwixt the two tropics of the
latitude of the sun’s course, strayed out of his way, and came so near the
earth that he dried up all the countries that were under it, burning a great
part of the heavens which the philosophers call Via lactea, and the
huffsnuffs St. James’s way; although the most coped, lofty, and high-crested
poets affirm that to be the place where Juno’s milk fell when she gave suck
to Hercules. The earth at that time was so excessively heated that it fell into
an enormous sweat, yea, such a one as made it sweat out the sea, which is
therefore salt, because all sweat is salt; and this you cannot but confess to
be true if you will taste of your own, or of those that have the pox, when
they are put into sweating, it is all one to me.
Just such another case fell out this same year: for on a certain Friday,
when the whole people were bent upon their devotions, and had made
goodly processions, with store of litanies, and fair preachings, and
beseechings of God Almighty to look down with his eye of mercy upon
their miserable and disconsolate condition, there was even then visibly seen
issue out of the ground great drops of water, such as fall from a puff-bagged
man in a top sweat, and the poor hoidens began to rejoice as if it had been a
thing very profitable unto them; for some said that there was not one drop
of moisture in the air whence they might have any rain, and that the earth
did supply the default of that. Other learned men said that it was a shower
of the antipodes, as Seneca saith in his fourth book Quaestionum
naturalium, speaking of the source and spring of Nilus. But they were
deceived, for, the procession being ended, when everyone went about to
gather of this dew, and to drink of it with full bowls, they found that it was
nothing but pickle and the very brine of salt, more brackish in taste than the
saltest water of the sea. And because in that very day Pantagruel was born,
his father gave him that name; for Panta in Greek is as much to say as all,
and Gruel in the Hagarene language doth signify thirsty, inferring hereby
that at his birth the whole world was a-dry and thirsty, as likewise
foreseeing that he would be some day supreme lord and sovereign of the
thirsty Ethrappels, which was shown to him at that very same hour by a

more evident sign. For when his mother Badebec was in the bringing of him
forth, and that the midwives did wait to receive him, there came first out of
her belly three score and eight tregeneers, that is, salt-sellers, every one of
them leading in a halter a mule heavy laden with salt; after whom issued
forth nine dromedaries, with great loads of gammons of bacon and dried
neat’s tongues on their backs. Then followed seven camels loaded with
links and chitterlings, hogs’ puddings, and sausages. After them came out
five great wains, full of leeks, garlic, onions, and chibots, drawn with five-
and-thirty strong cart-horses, which was six for every one, besides the
thiller. At the sight hereof the said midwives were much amazed, yet some
of them said, Lo, here is good provision, and indeed we need it; for we
drink but lazily, as if our tongues walked on crutches, and not lustily like
Lansman Dutches. Truly this is a good sign; there is nothing here but what
is fit for us; these are the spurs of wine, that set it a-going. As they were
tattling thus together after their own manner of chat, behold! out comes
Pantagruel all hairy like a bear, whereupon one of them, inspired with a
prophetical spirit, said, This will be a terrible fellow; he is born with all his
hair; he is undoubtedly to do wonderful things, and if he live he shall have
age.

Chapter 2.III.—Of the grief wherewith Gargantua
was moved at the decease of his wife Badebec.
When Pantagruel was born, there was none more astonished and
perplexed than was his father Gargantua; for of the one side seeing his wife
Badebec dead, and on the other side his son Pantagruel born, so fair and so
great, he knew not what to say nor what to do. And the doubt that troubled
his brain was to know whether he should cry for the death of his wife or
laugh for the joy of his son. He was hinc inde choked with sophistical
arguments, for he framed them very well in modo et figura, but he could not
resolve them, remaining pestered and entangled by this means, like a mouse
caught in a trap or kite snared in a gin. Shall I weep? said he. Yes, for why?
My so good wife is dead, who was the most this, the most that, that ever
was in the world. Never shall I see her, never shall I recover such another; it
is unto me an inestimable loss! O my good God, what had I done that thou
shouldest thus punish me? Why didst thou not take me away before her,
seeing for me to live without her is but to languish? Ah, Badebec, Badebec,
my minion, my dear heart, my sugar, my sweeting, my honey, my little c—
(yet it had in circumference full six acres, three rods, five poles, four yards,
two foot, one inch and a half of good woodland measure), my tender peggy,
my codpiece darling, my bob and hit, my slipshoe-lovey, never shall I see
thee! Ah, poor Pantagruel, thou hast lost thy good mother, thy sweet nurse,
thy well-beloved lady! O false death, how injurious and despiteful hast thou
been to me! How malicious and outrageous have I found thee in taking her
from me, my well-beloved wife, to whom immortality did of right belong!
With these words he did cry like a cow, but on a sudden fell a-laughing
like a calf, when Pantagruel came into his mind. Ha, my little son, said he,
my childilolly, fedlifondy, dandlichucky, my ballocky, my pretty rogue! O
how jolly thou art, and how much am I bound to my gracious God, that hath
been pleased to bestow on me a son so fair, so spriteful, so lively, so
smiling, so pleasant, and so gentle! Ho, ho, ho, ho, how glad I am! Let us
drink, ho, and put away melancholy! Bring of the best, rinse the glasses, lay
the cloth, drive out these dogs, blow this fire, light candles, shut that door
there, cut this bread in sippets for brewis, send away these poor folks in

