he, too, was sired from Chinon. Dip into Gargantua: there you will find
the oinolatrous and gastrolatrous catalogues that Belloc daily delights
in; the infectious droll patter of speech, piling quip on quip. Then
look again into "The Path to Rome." How well does Mr. John Macy tell us
"literature is not born spontaneously out of life. Every book has its
literary parentage, and criticism reads like an Old Testament chapter of
'begats.' Every novel was suckled at the breasts of older novels."


III

In Belloc we find the perfect union of the French and English minds.
Rabelaisian in fecundity, wit, and irrepressible sparkle, he is also of
English blood and sinew, wedded to the sweet Sussex weald. History,
politics, economics, military topography, poetry, novels, satires,
nonsense rhymes--all these we may set aside as the hundred curiosities
of an eager mind. (The dons, by the way, say that in his historical work
he generalizes too hastily; but was ever history more crisply written?)
It is in the essays, the thousand little inquirendoes into the nature of
anything, everything or nothing, that one comes closest to the real man.
His prose leaps and sparks from the pen. It is whimsical, tender,
biting, garrulous. It is familiar and unfettered as open-air talk. His
passion for places--roads, rivers, hills, and inns; his dancing
persiflage and buoyancy; his Borrovian love of vagabondage--these are
the glories of a style that is quick, close-knit, virile, and vibrant.
Here Belloc ranks with Bunyan, Swift, and Defoe.

Whoso dotes upon fine prose, prose interlaced with humour, pathos, and
whim, orchestrated to a steady rhythm, coruscated with an exquisite
tenderness for all that is lovable and high spirited on this dancing