In which our Author explains the curious Chain of Events which led to the Writing of this History.
AND SO AFFECTION FOR the Country got the better of all Thoughts of Town, and Land came to satisfy our Dreams of Sea; and we changed the Name of Lymeworth to Merriman Park (tho’ certainly not without hearty Protestations from Isobel, who wisht the Name to be Merriwych Park), and we liv’d there in Peace and Harmony, cultivating our beauteous Gardens, breeding Lustre’s lovely Progeny, raising you—a frolicsome, merry, red-headed Marvel of a Girl—in the green and fertile Wiltshire Countryside.
I was rich enough to keep the Law at bay, for Justice, as Lancelot always knew, is the Province of the Rich. So, too, is Literature, I fear; for ’twas only when I well and truly found myself an Heiress, and when I had Lancelot and the Merry Men (as well as Isobel and Lady Bellars) to aid in raising you, that I sat down at my Writing Bureau and began in earnest to be the Bard I wisht to be.
Lancelot serv’d as Steward for the Estate (for he would entrust that Post to no one but himself); and verily he greatly increas’d our Prosperity and made our Fields and Gardens, not to mention our Stables, among the Marvels of the Countryside. Mary, as you know, married Francis Bacon, whereupon they proceeded to torment each other for the Duration of their Lives together (since your Aunt Mary, from earliest Girlhood, lov’d nothing better than a good English Roast Beef, whereas Francis Bacon referr’d to the same as “Dead Cow” and made her quite miserable for eating his “Four-legged Friends”).
I will not trouble you with all the Particulars of my Lit’ry Career, much of which is already well-known. Suffice it to say, that I began, like most Scribblers, with Imitation of the Ancients—a Great Epick of my Travels and Adventures, couch’d in Perfect Heroick Couplets, which I call’d, after the Fashion of the Day, The Pyratiad. In this Epick I told all I knew of Sailing Ships and the Spanish Main, of the Travels of a Group of Valiant Pyrates call’d the Merry Men (whom ev’ryone believ’d were mere Inventions of the Poet’s Fancy), of the famous Female Pyrate, Anne Bonny, as well as Slavers, Slaves, the Buccaneers, the Pyrate Round upon the Eastern Seas—which was by then, the latter 1720s, entering the Realm of Legend (and consequently, becoming more and more the Subject of Books and Poems). I was wily enough, by this Juncture in my Life, to sign my Name Captain F. Jones, which ev’ryone presum’d was a Man.
This Epick Poem was a dazzling Success! The Criticks rav’d; the Publick bought out the Printings ere the Ink was dry. Ev’ryone in London clamour’d to meet Captain Jones! Belles sigh’d for him and Beaux wisht to interrogate him o’er the Design of Ships; Matrons wisht to present their Marriageable Daughters, and Composers wisht to collaborate with him in styling Entertainments for the Stage. Why, the King Himself askt a Royal Audience, and Letters pour’d into Merriman Park, inviting me to London, Paris, Rome, Boston, New York, e’en Constantinople!
Seduced by this Success, thinking that the World at last had recogniz’d my Goddess-given Gift, I dreamt of leaving my Solitary Chamber, journeying up to London, and revealing myself as Fanny Jones, the Author of the Epick! ’Twas a piteous, tho’ natural enough Mistake. But O ’twas boring in the Country, tho’ beauteous, and besides, what Scribbler doth not dream of Excuses to leave her Writing Bureau and mingle with the Beau Monde in Town? Writing is a lonely, melancholick Art; and the newly famous, in particular, are inclin’ed towards Foolish Fancies concerning the Pleasures to be had in Town—the Balls, Assemblies, Masquerades, and Musicales; the Coffee-Houses, Plays, and Operas, all the fashionable Strut of brittle London Life.
Isobel warn’d me not to go—tho’ the new and mellow Lancelot was e’er indulgent with my Fancies. But Isobel said: “When they discover Captain Jones is but a Wench—and a luscious one at that—they will account your Person more and your Writing less, mark my Words.”
I scoff’d at this, thinking Isobel e’er too sensitive concerning Woman’s Lot and e’er wary of Persecution as a Witch. Besides, I dreamt of a Royal Audience whereby I might secure the Pardons of all the Merry Men, so that henceforth we should not live with the nagging Ghost of Fear.
In short, I disobey’d my Mother, and I went.
