APPENDIX V. Passages translated from the Morgante Maggiore of Pulci.

(See Chapter VII. pp. 444 et seq.) Morgante xviii. 115.

Answered Margutte: "Friend, I never boasted:
I don't believe in black more than in blue,
But in fat capons, boiled, or may be roasted;
And I believe sometimes in butter too,
In beer and must, where bobs a pippin toasted;
Sharp liquor more than sweet I reckon true;
But mostly to old wine my faith I pin,
And hold him saved who firmly trusts therein.

"I believe in the tartlet and the tart;
One is the mother, t'other is her son:
The perfect paternoster is a part
Of liver, fried in slips, three, two, or one;
Which also from the primal liver start:
And since I'm dry, and fain would swill a tun,
If Mahomet forbids the juice of grape,
I reckon him a nightmare, phantom, ape.

"Apollo's naught but a delirious vision,
And Trivigant perchance a midnight specter;
Faith, like the itch, is catching; what revision
This sentence needs, you'll make, nor ask the rector:
To waste no words, you may without misprision
Dub me as rank a heretic as Hector:
I don't disgrace my lineage, nor indeed
Am I the cabbage-ground for any creed.

"Faith's as man gets it, this, that, or another!
See then what sort of creed I'm bound to follow:
For you must know a Greek nun was my mother,
My sire at Brusa, mid the Turks, a mollah;
I played the rebeck first, and made a pother
About the Trojan war, flattered Apollo,
Praised up Achilles, Hector, Helen fair,
Not once, but twenty thousand times, I swear.

"Next, growing weary of my light guitar,
I donned a military bow and quiver;
One day within the mosque I went to war,
And shot my grave old daddy through the liver:
Then to my loins I girt this scimitar,
And journeyed forth o'er sea, land, town, and river
Taking for comrades in each holy work
The congregated sins of Greek and Turk.

"That's much the same as all the sins of hell!
I've seventy-seven at least about me, mortal;
Summer and winter in my breast they swell:
Guess now how many venial crowd the portal!
'Twere quite impossible, I know full well,
If the world never ended, to report all
The crimes I've done in this one life alone;
Each item too is catalogued and known.

"I pray you listen for one little minute;
The skein shall be unraveled in a trice:—
When I've got cash, I'm gay as any linnet,
Cast with who calls, cut cards, and fling the dice;
All times, all places, or the devil's in it,
Serve me for play; I've spent on this one vice
Fame, fortune—staked my coat, my shirt, my breeches;
I hope this specimen will meet your wishes.

"Don't ask what juggler's tricks I teach the boxes!
Or whether sixes serve me when I call,
Or jumps an ace up!—Foxes pair with foxes;
The same pitch tars our fingers, one and all!—
Perhaps I don't know how to fleece the doxies?
Perhaps I can't cheat, cozen, swindle, bawl?
Perhaps I never learned to patter slang?—
I know each trick, each turn, and lead the gang.

"Gluttony after gambling's my prime pleasure.
Here it behooves one to be learned and wise,
To gauge the merits and the virtues measure
Of pheasant, partridge, fowl; with practiced eyes
Noting each part, of every dish at leisure,
Seeking where tender slice or morsel lies;
And since I've touched upon this point, I'll tell ye
How best to grease your jaws and stuff your belly.

"If I could only show you how I baste,
If you could see me turn the spit and ladle,
You'd swear I had a most consummate taste!
Of what ingredients are black-puddings made all?
Not to be burned, and not to run to waste,
Not over-hot nor frozen in the cradle,
Done to a turn, juicy, not bathed in butter,
Smooth, plump and swelling!—Don't you hear 'em sputter?

"About fried liver now receive my say:
It wants five pieces—count them on your fingers;
It must be round—keep this in mind, I pray!—
Fire on this side or that the frying injures!
Be careful not to brush the fat away,
Which keeps the stew soft while it drops and lingers;
You must divide it in two parts, and see
That each part is apportioned equally.

"It should not be too large; but there's a saw—
Stint not your bag-pudding of hose and jacket:
Now mark me, for I'm laying down the law—
Don't overcook the morsel in the packet;
It ought to melt, midway twixt done and raw,
Like a ripe autumn fig, when you attack it:
Serve it up hissing, and then sound the tabors
With spice and orange peel, to end your labors!

"I've got a hundred hints to give the wary!
But take it on my word, ragouts and pies
Are the true test of science culinary:
A lamprey now—you'd scarce believe your eyes
To see its stews and salmis, how they vary!
Yet all are known and numbered by the wise.—
True gourmandize hath seventy-two divisions,
Besides a few that are my own additions:

"If one be missed, the cooking's spoiled, that's granted:
Not heaven itself can save a ruined platter!—
From now till noon I'd hold your sense enchanted
With secrets of my art, if I dared chatter!—
I kept an inn at Corinth once, and wanted
To argue publicly upon the matter.—
But we must leave this point, for 'twill divert you
To hear about another cardinal virtue.

