Count Fathom, part 1 | Page 7

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