giving them what they ask, hold my gown. I will strip myself into my
doublet (en cuerpo), to make the gossips merry, and keep them company.
As he spake this, he heard the litanies and the mementos of the priests
that carried his wife to be buried, upon which he left the good purpose he
was in, and was suddenly ravished another way, saying, Lord God! must I
again contrist myself? This grieves me. I am no longer young, I grow old,
the weather is dangerous; I may perhaps take an ague, then shall I be foiled,
if not quite undone. By the faith of a gentleman, it were better to cry less,
and drink more. My wife is dead, well, by G—! (da jurandi) I shall not raise
her again by my crying: she is well, she is in paradise at least, if she be no
higher: she prayeth to God for us, she is happy, she is above the sense of
our miseries, nor can our calamities reach her. What though she be dead,
must not we also die? The same debt which she hath paid hangs over our
heads; nature will require it of us, and we must all of us some day taste of
the same sauce. Let her pass then, and the Lord preserve the survivors; for I
must now cast about how to get another wife. But I will tell you what you
shall do, said he to the midwives, in France called wise women (where be
they, good folks? I cannot see them): Go you to my wife’s interment, and I
will the while rock my son; for I find myself somewhat altered and
distempered, and should otherwise be in danger of falling sick; but drink
one good draught first, you will be the better for it. And believe me, upon
mine honour, they at his request went to her burial and funeral obsequies. In
the meanwhile, poor Gargantua staying at home, and willing to have
somewhat in remembrance of her to be engraven upon her tomb, made this
epitaph in the manner as followeth.

Dead is the noble Badebec,
Who had a face like a rebeck;
A Spanish body, and a belly
Of Switzerland; she died, I tell ye,
In childbirth. Pray to God, that her
He pardon wherein she did err.
Here lies her body, which did live
Free from all vice, as I believe,
And did decease at my bedside,
The year and day in which she died.

Chapter 2.IV.—Of the infancy of Pantagruel.
I find by the ancient historiographers and poets that divers have been
born in this world after very strange manners, which would be too long to
repeat; read therefore the seventh chapter of Pliny, if you have so much
leisure. Yet have you never heard of any so wonderful as that of Pantagruel;
for it is a very difficult matter to believe, how in the little time he was in his
mother’s belly he grew both in body and strength. That which Hercules did
was nothing, when in his cradle he slew two serpents, for those serpents
were but little and weak, but Pantagruel, being yet in the cradle, did far
more admirable things, and more to be amazed at. I pass by here the
relation of how at every one of his meals he supped up the milk of four
thousand and six hundred cows, and how, to make him a skillet to boil his
milk in, there were set a-work all the braziers of Somure in Anjou, of
Villedieu in Normandy, and of Bramont in Lorraine. And they served in this
whitepot-meat to him in a huge great bell, which is yet to be seen in the city
of Bourges in Berry, near the palace, but his teeth were already so well
grown, and so strengthened with vigour, that of the said bell he bit off a
great morsel, as very plainly doth appear till this hour.
One day in the morning, when they would have made him suck one of his
cows —for he never had any other nurse, as the history tells us—he got one
of his arms loose from the swaddling bands wherewith he was kept fast in
the cradle, laid hold on the said cow under the left foreham, and grasping
her to him ate up her udder and half of her paunch, with the liver and the
kidneys, and had devoured all up if she had not cried out most horribly, as if
the wolves had held her by the legs, at which noise company came in and
took away the said cow from Pantagruel. Yet could they not so well do it
but that the quarter whereby he caught her was left in his hand, of which
quarter he gulped up the flesh in a trice, even with as much ease as you
would eat a sausage, and that so greedily with desire of more, that, when
they would have taken away the bone from him, he swallowed it down
whole, as a cormorant would do a little fish; and afterwards began
fumblingly to say, Good, good, good—for he could not yet speak plain—
giving them to understand thereby that he had found it very good, and that

he did lack but so much more. Which when they saw that attended him,
they bound him with great cable-ropes, like those that are made at Tain for
the carriage of salt to Lyons, or such as those are whereby the great French
ship rides at anchor in the road of Newhaven in Normandy. But, on a
certain time, a great bear, which his father had bred, got loose, came
towards him, began to lick his face, for his nurses had not thoroughly wiped
his chaps, at which unexpected approach being on a sudden offended, he as
lightly rid himself of those great cables as Samson did of the hawser ropes
wherewith the Philistines had tied him, and, by your leave, takes me up my
lord the bear, and tears him to you in pieces like a pullet, which served him
for a gorgeful or good warm bit for that meal.
Whereupon Gargantua, fearing lest the child should hurt himself, caused
four great chains of iron to be made to bind him, and so many strong
wooden arches unto his cradle, most firmly stocked and morticed in huge
frames. Of those chains you have one at Rochelle, which they draw up at
night betwixt the two great towers of the haven. Another is at Lyons,—a
third at Angiers,—and the fourth was carried away by the devils to bind
Lucifer, who broke his chains in those days by reason of a colic that did
extraordinarily torment him, taken with eating a sergeant’s soul fried for his
breakfast. And therefore you may believe that which Nicholas de Lyra saith
upon that place of the Psalter where it is written, Et Og Regem Basan, that
the said Og, being yet little, was so strong and robustious, that they were
fain to bind him with chains of iron in his cradle. Thus continued Pantagruel
for a while very calm and quiet, for he was not able so easily to break those
chains, especially having no room in the cradle to give a swing with his
arms. But see what happened once upon a great holiday that his father
Gargantua made a sumptuous banquet to all the princes of his court. I am
apt to believe that the menial officers of the house were so embusied in
waiting each on his proper service at the feast, that nobody took care of
poor Pantagruel, who was left a reculorum, behindhand, all alone, and as
forsaken. What did he? Hark what he did, good people. He strove and
essayed to break the chains of the cradle with his arms, but could not, for
they were too strong for him. Then did he keep with his feet such a
stamping stir, and so long, that at last he beat out the lower end of his
cradle, which notwithstanding was made of a great post five foot in square;
and as soon as he had gotten out his feet, he slid down as well as he could
till he had got his soles to the ground, and then with a mighty force he rose

