The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom — Complete
in a censorious age; and an author cannot take too much precaution to
anticipate the prejudice, misapprehension, and temerity of malice,
ignorance, and presumption.
I therefore think it incumbent upon me to give some previous intimation
of the plan which I have executed in the subsequent performance, that I
may not be condemned upon partial evidence; and to whom can I with more
propriety appeal in my explanation than to you, who are so well
acquainted with all the sentiments and emotions of my breast?
A novel is a large diffused picture, comprehending the characters of
life, disposed in different groups, and exhibited in various attitudes,
for the purposes of an uniform plan, and general occurrence, to which
every individual figure is subservient. But this plan cannot be
executed with propriety, probability, or success, without a principal
personage to attract the attention, unite the incidents, unwind the
clue of the labyrinth, and at last close the scene, by virtue of his
own importance.
Almost all the heroes of this kind, who have hitherto succeeded on the
English stage, are characters of transcendent worth, conducted through
the vicissitudes of fortune, to that goal of happiness, which ever
ought to be the repose of extraordinary desert.—Yet the same principle
by which we rejoice at the remuneration of merit, will teach us to
relish the disgrace and discomfiture of vice, which is always an
example of extensive use and influence, because it leaves a deep
impression of terror upon the minds of those who were not confirmed in
the pursuit of morality and virtue, and, while the balance wavers,
enables the right scale to preponderate.
In the drama, which is a more limited field of invention, the chief
personage is often the object of our detestation and abhorrence; and we
are as well pleased to see the wicked schemes of a Richard blasted, and
the perfidy of a Maskwell exposed, as to behold a Bevil happy, and an
Edward victorious.
The impulses of fear, which is the most violent and interesting of all
the passions, remain longer than any other upon the memory; and for one
that is allured to virtue, by the contemplation of that peace and
happiness which it bestows, a hundred are deterred from the practice of
vice, by that infamy and punishment to which it is liable, from the
laws and regulations of mankind.
Let me not, therefore, be condemned for having chosen my principal
character from the purlieus of treachery and fraud, when I declare my
purpose is to set him up as a beacon for the benefit of the
unexperienced and unwary, who, from the perusal of these memoirs, may
learn to avoid the manifold snares with which they are continually
surrounded in the paths of life; while those who hesitate on the brink
of iniquity may be terrified from plunging into that irremediable gulf,
by surveying the deplorable fate of Ferdinand Count Fathom.
That the mind might not be fatigued, nor the imagination disgusted, by
a succession of vicious objects, I have endeavoured to refresh the
attention with occasional incidents of a different nature; and raised
up a virtuous character, in opposition to the adventurer, with a view
to amuse the fancy, engage the affection, and form a striking contrast
which might heighten the expression, and give a relief to the moral of
the whole.
If I have not succeeded in my endeavours to unfold the mysteries of
fraud, to instruct the ignorant, and entertain the vacant; if I have
failed in my attempts to subject folly to ridicule, and vice to
indignation; to rouse the spirit of mirth, wake the soul of compassion,
and touch the secret springs that move the heart; I have, at least,
adorned virtue with honour and applause, branded iniquity with reproach
and shame, and carefully avoided every hint or expression which could
give umbrage to the most delicate reader—circumstances which (whatever
may be my fate with the public) will with you always operate in favour
of,
Dear sir, your very affectionate friend and servant,
THE AUTHOR.
CHAPTER ONE
SOME SAGE OBSERVATIONS THAT NATURALLY INTRODUCE OUR IMPORTANT HISTORY.
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