ep
rough and cover thirty miles a day, and I will hear Mass every
morning; and I will be present at high Mass in St Peter's on the Feast
of St Peter and St Paul.'

Then I went out of the church still having that Statue in my mind, and
I walked again farther into the world, away from my native valley, and
so ended some months after in a place whence I could fulfil my vow;
and I started as you shall hear. All my other vows I broke one by one.
For a faggot must be broken every stick singly. But the strict vow I
kept, for I entered Rome on foot that year in time, and I heard high
Mass on the Feast of the Apostles, as many can testify--to wit:
Monsignor this, and Chamberlain the other, and the Bishop of
_so-and-so--o--polis in partibus infidelium;_ for we were all there
together.

And why (you will say) is all this put by itself in what Anglo-Saxons
call a Foreword, but gentlemen a Preface? Why, it is because I have
noticed that no book can appear without some such thing tied on before
it; and as it is folly to neglect the fashion, be certain that I read
some eight or nine thousand of them to be sure of how they were
written and to be safe from generalizing on too frail a basis.

And having read them and discovered first, that it was the custom 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 scarc