up, carrying his cradle upon his back, bound to him like a tortoise that
crawls up against a wall; and to have seen him, you would have thought it
had been a great carrick of five hundred tons upon one end. In this manner
he entered into the great hall where they were banqueting, and that very
boldly, which did much affright the company; yet, because his arms were
tied in, he could not reach anything to eat, but with great pain stooped now
and then a little to take with the whole flat of his tongue some lick, good
bit, or morsel. Which when his father saw, he knew well enough that they
had left him without giving him anything to eat, and therefore commanded
that he should be loosed from the said chains, by the counsel of the princes
and lords there present. Besides that also the physicians of Gargantua said
that, if they did thus keep him in the cradle, he would be all his lifetime
subject to the stone. When he was unchained, they made him to sit down,
where, after he had fed very well, he took his cradle and broke it into more
than five hundred thousand pieces with one blow of his fist that he struck in
the midst of it, swearing that he would never come into it again.

Chapter 2.V.—Of the acts of the noble Pantagruel
in his youthful age.
Thus grew Pantagruel from day to day, and to everyone’s eye waxed
more and more in all his dimensions, which made his father to rejoice by a
natural affection. Therefore caused he to be made for him, whilst he was yet
little, a pretty crossbow wherewith to shoot at small birds, which now they
call the great crossbow at Chantelle. Then he sent him to the school to learn,
and to spend his youth in virtue. In the prosecution of which design he came
first to Poictiers, where, as he studied and profited very much, he saw that
the scholars were oftentimes at leisure and knew not how to bestow their
time, which moved him to take such compassion on them, that one day he
took from a long ledge of rocks, called there Passelourdin, a huge great
stone, of about twelve fathom square and fourteen handfuls thick, and with
great ease set it upon four pillars in the midst of a field, to no other end but
that the said scholars, when they had nothing else to do, might pass their
time in getting up on that stone, and feast it with store of gammons, pasties,
and flagons, and carve their names upon it with a knife, in token of which
deed till this hour the stone is called the lifted stone. And in remembrance
hereof there is none entered into the register and matricular book of the said
university, or accounted capable of taking any degree therein, till he have
first drunk in the caballine fountain of Croustelles, passed at Passelourdin,
and got up upon the lifted stone.
Afterwards, reading the delectable chronicles of his ancestors, he found
that Geoffrey of Lusignan, called Geoffrey with the great tooth, grandfather
to the cousin-in-law of the eldest sister of the aunt of the son-in-law of the
uncle of the good daughter of his stepmother, was interred at Maillezais;
therefore one day he took campos (which is a little vacation from study to
play a while), that he might give him a visit as unto an honest man. And
going from Poictiers with some of his companions, they passed by the Guge
(Leguge), visiting the noble Abbot Ardillon; then by Lusignan, by Sansay,
by Celles, by Coolonges, by Fontenay-le-Comte, saluting the learned
Tiraqueau, and from thence arrived at Maillezais, where he went to see the
sepulchre of the said Geoffrey with the great tooth; which made him

