[Pg v]
Though I intend this preface, prelude, or proem shalloccupy but a single page, and be a facile specimen of themultum in parvo school, I find I have so little to say, I mightspare myself the trouble of saying that little, only it mightlook a little odd (excuse my nibbing my pen) if, after writinga book, which by the way, may prove no book at all, Ishould introduce it to my readers,—did I say“Readers?”—whata theme to dilate upon! But stop, stop, Mr. Exultation,nobody may read your book, ergo, you will haveno readers. Humph! I must nib my pen again. Cooks,grocers, butchers, kitchenmaids, the roast! Let brightervisions rise: methink I see it grace every room Peckwaterround: methink I see, wherever mighty Tom sonorouspeals forth his solemn “Come, come, come!” the sons ofOxon fly to Tallboys’store, or Parker’s shelves, and cry “the Book,the Book!” Methink I see in Granta’sstreets a crowd for Deighton’s and for Stevenson’s—anon,[Pg vi]“the Book, the Book,” they cry “Give us the Book!”“Quips, Quirks, and Anecdotes?” “Aye, that’s theBook!” And, then, methink I see on Camus’ side, orwhere the Isis by her Christ Church glides, or Charwell’slowlier stream, methink I see (as did the Spanish Princeof yore a son of Salamanca beat his brow) some togaed sonof Alma Mater beat, aye, laugh and beat his brow. Andthen, like Philip, I demand the cause? And then he laughsoutright, and in my face he thrusts a book, and cries,“Sir, read, read, read, ha, ha, ha, ha!” and stamps andlaughs the while;—and then, ye gods, it proves to bethe Book,—Quips, Quirks, and Anecdotes—ha,ha, ha, ha, ha! I cry you mercy, Sirs, read, read, read, read! FromEton, Harrow,Winchester, and West,come orders thick as Autumn leaves e’er fell, as larks at Dunstable,or Egypt’s plagues. The Row is in commotion,—all the world rushesby Amen Corner, or St. Paul’s: how like a summer-hivethey go and come: the very Chapter’s caughtthe stirring theme, and, like King James at Christ Church, scents ahum.[1]E’en Caxton’s ghost stalks forth to beg a tome,[Pg vii]and Wynkyn’s shroud in vain protests his claims. “There’snot a copy left,” cries Whitt’s or Long’s, as Caxton boltswith the extremest tome, and Wynkyn, foiled, shrinks grimly into air,
Veil’d in a cloud of scarce black-letter lore.
Had Galen’s self, sirs, ab origine, or Æsculapius, or themodern school of Pharmacopœians drugged their patientsthus, they long ago, aye, long ago, had starved; your undertakershad been gone extinct, and churchyards turnedto gambol-greens, forsooth. Mirth, like good wine, nohelp from physic needs:—blue devils and ennui! ha, ha,ha, ha! Didst ever taste champagne? Then laugh, sirs,laugh,—“laugh and grow fat,” the maxim’s o