Cardinal de Retz very judiciously observes, that all historians must of
necessity be subject to mistakes, in explaining the motives of those
actions they record, unless they derive their intelligence from the
candid confession of the person whose character they represent; and that,
of consequence, every man of importance ought to write his own memoirs,
provided he has honesty enough to tell the truth, without suppressing any
circumstance that may tend to the information of the reader. This,
however, is a requisite that, I am afraid, would be very rarely found
among the number of those who exhibit their own portraits to the public.
Indeed, I will venture to say, that, how upright soever a man's
intentions may be, he will, in the performance of such a task, be
sometimes misled by his own phantasy, and represent objects, as they
appeared to him, through the mists of prejudice and passion.
An unconcerned reader, when he peruses the history of two competitors,
who lived two thousand years ago, or who perhaps never had existence,
except in the imagination of the author, cannot help interesting himself
in the dispute, and espousing one side of the contest, with all the zeal
of a warm adherent. What wonder, then, that we should be heated in our
own concerns, review our actions with the same self-approbation that they
had formerly acquired, and recommend them to the world with all the
enthusiasm of paternal affection?
Supposing this to be the case, it was lucky for the cause of historical
truth, that so many pens have been drawn by writers, who could not be
suspected of such partiality; and that many great personages, among the
ancients as well as moderns, either would not or could not entertain the
public with their own memoirs. From this want of inclination or capacity
to write, in our hero himself, the undertaking is now left to me, of
transmitting to posterity the remarkable adventures of FERDINAND COUNT
FATHOM; and by the time the reader shall have glanced over the subsequent
sheets, I doubt not but he will bless God that the adventurer was not his
own historian.
This mirror of modern chivalry was none of those who owe their dignity to
the circumstances of their birth, and are consecrated from the cradle for
the purposes of greatness, merely because they are the accidental
children of wealth. He was heir to no visible patrimony, unless we
reckon a robust constitution, a tolerable appearance, and an uncommon
capacity, as the advantages of inheritance. If the comparison obtains in
this point of consideration, he was as much as any man indebted to his
parent; and pity it was, that, in the sequel of his fortune, he never had
an opportunity of manifesting his filial gratitude and regard. From this
agreeable act of duty to his sire, and all those tendernesses that are
reciprocally enjoyed betwixt the father and the son, he was unhappily
excluded by a small circumstance; at which, however, he was never heard
to repine. In short, had he been brought forth in the fabulous ages of
the world, the nature of his origin might have turned to his account; he
might, like other heroes of antiquity, have laid claim to divine
extraction, without running the risk of being claimed by an earthly
father. Not that his parents had any reason to disown or renounce their
offspring, or that there was anything preternatural in the circumstances
of his generation and birth; on the contrary, he was, from the beginning,
a child of promising parts, and in due course of nature ushered into the
world amidst a whole cloud of witnesses. But, that he was acknowledged
by no mortal sire, solely proceeded from the uncertainty of his mother,
whose affections were so dissipated among a number of admirers, that she
could never pitch upon the person from whose loins our hero sprung.
Over and above this important doubt under which he was begotten, other
particularities attended his birth, and seemed to mark him out as
something uncommon among the sons of men. He was brought forth in a
waggon, and might be said to be literally a native of two different
countries; for, though he first saw the light in Holland, he was not born
till after the carriage arrived in Flanders; so that, all these
extraordinary circumstances considered, the task of determining to what
government he naturally owed allegiance, would be at least as difficult
as that of ascertaining the so much contested birthplace of Homer.
Certain it is, the Count's mother was an Englishwoman, who, after having
been five times a widow in one campaign, was, in the last year of the
renowned Marlborough's command, numbered among the baggage of the allied
army, which she still accompanied, through pure benevolence of spirit,
supplying the ranks with the refreshing streams of choice Geneva, and
accommodating individuals with clean linen, as the emergency of their
occasions required. Nor was her philanthropy altogether confined to such
ministration; she abounded with "the milk of human kindness," which
flowed plentifully among her fellow-creatures; and to every son of Mars
who cultivated her favour, she liberally dispensed her smiles, in order
to sweeten the toils and dangers of the field.
And here it will not be amiss to anticipate the remarks of the reader,
who, in the chastity and excellency of his conception, may possibly
exclaim, "Good Heaven! will these authors never reform their
imaginations, and lift their ideas from the obscene objects of low life?
Must the public be again disgusted with the grovelling adventures of a
waggon? Will no writer of genius draw his pen in the vindication of
taste, and entertain us with the agreeable characters, the dignified
conversation, the poignant repartee, in short, the genteel comedy of the
polite world?"
Have a little patience, gentle, delicate, sublime critic; you, I doubt
not, are one of those consummate connoisseurs, who, in their
purifications, let humour evaporate, while they endeavour to preserve
decorum, and polish wit, until the edge of it is quite worn off. Or,
perhaps, of that class, who, in the sapience of taste, are disgusted with
those very flavours in the productions of their own country which have
yielded infinite delectation to their faculties, when imported from
another clime; and d--n an author in despite of all precedent and
prescription;--who extol the writings of Petronius Arbiter, read with
rapture the amorous sallies of Ovid's pen, and chuckle over the story of
Lucian's ass; yet, if a modern author presumes to relate the progress of
a simple intrigue, are shocked at the indecency and immorality of the
scene;--who delight in following Guzman d'Alfarache, through all the
mazes of squalid beggary; who with pleasure accompany Don Quixote and his
squire, in the lowest paths of fortune; who are diverted with the
adventures of Scarron's ragged troop of strollers, and highly entertained
with the servile situations of Gil Blas; yet, when a character in humble
life occasionally occurs in a performance of our own growth, exclaim,
with an air of disgust, "Was ever anything so mean! sure, this writer
must have been very conversant with the lowest scenes of life";--who,
when Swift or Pope represents a coxcomb in the act of swearing, scruple
not to laugh at the ridiculous execrations; but, in a less reputed
author, condemn the use of such profane expletives;--who eagerly explore
the jakes of Rabelais, for amusement, and even extract humour from the
dean's description of a lady's dressing-room; yet in a production of
these days, unstamped with such venerable names, will stop their noses,
with all the signs of loathing and abhorrence, at a bare mention of the
china chamber-pot;--who applauded Catullus, Juvenal, Persius, and Lucan,
for their spirit in lashing the greatest names of antiquity; yet, when a
British satirist, of this generation, has courage enough to call in
question the talents of a pseudo-patron in power, accuse him of
insolence, rancour, and scurrility.
If such you be, courteous reader, I say again, have a little patience;
for your entertainment we are about to write. Our hero shall, with all
convenient despatch, be gradually sublimed into those splendid connexions
of which you are enamoured; and God forbid, that, in the meantime, the
nature of his extraction should turn to his prejudice in a land of
freedom like this, where individuals are every day ennobled in
consequence of their own qualifications, without the least retrospective
regard to the rank or merit of their ancestors. Yes, refined reader, we
are hastening to that goal of perfection, where satire dares not show her
face; where nature is castigated, almost even to still life; where humour
turns changeling, and slavers in an insipid grin; where wit is
volatilised into a mere vapour; where decency, divested of all substance,
hovers about like a fantastic shadow; where the salt of genius, escaping,
leaves nothing but pure and simple phlegm; and the inoffensive pen for
ever drops the mild manna of soul-sweetening praise.