MEMOIRS OF MARTINUS SCRIBLERUS'. INTRODUCTION TO THE READER. In the reign of Queen Anne (which, notwithstanding those happy times which succeeded, every Englishman may remember) thou mayst possibly, gentle reader, have seen a certain venerable person who frequented the outside of the Palace of St. James's, and who, by the gravity of his deportment and habit, was generally taken for a decayed gentleman of Spain. His stature was tall, his visage long, his complexion olive, his brows 1 Mr. Pope, Dr. Arbuthnot, and Dr. Swift projected to write a satire, in conjunction, on the abuses of human learning; and to make it the better received, they proposed to do it in the manner of Cervantes (the original author of this species of satire) under the history of some feigned adventures. They had observed those abuses still kept their ground against all that the ablest and gravest authors could say to discredit them; they concluded therefore, the force of ridicule was wanting to quicken their disgrace; which was here in its place, when the abuses had been already detected by sober reasoning; and Truth in no danger to suffer by the premature use of so powerful an instrument. But the separation of our authors' friends, which soon after happened, with the death of one, and the infirmities of the other, put a final stop to their project, when they had only drawn out an imperfect essay towards it, under the title of the First Book of the Memoirs of Scriblerus. Polite letters never lost more than in the defeat of this scheme, in which each of this illustrious triumvirate would have found exercise for his own peculiar talent; besides constant employment for that they all had in common. Dr. Arbuthnot was skilled in every thing which related to science; Mr. Pope was a master in fine arts; and Dr. Swift excelled in the knowledge of the world. Wit they had all in equal measure, and this so large, that no age perhaps ever produced three men, to whom Nature had more bountifully bestowed it, or Art brought it to high perfection. (Warburton.) were black and even, his eyes hollow yet piercing, his nose inclined to aquiline, his beard neglected and mixed with grey: all this contributed to spread a solemn melancholy over his countenance. Pythagoras was not more silent, Pyrrho more motionless, nor Zeno more austere. His wig was as black and smooth as the plumes of a raven, and hung as straight as the hair of a river god rising from the water. His cloak so completely covered his whole person, that whether or no he had any other clothes (much less any linen) under it, I shall not say; but his sword appeared a full yard behind him, and his manner of wearing it was so stiff, that it seemed grown to his thigh. His whole figure was so utterly unlike anything of this world, that it was not natural for any man to ask him a question without blessing himself first. Those who never saw a Jesuit, took him for one, and others believed him some high priest of the Jews. But under this macerated form was concealed a mind replete with science, burning with a zeal of benefiting his fellowcreatures, and filled with an honest conscious pride, mixed with a scorn of doing or suffering the least thing beneath the dignity of a philosopher. Accordingly he had a soul that would not let him accept of any offers of charity, at the same time that his body seemed but too much to require it. His lodging was in a small chamber up four pair of stairs, where he regularly paid for what he had when he eat or drank; and he was often observed wholly to abstain from both. He declined speaking to any one, except the Queen, or her first Minister, to whom he attempted to make some applications; but his real business or intentions were utterly unknown to all men. Thus much is certain, that he was obnoxious to the Queen's Ministry; who either out of jealousy or envy, had him spirited away, and carried abroad as a dangerous person, without any regard to the known laws of the kingdom. One day, as this gentleman was walking about dinnertime alone in the Mall, it happened that a manuscript dropped from under his cloak, which my servant picked up, and brought to me. It was written in the Latin tongue, and contained many most profound secrets, in an unusual turn of reasoning and style. The first leaf was inscribed with these words, Codicillus, seu Liber Memorialis, Martini Scribelri. The book was of so wonderful a nature, that it is incredible what a desire I conceived that moment to be acquainted with the author, who I clearly perceived was some great philosopher in disguise. I several times endeavoured to speak to him, which he as often industriously avoided. At length I found an opportunity (as he stood under the Piazza by the Dancing-room in St. James's) to acquaint him in the Latin tongue, that his manuscript was fallen into my hands; and, saying this, I presented it to him, with great encomiums on the learned author. Hereupon he took me aside, surveyed me over with a fixed attention, and opening the clasps of the parchment cover, spoke (to my great surprise) in English, as follows: 'Courteous stranger, whoever thou art, I embrace thee as my best friend; for either the stars and my art are deceitful, or the destined time is come which is to manifest Martinus Scriblerus to the world, and thou the person chosen by fate for this task. What thou seest in me is a body exhausted by the labours of the mind. I have found in Dame Nature not indeed an unkind, but a very coy Mistress: watchful nights, anxious days, slender meals, and endless labours, must be the lot of all who pursue her through her labyrinths and meanders. My first vital air I drew in this island (a soil fruitful of philosophers), but my complexion is become adust, and my body arid, by visiting lands (as the poet has it) alio sub sole calentes. I have, through my whole life, passed under several disguises and unknown names, to screen myself from the envy and malice which mankind express against those who are possessed of the Arcanum Magnum. But at present I am forced to take sanctuary in the British Court, to avoid the revenge of a cruel Spaniard, who has pursued me almost through the whole terraqueous globe. Being about four years ago in the city of Madrid in quest of natural knowledge, I was informed of a lady who was marked with a pomegranate upon the inside of her right thigh, which blossomed, and, as it were, seemed to ripen in the due season. Forthwith was I possessed with an insatiable curiosity to view this wonderful phenomenon. I felt the ardour of my passion increase as the season advanced, till, in the month of July, I could no longer contain. I bribed her duenna, was admitted to the bath, saw her undressed, and the wonder displayed. This was soon after discovered by the husband, who finding some letters I had writ to the duenna, |