somewhat afraid, looking upon the picture, whose lively draughts did set
him forth in the representation of a man in an extreme fury, drawing his
great Malchus falchion half way out of his scabbard. When the reason
hereof was demanded, the canons of the said place told him that there was
no other cause of it but that Pictoribus atque Poetis, &c., that is to say, that
painters and poets have liberty to paint and devise what they list after their
own fancy. But he was not satisfied with their answer, and said, He is not
thus painted without a cause, and I suspect that at his death there was some
wrong done him, whereof he requireth his kindred to take revenge. I will
inquire further into it, and then do what shall be reasonable. Then he
returned not to Poictiers, but would take a view of the other universities of
France. Therefore, going to Rochelle, he took shipping and arrived at
Bordeaux, where he found no great exercise, only now and then he would
see some mariners and lightermen a-wrestling on the quay or strand by the
river-side. From thence he came to Toulouse, where he learned to dance
very well, and to play with the two-handed sword, as the fashion of the
scholars of the said university is to bestir themselves in games whereof they
may have their hands full; but he stayed not long there when he saw that
they did cause burn their regents alive like red herring, saying, Now God
forbid that I should die this death! for I am by nature sufficiently dry
already, without heating myself any further.
He went then to Montpellier, where he met with the good wives of
Mirevaux, and good jovial company withal, and thought to have set himself
to the study of physic; but he considered that that calling was too
troublesome and melancholic, and that physicians did smell of glisters like
old devils. Therefore he resolved he would study the laws; but seeing that
there were but three scald- and one bald-pated legist in that place, he
departed from thence, and in his way made the bridge of Guard and the
amphitheatre of Nimes in less than three hours, which, nevertheless, seems
to be a more divine than human work. After that he came to Avignon, where
he was not above three days before he fell in love; for the women there take
great delight in playing at the close-buttock game, because it is papal
ground. Which his tutor and pedagogue Epistemon perceiving, he drew him
out of that place, and brought him to Valence in the Dauphiny, where he
saw no great matter of recreation, only that the lubbers of the town did beat
the scholars, which so incensed him with anger, that when, upon a certain
very fair Sunday, the people being at their public dancing in the streets, and

one of the scholars offering to put himself into the ring to partake of that
sport, the foresaid lubberly fellows would not permit him the admittance
into their society, he, taking the scholar’s part, so belaboured them with
blows, and laid such load upon them, that he drove them all before him,
even to the brink of the river Rhone, and would have there drowned them,
but that they did squat to the ground, and there lay close a full half-league
under the river. The hole is to be seen there yet.
After that he departed from thence, and in three strides and one leap
came to Angiers, where he found himself very well, and would have
continued there some space, but that the plague drove them away. So from
thence he came to Bourges, where he studied a good long time, and profited
very much in the faculty of the laws, and would sometimes say that the
books of the civil law were like unto a wonderfully precious, royal, and
triumphant robe of cloth of gold edged with dirt; for in the world are no
goodlier books to be seen, more ornate, nor more eloquent than the texts of
the Pandects, but the bordering of them, that is to say, the gloss of
Accursius, is so scurvy, vile, base, and unsavoury, that it is nothing but
filthiness and villainy.
Going from Bourges, he came to Orleans, where he found store of
swaggering scholars that made him great entertainment at his coming, and
with whom he learned to play at tennis so well that he was a master at that
game. For the students of the said place make a prime exercise of it; and
sometimes they carried him unto Cupid’s houses of commerce (in that city
termed islands, because of their being most ordinarily environed with other
houses, and not contiguous to any), there to recreate his person at the sport
of poussavant, which the wenches of London call the ferkers in and in. As
for breaking his head with over-much study, he had an especial care not to
do it in any case, for fear of spoiling his eyes. Which he the rather observed,
for that it was told him by one of his teachers, there called regents, that the
pain of the eyes was the most hurtful thing of any to the sight. For this
cause, when he one day was made a licentiate, or graduate in law, one of the
scholars of his acquaintance, who of learning had not much more than his
burden, though instead of that he could dance very well and play at tennis,
made the blazon and device of the licentiates in the said university, saying,

So you have in your hand a racket,
A tennis-ball in your cod-placket,
A Pandect law in your cap’s tippet,

And that you have the skill to trip it
In a low dance, you will b’ allowed
The grant of the licentiate’s hood.

Chapter 2.VI.—How Pantagruel met with a
Limousin, who too affectedly did counterfeit the
French language.
Upon a certain day, I know not when, Pantagruel walking after supper
with some of his fellow-students without that gate of the city through which
we enter on the road to Paris, encountered with a young spruce-like scholar
that was coming upon the same very way, and, after they had saluted one
another, asked him thus, My friend, from whence comest thou now? The
scholar answered him, From the alme, inclyte, and celebrate academy,
which is vocitated Lutetia. What is the meaning of this? said Pantagruel to
one of his men. It is, answered he, from Paris. Thou comest from Paris then,
said Pantagruel; and how do you spend your time there, you my masters the
students of Paris? The scholar answered, We transfretate the Sequan at the
dilucul and crepuscul; we deambulate by the compites and quadrives of the
urb; we despumate the Latial verbocination; and, like verisimilary
amorabons, we captat the benevolence of the omnijugal, omniform and
omnigenal feminine sex. Upon certain diecules we invisat the lupanares,
and in a venerian ecstasy inculcate our veretres into the penitissime recesses
of the pudends of these amicabilissim meretricules. Then do we cauponisate
in the meritory taberns of the Pineapple, the Castle, the Magdalene, and the
Mule, goodly vervecine spatules perforaminated with petrocile. And if by
fortune there be rarity or penury of pecune in our marsupies, and that they
be exhausted of ferruginean metal, for the shot we dimit our codices and
oppignerat our vestments, whilst we prestolate the coming of the tabellaries
from the Penates and patriotic Lares. To which Pantagruel answered, What
devilish language is this? By the Lord, I think thou art some kind of
heretick. My lord, no, said the scholar; for libentissimally, as soon as it
illucesceth any minutule slice of the day, I demigrate into one of these so
well architected minsters, and there, irrorating myself with fair lustral water,
I mumble off little parcels of some missic precation of our sacrificuls, and,
submurmurating my horary precules, I elevate and absterge my anime from
its nocturnal inquinations. I revere the Olympicols. I latrially venere the

