NUTS TO CRACK; OR, Quips, Quirks, Anecdote and Facete OF OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE SCHOLARS. BY THE AUTHOR OF "FACETIÆ CANTABRIGIENSES," ETC. ETC. ETC. _PHILADELPHIA_: E. L. CAREY & A. HART. 1835. PREFACE. Though I intend this preface, prelude, or proem shall occupy but a single page, and be a _facile_ specimen of the _multum in parvo_ school, I find I have so little to say, I might spare myself the trouble of saying that little, only it might look a little odd (excuse my nibbing my pen) if, after writing a book, which by the way, may prove no book at all, I should introduce it to my readers,--did I say "READERS?"--what a theme to dilate upon! But stop, stop, Mr. Exultation, nobody may read your book, _ergo_, you will have no readers. Humph! I must nib my pen again. Cooks, grocers, butchers, kitchenmaids, the roast! Let brighter visions rise: methink I see it grace every room _Peckwater_ round: methink I see, wherever _mighty Tom_ sonorous peals forth his solemn "Come, come, come!" the sons of OXON fly to _Tallboys'_ store, or _Parker's_ shelves, and cry "_the_ Book, _the_ Book!" Methink I see in GRANTA'S streets a crowd for _Deighton's_ and for _Stevenson's_--anon, "_the_ Book, _the_ Book," they cry "Give us _the_ Book!" "_Quips, Quirks, and Anecdotes?_" "Aye, that's _the_ Book!" And, then, methink I see on CAMUS' side, or where the Isis by her Christ Church glides, or Charwell's lowlier stream, methink I see (as did the Spanish Prince of yore a son of Salamanca beat his brow) some _togaed_ son of ALMA MATER beat, aye, laugh and beat his brow. And then, like Philip, I demand the cause? And then he laughs outright, and in my face he thrusts a book, and cries, "Sir, read, read, read, ha, ha, ha, ha!" and stamps and laughs the while;--and then, ye gods, it proves to be _the_ Book,--_Quips, Quirks, and Anecdotes_--ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I cry you mercy, Sirs, read, read, read, read! From ETON, 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 rushes by _Amen Corner_, or _St. Paul's_: how like a summer-hive they go and come: the very CHAPTER'S caught the stirring theme, and, like King James at Christ Church, scents a hum.[1] E'en CAXTON'S ghost stalks forth to beg a tome, and _Wynkyn's_ shroud in vain protests his claims. "There's not a copy left," cries _Whitt's_ or _Long's_, as Caxton bolts with the extremest tome, and Wynkyn, foiled, shrinks grimly into air, Veil'd in a cloud of scarce black-letter lore.