by T. Smollett
CHAPTER ONE
SOME SAGE OBSERVATIONS THAT NATURALLY INTRODUCE OUR IMPORTANT HISTORY.
Cardinal de Retz very judiciously observes, that all historians must ofnecessity be subject to mistakes, in explaining the motives of thoseactions they record, unless they derive their intelligence from thecandid 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 anycircumstance that may tend to the information of the reader. This,however, is a requisite that, I am afraid, would be very rarely foundamong the number of those who exhibit their own portraits to the public.Indeed, I will venture to say, that, how upright soever a man'sintentions may be, he will, in the performance of such a task, besometimes misled by his own phantasy, and represent objects, as theyappeared 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 himselfin the dispute, and espousing one side of the contest, with all the zealof a warm adherent. What wonder, then, that we should be heated in ourown concerns, review our actions with the same self-approbation that theyhad formerly acquired, and recommend them to the world with all theenthusiasm of paternal affection?
Supposing this to be the case, it was lucky for the cause of historicaltruth, that so many pens have been drawn by writers, who could not besuspected of such partiality; and that many great personages, among theancients as well as moderns, either would not or could not entertain thepublic with their own memoirs. From this want of inclination or capacityto write, in our hero himself, the undertaking is now left to me, oftransmitting to posterity the remarkable adventures of FERDINAND COUNTFATHOM; and by the time the reader shall have glanced over the subsequentsheets, I doubt not but he will bless God that the adventurer was not hisown historian.
This mirror of modern chivalry was none of those who owe their dignity tothe circumstances of their birth, and are consecrated from the cradle forthe purposes of greatness, merely because they are the accidentalchildren of wealth. He was heir to no visible patrimony, unless wereckon a robust constitution, a tolerable appearance, and an uncommoncapacity, as the advantages of inheritance. If the comparison obtains inthis point of consideration, he was as much as any man indebted to hisparent; and pity it was, that, in the sequel of his fortune, he never hadan opportunity of manifesting his filial gratitude and regard. From thisagreeable act of duty to his sire, and all those tendernesses that arereciprocally enjoyed betwixt the father and the son, he was unhappilyexcluded by a small circumstance; at which, however, he was never heardto repine. In short, had he been brought forth in the fabulous ages ofthe world, the nature of his origin might have turned to his account; hemight, like other heroes of antiquity, have laid claim to divineextraction, without running the risk of being claimed by an earthlyfather. Not that his parents had any reason to disown or renounce theiroffspring, or that there was anything preternatural in the circumstancesof 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 theworld amidst a whole cloud of witnesses. But, that he was acknowledgedby no mortal sire, solely proceeded from the uncertainty of his mother,whose affections were so dissipated among a number of admirers, that shecould never pitch upon the person from whose loins our hero sprung.
Over and above this important doubt under which he was begotten, otherparticularities attended his birth, and seemed to mark him out assomething uncommon among the sons of men. He was brought forth in awaggon, and might be said to be literally a native of two differentcountries; for, though he first saw the light in Holland, he was not borntill after the carriage arrived in Flanders; so that, all theseextraordinary circumstances considered, the task of determining to whatgovernment he naturally owed allegiance, would be at least as difficultas that of ascertaining the so much contested birthplace of Homer.
Certain it is, the Count's mother was an Englishwoman, who, after havingbeen five times a widow in one campaign, was, in the last year of therenowned Marlborough's command, numbered among the baggage of the alliedarmy, which she still accompanied, through pure benevolence of spirit,supplying the ranks with the refreshing streams of choice Geneva, andaccommodating individuals with clean linen, as the emergency of theiroccasions required. Nor was her philanthropy altogether confined to suchministration; she abounded with "the milk of human kindness," whichflowed plentifully among her fellow-creatures; and to every son of Marswho cultivated her favour, she liberally dispensed her smiles, in orderto 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 possiblyexclaim, "Good Heaven! will these authors never reform theirimaginations, and lift their ideas from the obscene objects of low life?Must the public be again disgusted with the grovelling adventures of awaggon? Will no writer of genius draw his pen in the vindication oftaste, and entertain us with the agreeable characters, the dignifiedconversation, the poignant repartee, in short, the genteel comedy of thepolite world?"
Have a little patience, gentle, delicate, sublime critic; you, I doubtnot, are one of those consummate connoisseurs, who, in theirpurifications, let humour evaporate, while they endeavour to preservedecorum, 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 withthose very flavours in the productions of their own country which haveyielded infinite delectation to their faculties, when imported fromanother clime; and d--n an author in despite of all precedent andprescription;--who extol the writings of Petronius Arbiter, read withrapture the amorous sallies of Ovid's pen, and chuckle over the story ofLucian's ass; yet, if a modern author presumes to relate the progress ofa simple intrigue, are shocked at the indecency and immorality of thescene;--who delight in following Guzman d'Alfarache, through all themazes of squalid beggary; who with pleasure accompany Don Quixote and hissquire, in the lowest paths of fortune; who are diverted with theadventures of Scarron's ragged troop of strollers, and highly entertainedwith the servile situations of Gil Blas; yet, when a character in humblelife occasionally occurs in a performance of our own growth, exclaim,with an air of disgust, "Was ever anything so mean! sure, this writermust have been very conversant with the lowest scenes of life";--who,when Swift or Pope represents a coxcomb in the act of swearing, scruplenot to laugh at the ridiculous execrations; but, in a less reputedauthor, condemn the use of such profane expletives;--who eagerly explorethe jakes of Rabelais, for amusement, and even extract humour from thedean's description of a lady's dressing-room; yet in a production ofthese days, unstamped with such venerable names, will stop their noses,with all the signs of loathing and abhorrence, at a bare mention of thechina chamber-pot;--who applauded Catullus, Juvenal, Persius, and Lucan,for their spirit in lashing the greatest names of antiquity; yet, when aBritish satirist, of this generation, has courage enough to call inquestion the talents of a pseudo-patron in power, accuse him ofinsolence, 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 allconvenient despatch, be gradually sublimed into those splendid connexionsof which you are enamoured; and God forbid, that, in the meantime, thenature of his extraction should turn to his prejudice in a land offreedom like this, where individuals are every day ennobled inconsequence of their own qualifications, without the least retrospectiveregard to the rank or merit of their ancestors. Yes, refined reader, weare hastening to that goal of perfection, where satire dares not show herface; where nature is castigated, almost even to still life; where humourturns changeling, and slavers in an insipid grin; where wit isvolatilised 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 forever drops the mild manna of soul-sweetening praise.