supernal Astripotent. I dilige and redame my proxims. I observe the
decalogical precepts, and, according to the facultatule of my vires, I do not
discede from them one late unguicule. Nevertheless, it is veriform, that
because Mammona doth not supergurgitate anything in my loculs, that I am
somewhat rare and lent to supererogate the elemosynes to those egents that
hostially queritate their stipe.
Prut, tut, said Pantagruel, what doth this fool mean to say? I think he is
upon the forging of some diabolical tongue, and that enchanter-like he
would charm us. To whom one of his men said, Without doubt, sir, this
fellow would counterfeit the language of the Parisians, but he doth only flay
the Latin, imagining by so doing that he doth highly Pindarize it in most
eloquent terms, and strongly conceiteth himself to be therefore a great
orator in the French, because he disdaineth the common manner of
speaking. To which Pantagruel said, Is it true? The scholar answered, My
worshipful lord, my genie is not apt nate to that which this flagitious
nebulon saith, to excoriate the cut(ic)ule of our vernacular Gallic, but vice-
versally I gnave opere, and by veles and rames enite to locupletate it with
the Latinicome redundance. By G—, said Pantagruel, I will teach you to
speak. But first come hither, and tell me whence thou art. To this the scholar
answered, The primeval origin of my aves and ataves was indigenary of the
Lemovic regions, where requiesceth the corpor of the hagiotat St. Martial. I
understand thee very well, said Pantagruel. When all comes to all, thou art a
Limousin, and thou wilt here by thy affected speech counterfeit the
Parisians. Well now, come hither, I must show thee a new trick, and
handsomely give thee the combfeat. With this he took him by the throat,
saying to him, Thou flayest the Latin; by St. John, I will make thee flay the
fox, for I will now flay thee alive. Then began the poor Limousin to cry,
Haw, gwid maaster! haw, Laord, my halp, and St. Marshaw! haw, I’m
worried. Haw, my thropple, the bean of my cragg is bruck! Haw, for
gauad’s seck lawt my lean, mawster; waw, waw, waw. Now, said
Pantagruel, thou speakest naturally, and so let him go, for the poor
Limousin had totally bewrayed and thoroughly conshit his breeches, which
were not deep and large enough, but round straight cannioned gregs, having
in the seat a piece like a keeling’s tail, and therefore in French called, de
chausses a queue de merlus. Then, said Pantagruel, St. Alipantin, what
civet? Fie! to the devil with this turnip-eater, as he stinks! and so let him go.
But this hug of Pantagruel’s was such a terror to him all the days of his life,

and took such deep impression in his fancy, that very often, distracted with
sudden affrightments, he would startle and say that Pantagruel held him by
the neck. Besides that, it procured him a continual drought and desire to
drink, so that after some few years he died of the death Roland, in plain
English called thirst, a work of divine vengeance, showing us that which
saith the philosopher and Aulus Gellius, that it becometh us to speak
according to the common language; and that we should, as said Octavian
Augustus, strive to shun all strange and unknown terms with as much
heedfulness and circumspection as pilots of ships use to avoid the rocks and
banks in the sea.

Chapter 2.VII.—How Pantagruel came to Paris,
and of the choice books of the Library of St.
Victor.
After that Pantagruel had studied very well at Orleans, he resolved to see
the great University at Paris; but, before his departure, he was informed that
there was a huge big bell at St. Anian in the said town of Orleans, under the
ground, which had been there above two hundred and fourteen years, for it
was so great that they could not by any device get it so much as above the
ground, although they used all the means that are found in Vitruvius de
Architectura, Albertus de Re Aedificatoria, Euclid, Theon, Archimedes, and
Hero de Ingeniis; for all that was to no purpose. Wherefore, condescending
heartily to the humble request of the citizens and inhabitants of the said
town, he determined to remove it to the tower that was erected for it. With
that he came to the place where it was, and lifted it out of the ground with
his little finger as easily as you would have done a hawk’s bell or
bellwether’s tingle-tangle; but, before he would carry it to the foresaid
tower or steeple appointed for it, he would needs make some music with it
about the town, and ring it alongst all the streets as he carried it in his hand,
wherewith all the people were very glad. But there happened one great
inconveniency, for with carrying it so, and ringing it about the streets, all
the good Orleans wine turned instantly, waxed flat and was spoiled, which
nobody there did perceive till the night following; for every man found
himself so altered and a-dry with drinking these flat wines, that they did
nothing but spit, and that as white as Malta cotton, saying, We have of the
Pantagruel, and our very throats are salted. This done, he came to Paris with
his retinue. And at his entry everyone came out to see him—as you know
well enough that the people of Paris is sottish by nature, by B flat and B
sharp—and beheld him with great astonishment, mixed with no less fear
that he would carry away the palace into some other country, a remotis, and
far from them, as his father formerly had done the great peal of bells at Our
Lady’s Church to tie about his mare’s neck. Now after he had stayed there a
pretty space, and studied very well in all the seven liberal arts, he said it

was a good town to live in, but not to die; for that the grave-digging rogues
of St. Innocent used in frosty nights to warm their bums with dead men’s
bones. In his abode there he found the library of St. Victor a very stately
and magnific one, especially in some books which were there, of which
followeth the Repertory and Catalogue, Et primo,