"Only to F these confidences carry;
Just think what 'twill be when we come to R!
I plow (no nonsense) with ass, cassiowary,
Ox, camel—any other beast bizarre.
A thousand bonfires, prisons, by Lord Harry,
My tricks have earned, and something uglier far:
Where my head will not pass, I stick my tail in,
And what I like's to hear the good folk railing.

"Take me to balls, to banquets, for an airing;
I'll do my duty there with hands and feet:
I'm rude, importunate, a bore, and daring;
On friends no less than foes I'll take a seat:
To shame I've said farewell; nor am I sparing
Of fawning like a cur when kicks I meet,
But tell my tale and swagger up and down,
And with a thousand fibs each exploit crown.

"No need to ask if I've kept geese at grass,
Purveyed stewed prunes, taught kittens how to play.
Suppose a thousand—widow, wife, and lass:
That's just about my figure, I dare say.
When mid the women by mishap I pass,
Six out of every five become my prey;
I make the pretty dears so deucéd cunning,
They beat nurse, maid, duenna out of running.

"Three of my moral qualities are these—
Gluttony, dicing, as I said, and drinking:
But, since we'll drain the barrel to the lees,
Hear now the fourth and foremost to my thinking.
No need of hooks or ladders, crows or keys,
I promise, where my hands are! Without blinking
I've worn the cross and miter on my forehead—
No pope's nor priest's, but something much more horrid!

"Screws, files and jemmies are my stock in trade,
Springs, picklocks, of more sorts than I could mention;
Rope and wood ladders, levers, slippers made
Of noiseless felt—my patented invention—
Drowsing all ears, where'er my feet are laid;
I fashioned them to take my mind's intention;
Fire too that by itself no light delivers,
But when I spit on it, springs up and quivers.

"See me but in a church alone and frisky!
I'm keener on the robbing of an altar
Than gaugers when they scent a keg of whiskey;
Then to the alms-box off I fly, nor falter:
Sacristies are my passion; though 'tis risky,
With cross and sacring cup I never palter,
But pull the crucifixes down and stow 'em—
Virgins and saints and effigies, you know 'em!

"I've swept, may-be, a hen-roost in my day
And if you'd seen me loot a lot of washing,
You'd swear that never maid or housewife gay
Could clear it in a style so smart and dashing!
If naught, Morgante, 's left but blooming May
To strip, I steal it—I can't keep from flashing!
I ne'er drew difference twixt thine and mine:
All things, to start with, were effects divine.

"But ere I learned to thieve thus on the sly,
I ran the highway rig as bold as any;
I would have robbed the biggest saint on high—
If there are saints above us—for a penny;
But loving peace and fair tranquillity,
I left assassination to the many:
Not that my will was weak—I'd rather say,
Because theft mixed with murder does not pay.

"My virtues theological now smile on!
God knows if I can forge or falsify:
I'll turn an H into a Greek Upsilon—
You could not write a neater, prettier Y!
I gut the pages of a book, and pile on
New rubrics for new chapters, change the die,
Change title, cover, index, name—the poet
Who wrote the verse I counterfeit, won't know it.

"False oaths and perjuries come trickling down
Out of my mouth as smooth and sweet as honey,
Ripe figs, or macaroni nicely brown,
Or anything that's natural and funny:
Suppose they brain some guileless count or clown;
All's one; ware heads, I cry, and pouch my money!
I've set on foot full many a strife and wrangle,
And left 'em in inextricable tangle.

"With ready coin I always square a scandal:
Of oaths I've got a perfect stock in trade;
Each saint supplies my speech with some choice handle;
I run them off in rows from A to Z:
In lying no man holds to me a candle;
Truth's always the reverse of what I've said:—
I'd like to see more fire than land or water,
In heaven and earth naught but plague, famine, slaughter.

"Don't fancy that in fasting, prayer and prate,
Or charities my spare time I employ!
Not to seem stiff, I beg from gate to gate,
And always utter something to annoy:
Proud, envious, tiresome and importunate—
This character I've cherished from a boy;
For the seven deadly sins and all the other
Vices have brought me up to be their brother!

"So that I'd roam the world, cross ban and border,
Hood-winked, nor ever fear to miss my way;
As sweet and clean as any lump of ordure,
I leave my trail like slugs where'er I stray,
Nor seek to hide that slimy self-recorder:
Creeds, customs, friends I slough from day to day;
Change skin and climate, as it suits me best,
For I was evil even in the nest.

"I've left a whole long chapter undiscussed
Of countless peccadilloes in a jumble:
Were I to catalogue each crime and lust,
The medley of my sins might make you grumble:
'Twould take from now till June to lay the dust,
If in this mud heap we began to tumble;
One only point I'd have you still perpend—
I never in my life betrayed a friend."

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