The Path to Rome | Page 2

of
my contemporaries to belaud themselves in this prolegomenaical ritual
(some saying in a few words that they supplied a want, others boasting
in a hundred that they were too grand to do any such thing, but most of
them baritoning their apologies and chanting their excuses till one
knew that their pride was toppling over)--since, I say, it seemed a
necessity to extol one's work, I wrote simply on the lintel of my diary,
_Praise of this Book,_ so as to end the matter at a blow. But whether
there will be praise or blame I really cannot tell, for I am riding my pen
on the snaffle, and it has a mouth of iron.
Now there is another thing book writers do in their Prefaces, which is
to introduce a mass of nincompoops of whom no one ever heard, and to
say 'my thanks are due to such and such' all in a litany, as though any
one cared a farthing for the rats! If I omit this believe me it is but on
account of the multitude and splendour of those who have attended at

the production of this volume. For the stories in it are copied straight
from the best authors of the Renaissance, the music was written by the
masters of the eighteenth century, the Latin is Erasmus' own; indeed,
there is scarcely a word that is mine. I must also mention the Nine
Muses, the Three Graces; Bacchus, the Maenads, the Panthers, the
Fauns; and I owe very hearty thanks to Apollo.
Yet again, I see that writers are for ever anxious of their style, thinking
(not saying)--
'True, I used "and which" on page 47, but Martha Brown the stylist
gave me leave;' or:
'What if I do end a sentence with a preposition? I always follow the
rules of Mr Twist in his "'Tis Thus 'Twas Spoke", Odd's Body an' I do
not!'
Now this is a pusillanimity of theirs (the book writers) that they think
style power, and yet never say as much in their Prefaces. Come, let me
do so ... Where are you? Let me marshal you, my regiments of words!
Rabelais! Master of all happy men! Are you sleeping there pressed into
desecrated earth under the doss-house of the Rue St Paul, or do you not
rather drink cool wine in some elysian Chinon looking on the Vienne
where it rises in Paradise? Are you sleeping or drinking that you will
not lend us the staff of Friar John wherewith he slaughtered and bashed
the invaders of the vineyards, who are but a parable for the mincing
pedants and bloodless thin-faced rogues of the world?
Write as the wind blows and command all words like an army! See
them how they stand in rank ready for assault, the jolly, swaggering
fellows!
First come the Neologisms, that are afraid of no man; fresh, young,
hearty, and for the most part very long-limbed, though some few short
and strong. There also are the Misprints to confuse the enemy at his
onrush. Then see upon the flank a company of picked Ambiguities
covering what shall be a feint by the squadron of Anachronisms led by
old Anachronos himself; a terrible chap with nigglers and a great
murderer of fools.
But here see more deeply massed the ten thousand Egotisms shining in
their armour and roaring for battle. They care for no one. They stormed
Convention yesterday and looted the cellar of Good-Manners, who died
of fear without a wound; so they drank his wine and are to-day as

strong as lions and as careless (saving only their Captain, Monologue,
who is lantern-jawed).
Here are the Aposiopaesian Auxiliaries, and Dithyramb that killed
Punctuation in open fight; Parenthesis the giant and champion of the
host, and Anacoluthon that never learned to read or write but is very
handy with his sword; and Metathesis and Hendiadys, two Greeks. And
last come the noble Gallicisms prancing about on their light horses:
cavalry so sudden that the enemy sicken at the mere sight of them and
are overcome without a blow. Come then my hearties, my lads, my
indefatigable repetitions, seize you each his own trumpet that hangs at
his side and blow the charge; we shall soon drive them all before us
headlong, howling down together to the Picrocholian Sea.
So! That was an interlude. Forget the clamour.
But there is another matter; written as yet in no other Preface: peculiar
to this book. For without rhyme or reason, pictures of an uncertain kind
stand in the pages of the chronicle. Why?
_Because it has become so cheap to photograph on zinc._
In old time a man that drew ill drew not at all. He did well. Then either
there were no pictures in his book, or