The for Godsake of Salvation.
The Codpiece of the Law.
The Slipshoe of the Decretals.
The Pomegranate of Vice.
The Clew-bottom of Theology.
The Duster or Foxtail-flap of Preachers, composed by Turlupin.
The Churning Ballock of the Valiant.
The Henbane of the Bishops.
Marmotretus de baboonis et apis, cum Commento Dorbellis.
Decretum Universitatis Parisiensis super gorgiasitate muliercularum
ad placitum.
The Apparition of Sancte Geltrude to a Nun of Poissy, being in
travail at the bringing forth of a child.
Ars honeste fartandi in societate, per Marcum Corvinum (Ortuinum).
The Mustard-pot of Penance.
The Gamashes, alias the Boots of Patience.
Formicarium artium.
De brodiorum usu, et honestate quartandi, per Sylvestrem Prioratem
Jacobinum.
The Cosened or Gulled in Court.
The Frail of the Scriveners.
The Marriage-packet.
The Cruizy or Crucible of Contemplation.
The Flimflams of the Law.
The Prickle of Wine.
The Spur of Cheese.
Ruboffatorium (Decrotatorium) scholarium.
Tartaretus de modo cacandi.
The Bravades of Rome.
Bricot de Differentiis Browsarum.
The Tailpiece-Cushion, or Close-breech of Discipline.
The Cobbled Shoe of Humility.
The Trivet of good Thoughts.
The Kettle of Magnanimity.
The Cavilling Entanglements of Confessors.
The Snatchfare of the Curates.
Reverendi patris fratris Lubini, provincialis Bavardiae, de gulpendis
lardslicionibus libri tres.
Pasquilli Doctoris Marmorei, de capreolis cum artichoketa comedendis,
tempore Papali ab Ecclesia interdicto.
The Invention of the Holy Cross, personated by six wily Priests.
The Spectacles of Pilgrims bound for Rome.
Majoris de modo faciendi puddinos.
The Bagpipe of the Prelates.
Beda de optimitate triparum.
The Complaint of the Barristers upon the Reformation of Comfits.
The Furred Cat of the Solicitors and Attorneys.
Of Peas and Bacon, cum Commento.
The Small Vales or Drinking Money of the Indulgences.
Praeclarissimi juris utriusque Doctoris Maistre Pilloti, &c.,
Scrap-farthingi de botchandis glossae Accursianae Triflis repetitio

enucidi-luculidissima.
Stratagemata Francharchiaeri de Baniolet.
Carlbumpkinus de Re Militari cum Figuris Tevoti.
De usu et utilitate flayandi equos et equas, authore Magistro nostro
de Quebecu.
The Sauciness of Country-Stewards.
M.N. Rostocostojambedanesse de mustarda post prandium servienda,
libri quatuordecim, apostillati per M. Vaurillonis.
The Covillage or Wench-tribute of Promoters.
(Jabolenus de Cosmographia Purgatorii.)
Quaestio subtilissima, utrum Chimaera in vacuo bonbinans possit
comedere secundas intentiones; et fuit debatuta per decem
hebdomadas in Consilio Constantiensi.
The Bridle-champer of the Advocates.
Smutchudlamenta Scoti.
The Rasping and Hard-scraping of the Cardinals.
De calcaribus removendis, Decades undecim, per M. Albericum de Rosata.
Ejusdem de castramentandis criminibus libri tres.
The Entrance of Anthony de Leve into the Territories of Brazil.
(Marforii, bacalarii cubantis Romae) de peelandis aut unskinnandis
blurrandisque Cardinalium mulis.
The said Author’s Apology against those who allege that the Pope’s
mule doth eat but at set times.
Prognosticatio quae incipit, Silvii Triquebille, balata per M.N., the
deep-dreaming gull Sion.
Boudarini Episcopi de emulgentiarum profectibus Aeneades novem,
cum privilegio Papali ad triennium et postea non.
The Shitabranna of the Maids.
The Bald Arse or Peeled Breech of the Widows.
The Cowl or Capouch of the Monks.
The Mumbling Devotion of the Celestine Friars.
The Passage-toll of Beggarliness.
The Teeth-chatter or Gum-didder of Lubberly Lusks.
The Paring-shovel of the Theologues.
The Drench-horn of the Masters of Arts.
The Scullions of Olcam, the uninitiated Clerk.
Magistri N. Lickdishetis, de garbellisiftationibus horarum canonicarum,
libri quadriginta.
Arsiversitatorium confratriarum, incerto authore.
The Gulsgoatony or Rasher of Cormorants and Ravenous Feeders.
The Rammishness of the Spaniards supergivuregondigaded by Friar Inigo.
The Muttering of Pitiful Wretches.
Dastardismus rerum Italicarum, authore Magistro Burnegad.
R. Lullius de Batisfolagiis Principum.
Calibistratorium caffardiae, authore M. Jacobo Hocstraten hereticometra.
Codtickler de Magistro nostrandorum Magistro nostratorumque beuvetis,
libri octo galantissimi.
The Crackarades of Balists or stone-throwing Engines, Contrepate
Clerks, Scriveners, Brief-writers, Rapporters, and Papal
Bull-despatchers lately compiled by Regis.
A perpetual Almanack for those that have the gout and the pox.
Manera sweepandi fornacellos per Mag. Eccium.
The Shable or Scimetar of Merchants.
The Pleasures of the Monachal Life.
The Hotchpot of Hypocrites.
The History of the Hobgoblins.
The Ragamuffinism of the pensionary maimed Soldiers.
The Gulling Fibs and Counterfeit shows of Commissaries.
The Litter of Treasurers.
The Juglingatorium of Sophisters.
Antipericatametanaparbeugedamphicribrationes Toordicantium.

