r-father to
physicians, swarming with pardons, indulgences, and stations; a very honest
man; a good catholic, and as brimful of devotion as ever he can hold.

He weeps the three-fourth parts of the day, and never assists at any
weddings; but, give the devil his due, he is the most industrious
larding-stick and skewer-maker in forty kingdoms.

About six years ago, as I passed by Sneaking-land, I brought home a large
skewer from thence, and made a present of it to the butchers of Quande, who
set a great value upon them, and that for a cause. Some time or other, if
ever we live to come back to our own country, I will show you two of them
fastened on the great church porch. His usual food is pickled coats of
mail, salt helmets and head-pieces, and salt sallets; which sometimes makes
him piss pins and needles. As for his clothing, 'tis comical enough o'
conscience, both for make and colour; for he wears grey and cold, nothing
before, and nought behind, with the sleeves of the same.

You will do me a kindness, said Pantagruel, if, as you have described his
clothes, food, actions, and pastimes, you will also give me an account of
his shape and disposition in all his parts. Prithee do, dear cod, said
Friar John, for I have found him in my breviary, and then follow the
movable holy days. With all my heart, answered Xenomanes; we may chance to
hear more of him as we touch at the Wild Island, the dominions of the squab
Chitterlings, his enemies, against whom he is eternally at odds; and were
it not for the help of the noble Carnival, their protector and good
neighbour, this meagre-looked lozelly Shrovetide would long before this
have made sad work among them, and rooted them out of their habitation.
Are these same Chitterlings, said Friar John, male or female, angels or
mortals, women or maids? They are, replied Xenomanes, females in sex,
mortal in kind, some of them maids, others not. The devil have me, said
Friar John, if I ben't for them. What a shameful disorder in nature, is it
not, to make war against women? Let's go back and hack the villain to
pieces. What! meddle with Shrovetide? cried Panurge, in the name of
Beelzebub, I am not yet so weary of my life. No, I'm not yet so mad as
that comes to. Quid juris? Suppose we should find ourselves pent up
between the Chitterlings and Shrovetide? between the anvil and the hammers?
Shankers and buboes! stand off! godzooks, let us make the best of our way.
I bid you good