; let us see the legend of Mons. St. Nicholas.

Horrida tempestas montem turbavit acutum.

Tempest was a mighty flogger of lads at Mountagu College. If pedants be
damned for whipping poor little innocent wretches their scholars, he is,
upon my honour, by this time fixed within Ixion's wheel, lashing the
crop-eared, bobtailed cur that gives it motion. If they are saved for
having whipped innocent lads, he ought to be above the--

Chapter 4.XXII.

An end of the storm.

Shore, shore! cried Pantagruel. Land to, my friends, I see land! Pluck up
a good spirit, boys, 'tis within a kenning. So! we are not far from a
port.--I see the sky clearing up to the northwards.--Look to the
south-east! Courage, my hearts, said the pilot; now she'll bear the hullock
of a sail; the sea is much smoother; some hands aloft to the maintop. Put
the helm a-weather. Steady! steady! Haul your after-mizen bowlines. Haul,
haul, haul! Thus, thus, and no near. Mind your steerage; bring your
main-tack aboard. Clear your sheets; clear your bowlines; port, port. Helm
a-lee. Now to the sheet on the starboard side, thou son of a whore. Thou
art mightily pleased, honest fellow, quoth Friar John, with hearing make
mention of thy mother. Luff, luff, cried the quartermaster that conned the
ship, keep her full, luff the helm. Luff. It is, answered the steersman.
Keep her thus. Get the bonnets fixed. Steady, steady.

That is well said, said Friar John now, this is something like a tansy.
Come, come, come, children, be nimble. Good. Luff, luff, thus. Helm
a-weather. That's well said and thought on. Methinks the storm is almost
over. It was high time, faith; however, the Lord be thanked. Our devils
begin to scamper. Out with all your sails. Hoist your sails. Hoist.
That is spoke like a man, hoist, hoist. Here, a God's name, honest
Ponocrates; thou art a lusty fornicator; the whoreson will get none but
boys. Eusthenes, thou art a notable fellow. Run up to the fore-topsail.
Thus, thus. Well said, i' faith; thus, thus. I dare not fear anything all
this while, for it is holiday. Vea, vea, vea! huzza! This shout of the
seaman is not amiss, and pleases me, for it is holiday. Keep her full
thus. Good. Cheer up, my merry mates all, cried out Epistemon; I see
already Castor on the right. Be, be, bous, bous, bous, said Panurge; I am
much afraid it is the bitch Helen. It is truly Mixarchagenas, returned
Epistemon, if thou