The Periwinkle of Ballad-makers.
The Push-forward of the Alchemists.
The Niddy-noddy of the Satchel-loaded Seekers, by Friar Bindfastatis.
The Shackles of Religion.
The Racket of Swag-waggers.
The Leaning-stock of old Age.
The Muzzle of Nobility.
The Ape’s Paternoster.
The Crickets and Hawk’s-bells of Devotion.
The Pot of the Ember-weeks.
The Mortar of the Politic Life.
The Flap of the Hermits.
The Riding-hood or Monterg of the Penitentiaries.
The Trictrac of the Knocking Friars.
Blockheadodus, de vita et honestate bragadochiorum.
Lyrippii Sorbonici Moralisationes, per M. Lupoldum.
The Carrier-horse-bells of Travellers.
The Bibbings of the tippling Bishops.
Dolloporediones Doctorum Coloniensium adversus Reuclin.
The Cymbals of Ladies.
The Dunger’s Martingale.
Whirlingfriskorum Chasemarkerorum per Fratrem Crackwoodloguetis.
The Clouted Patches of a Stout Heart.
The Mummery of the Racket-keeping Robin-goodfellows.
Gerson, de auferibilitate Papae ab Ecclesia.
The Catalogue of the Nominated and Graduated Persons.
Jo. Dytebrodii, terribilitate excommunicationis libellus acephalos.
Ingeniositas invocandi diabolos et diabolas, per M. Guingolphum.
The Hotchpotch or Gallimaufry of the perpetually begging Friars.
The Morris-dance of the Heretics.
The Whinings of Cajetan.
Muddisnout Doctoris Cherubici, de origine Roughfootedarum, et
Wryneckedorum ritibus, libri septem.
Sixty-nine fat Breviaries.
The Nightmare of the five Orders of Beggars.
The Skinnery of the new Start-ups extracted out of the fallow-butt,
incornifistibulated and plodded upon in the angelic sum.
The Raver and idle Talker in cases of Conscience.
The Fat Belly of the Presidents.
The Baffling Flouter of the Abbots.
Sutoris adversus eum qui vocaverat eum Slabsauceatorem, et quod
Slabsauceatores non sunt damnati ab Ecclesia.
Cacatorium medicorum.
The Chimney-sweeper of Astrology.
Campi clysteriorum per paragraph C.
The Bumsquibcracker of Apothecaries.
The Kissbreech of Chirurgery.
Justinianus de Whiteleperotis tollendis.
Antidotarium animae.
Merlinus Coccaius, de patria diabolorum.
The Practice of Iniquity, by Cleuraunes Sadden.
The Mirror of Baseness, by Radnecu Waldenses.
The Engrained Rogue, by Dwarsencas Eldenu.
The Merciless Cormorant, by Hoxinidno the Jew.

Of which library some books are already printed, and the rest are now at
the press in this noble city of Tubingen.

Chapter 2.VIII.—How Pantagruel, being at Paris,
received letters from his father Gargantua, and
the copy of them.
Pantagruel studied very hard, as you may well conceive, and profited
accordingly; for he had an excellent understanding and notable wit, together
with a capacity in memory equal to the measure of twelve oil budgets or
butts of olives. And, as he was there abiding one day, he received a letter
from his father in manner as followeth.

Most dear Son,—Amongst the gifts, graces, and
prerogatives, with which the sovereign plasmator God
Almighty hath endowed and adorned human nature at the
beginning, that seems to me most singular and excellent by
which we may in a mortal state attain to a kind of
immortality, and in the course of this transitory life
perpetuate our name and seed, which is done by a progeny
issued from us in the lawful bonds of matrimony. Whereby
that in some measure is restored unto us which was taken
from us by the sin of our first parents, to whom it was said
that, because they had not obeyed the commandment of God
their Creator, they should die, and by death should be
brought to nought that so stately frame and plasmature
wherein the man at first had been created.
But by this means of seminal propagation there (“Which
continueth” in the old copy.) continueth in the children what
was lost in the parents, and in the grandchildren that which
perished in their fathers, and so successively until the day of
the last judgment, when Jesus Christ shall have rendered up
to God the Father his kingdom in a peaceable condition, out
of all danger and contamination of sin; for then shall cease
all generations and corruptions, and the elements leave off
their continual transmutations, seeing the so much desired