The King was amaz’d to see a Wench where he had presum’d a Man, and in a Fit of Generosity (and perhaps Lust) he granted all the Pardons that I wisht—for myself, Lancelot, and for the Merry Men. He also marvell’d o’er my Knowledge of the Seas (for, as Captain Jones, I was presum’d to be a great Sailor, but now that I was seen to be a Woman, the King Himself was quite amaz’d that I should know a Foresail from a Mizzenroyal, a Bowsprit from a Boom! ’Twas suddenly as if I had become the Village Idiot who writes, by chance, a clever Couplet; or a Babe that babbles, by mistake, a Latin Word!
Nor did the Estimation of the Town fail to change—much to my Astonishment. I understood at once how naïve I had been to assume that the self-same Standards prevail for Female Scribblers as for Male. If any Grub Street Hack had written The Pyratiad, he would have been securely enthron’d upon Parnassus, but O, ’twas not the case when that same Poem issu’d from a Female Pen! For tho’ the Offers of Audiences, Assemblies, and Balls did not cease, there was now an unmistakable edge of Lewdness to ’em. Moreo’er, the very Coffeehouse Wits, and e’en the Criticks themselves changed their previous Estimation of The Pyratiad. Where before my Style had been “strong and manly,” ’twas now said to be “weak and effeminate.” Where before the Characters of the Merry Men had been much admir’d, ’twas now bruited about that, as one Scribbling Rogue hath put it, “A Female Pen is insufficient to portray the Characters and Passions of Men.” I was further denounced for being a vain, unsext, unnatural Woman, a vile Seeker after Fame and Fortune, a Slut and a Whore. Humiliated, my Innocence once again outraged by the Calumnies of the World, I fled Home to Lancelot and Lymeworth—or rather to Merriman Park.
The Pyratiad continu’d to sell upon the Strength of Scandal, tho’ its Lit’ry Reputation declin’d. Lancelot, who had also been made to eat Humble Pye when his Hopes of a Deocracy were dasht and dasht again, understood better than anyone my Disappointments. Thus, the Denunciation of my so lately prais’d Epick forg’d betwixt us an e’en tighter Bond. O we lov’d each other truly now—join’d as we were by Love, by Lust, by shar’d Adversity, and by Belinda, our lovely Daughter (whom Lancelot lov’d as if he’d sir’d her himself, nay better). Still, we ne’er married, for I’d be damn’d if I’d give a Man—e’en a Man as loving as my Lancelot—Pow’r o’er my Lands and Houses, Stocks and Bonds! Lancelot might share all that I had, but under the Law, if I married him, he would have Title to all, not I; for thus were Wives treated under Britannia’s Statutes. I was resolv’d, therefore, ne’er to marry (which Lancelot, who was no Friend to the Law himself, fully applauded and understood).
I return’d, after a Period of Mourning, to my Scribbling. Damn ’em all—I thought—those rude splenetick London Rogues! I’ll not be silenced by a Parcel of Poltroons! Whereupon, as is well-known, I scribbl’d in the next score of Years a score of Romances in Mrs. Haywood’s Manner, which made both me and my Bookseller richer than “The Beggar’s Opera” made Mr. Rich, and gayer than the same made Mr. Gay!
O I had Fame and Fortune from my Fictions now—tho’ scarcely lofty Reputation. I scribbl’d my Romances, and nurtur’d my Beloveds, for I knew, after so many Losses, that Love is the closest we know of Heaven in this Weary World, and we must love the Human ere we may know the Divine! I liv’d for Lancelot, Belinda, my two Mothers, and the Merry Men; to tend my Garden, breed my Horses, feed my Turtledoves, scamper with my Dogs, and write my Books. I made good also my Promise to Bartholomew by publishing his Book—tho’, alas, it sank upon the vast Seas of the Publick’s Indiff’rence without a Trace; for the Time was not yet ripe to question the Slave Trade from which accru’d to England such Riches, Rums, and Sweets, borne upon the beaten Backs of Slaves. I griev’d for the Fate of Bartholomew’s Book, almost glad that he was not here to behold it; but save for that, I was happy enough with my beloved Lancelot, Belinda, and my Works.