peace shall be attained unto and enjoyed, and that all things
shall be brought to their end and period. And, therefore, not
without just and reasonable cause do I give thanks to God
my Saviour and Preserver, for that he hath enabled me to see
my bald old age reflourish in thy youth; for when, at his
good pleasure, who rules and governs all things, my soul
shall leave this mortal habitation, I shall not account myself
wholly to die, but to pass from one place unto another,
considering that, in and by that, I continue in my visible
image living in the world, visiting and conversing with
people of honour, and other my good friends, as I was wont
to do. Which conversation of mine, although it was not
without sin, because we are all of us trespassers, and
therefore ought continually to beseech his divine majesty to
blot our transgressions out of his memory, yet was it, by the
help and grace of God, without all manner of reproach
before men.
Wherefore, if those qualities of the mind but shine in thee
wherewith I am endowed, as in thee remaineth the perfect
image of my body, thou wilt be esteemed by all men to be the
perfect guardian and treasure of the immortality of our
name. But, if otherwise, I shall truly take but small pleasure
to see it, considering that the lesser part of me, which is the
body, would abide in thee, and the best, to wit, that which is
the soul, and by which our name continues blessed amongst
men, would be degenerate and abastardized. This I do not
speak out of any distrust that I have of thy virtue, which I
have heretofore already tried, but to encourage thee yet
more earnestly to proceed from good to better. And that
which I now write unto thee is not so much that thou
shouldst live in this virtuous course, as that thou shouldst
rejoice in so living and having lived, and cheer up thyself
with the like resolution in time to come; to the prosecution
and accomplishment of which enterprise and generous
undertaking thou mayst easily remember how that I have
spared nothing, but have so helped thee, as if I had had no
other treasure in this world but to see thee once in my life

completely well-bred and accomplished, as well in virtue,
honesty, and valour, as in all liberal knowledge and civility,
and so to leave thee after my death as a mirror representing
the person of me thy father, and if not so excellent, and such
in deed as I do wish thee, yet such in my desire.
But although my deceased father of happy memory,
Grangousier, had bent his best endeavours to make me profit
in all perfection and political knowledge, and that my labour
and study was fully correspondent to, yea, went beyond his
desire, nevertheless, as thou mayest well understand, the
time then was not so proper and fit for learning as it is at
present, neither had I plenty of such good masters as thou
hast had. For that time was darksome, obscured with clouds
of ignorance, and savouring a little of the infelicity and
calamity of the Goths, who had, wherever they set footing,
destroyed all good literature, which in my age hath by the
divine goodness been restored unto its former light and
dignity, and that with such amendment and increase of the
knowledge, that now hardly should I be admitted unto the
first form of the little grammar-schoolboys—I say, I, who in
my youthful days was, and that justly, reputed the most
learned of that age. Which I do not speak in vain boasting,
although I might lawfully do it in writing unto thee—in
verification whereof thou hast the authority of Marcus
Tullius in his book of old age, and the sentence of Plutarch
in the book entitled How a man may praise himself without
envy—but to give thee an emulous encouragement to strive
yet further.
Now is it that the minds of men are qualified with all
manner of discipline, and the old sciences revived which for
many ages were extinct. Now it is that the learned languages
are to their pristine purity restored, viz., Greek, without
which a man may be ashamed to account himself a scholar,
Hebrew, Arabic, Chaldaean, and Latin. Printing likewise is
now in use, so elegant and so correct that better cannot be
imagined, although it was found out but in my time by divine
inspiration, as by a diabolical suggestion on the other side

was the invention of ordnance. All the world is full of
knowing men, of most learned schoolmasters, and vast
libraries; and it appears to me as a truth, that neither in
Plato’s time, nor Cicero’s, nor Papinian’s, there was ever
such conveniency for studying as we see at this day there is.
Nor must any adventure henceforward to come in public, or
present himself in company, that hath not been pretty well
polished in the shop of Minerva. I see robbers, hangmen,
freebooters, tapsters, ostlers, and such like, of the very
rubbish of the people, more learned now than the doctors
and preachers were in my time.
What shall I say? The very women and children have
aspired to this praise and celestial manner of good learning.
Yet so it is that, in the age I am now of, I have been
constrained to learn the Greek tongue—which I contemned
not like Cato, but had not the leisure in my younger years to
attend the study of it—and take much delight in the reading
of Plutarch’s Morals, the pleasant Dialogues of Plato, the
Monuments of Pausanias, and the Antiquities of Athenaeus,
in waiting on the hour wherein God my Creator shall call
me and command me to depart from this earth and
transitory pilgrimage. Wherefore, my son, I admonish thee
to employ thy youth to profit as well as thou canst, both in
thy studies and in virtue. Thou art at Paris, where the
laudable examples of many brave men may stir up thy mind
to gallant actions, and hast likewise for thy tutor and
pedagogue the learned Epistemon, who by his lively and
vocal documents may instruct thee in the arts and sciences.
I intend, and will have it so, that thou learn the languages
perfectly; first of all the Greek, as Quintilian will have it;
secondly, the Latin; and then the Hebrew, for the Holy
Scripture sake; and then the Chaldee and Arabic likewise,
and that thou frame thy style in Greek in imitation of Plato,
and for the Latin after Cicero. Let there be no history which
thou shalt not have ready in thy memory; unto the
prosecuting of which design, books of cosmography will be
very conducible and help thee much. Of the liberal arts of