Then, in that infamous Year, 1749, there came to me, wrapp’d in a single Sheet of Foolscap, and inscrib’d in John Cleland’s own Mocking Hand, an Outrage which demanded my Reply. ’Twas a loathsome Book, issu’d by my own Bookseller, that Bloody Rogue, Ralph Griffiths (hiding behind the preposterous Rubrick of G. Fenton) and call’d—O Calumny!—Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure! It told of a simp’ring, cloying Heroine, call’d Fanny Hill, obviously modell’d upon my youthful Self, who toil’d in a Brothel, and lov’d the Masculine Member so dearly and so well that she had dozens of delicious, adoring Terms for it!
I read this so-called “Memoir” and my Blood boil’d! To think that Cleland, to whom I’d been so kind, would slander and defile me for his Bread alone! For he wrote the bloody Thing merely to slither out of Debtor’s Prison—where he might have rotted for Eternity for all I car’d!
Lancelot bade me forget the Insult, quoting to me Dean Swift’s clever lines:
If on Parnassus’ Top you sit,
You rarely bite, are always bit;
Each Poet of inferior Size
on you shall rail and criticize;
and strive to tear you Limb from Limb,
While others do as much for him.
Isobel argu’d that ’twas my Popularity as a Romancer which provokt such an Attack, for is there not an Arabick Proverb which goes, “No one throws Stones at a Barren Tree”?
But I was too enrag’d to heed either Lover or Mother. Very well, then, thought I, the Time hath come to tell my own History to the World. For, oft’ when we have nurs’d a Dream for many a Year, ’tis some mundane Provocation which stirs our Blood and piques us to begin to make that Dream come true. Since our Return to Wiltshire I had dreamt (whilst scribbling my Mock-Epick and Romances) of writing the History of my Life and Adventures for you, my Daughter, so that when you should go out into the Great World, you should not go empty-handed, but should have a Loving Guide amidst the sundry Dilemmas Fate would surely put before you. (O I would give you my tatter’d red Garter as well—and someday you would give it to your Daughter—but I wisht you to have Words of Wisdom as well as Witchcraft, Sagacity as well as Spells!)
I dreamt of such a Book, yet hesitated. Fear of Censure held back my Hand; ’twas not the Fashion of the Time to write one’s own Life History. Besides, there were other, still more puissant Fears: the Witchcraft Acts were not repeal’d till ’36, and in the Country there were still such Villains as would stone or hang a poor old Woman for the Charge of Witchcraft. Moreo’er Pope, my Nemesis, still liv’d, and wielded the awesome Pow’r of scribbling his Enemies into The Dunciad. (He had put me there as a Minor Dunce—doubtless for my Success in writing Romances and for my slighting him those many Years ago.) But what if I should tell the Truth of him? O terrible to think of his Revenge! Thus till he dy’d in ’44, I could not tell all that I knew of him.
And so I dreamt, but hesitated; for I knew that if I wrote a Book for my Daughter, and wrote it as a Testament of Love, I must hide nothing, but tell the utter Truth; both Clio and the Goddess must guide my Quill.
Cleland’s Book was, then, a curious Barb, a Blessing in Disguise, a sort of Dare. Nor did it discourage me that both Mr. Richardson and Mr. Fielding had begun to write Histories in which English Scenes and Characters of Low Estate march’d thro’ the Pages of a Book in lieu of Lords and Ladies in Exotick Lands. Perhaps this was a curious Sign as well, that I might write of all the Common Rogues which Fate had brought before my Eyes. For was not my authentick History as stirring as Fanny Hill’s, or Pamela’s, or e’en that of Tom Jones? Orphan, Whore, Adventuress, Kept Woman, Slaver, Amanuensis, Witch, e’en a pardon’d Pyrate! By the Goddess, ’twas my own Life History that made a better History than any fancied History. And by the Goddess, ’twas the Time to tell it all!
You, my Belinda, had grown from Beauteous Babe to Beauteous Woman in what seem’d the Blink of an Eye; and to my Sadness, yet my Resignation, you wisht to make a Grand Tour of the Globe, to visit all the Places I had seen and some that I had not—America! (For tho’ I’d seen the Azure Caribee, I ne’er had touch’d the New World’s fabl’d Shores.) And now you wisht a Voyage to those Lands—both civiliz’d and savage—which your Mother had not seen.
I knew I could not keep you from this Dream; and yet I wisht to write a Book for you, which you might press unto your Bosom as you roam’d the World, consult in Times of Need, and which I dreamt should bring you safely Home—to Merriman, your Birthright, and to me.
And so I took my Quill in Hand, and I began.