EPISTLE DEDICATORY
To the Right Honourable, Illustrious and Puissant Prince,
HUMPHREY, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER,
Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, etc., etc.
It were but lost labour on my part (most illustrious) should I presume to give the especial reasons or prerogative instances whereby I am moved to offer unto Your Grace these poor ingatherings of a scholar's toil. For your universal favour and benevolent encouragement toward men of letters is a thing widely known; and if amongst scholars, that are vulgarly supposed to form a Commonwealth, it be lawful to set up lordship, this I make no doubt shall by the consent of all be assigned unto you. Of late years, I confess, Patronage hath been a thing little used and but meanly conceited of; but indeed I know not how it would have gone with myself and many others of like employ, had it not been for Your Grace's hospitality. How many a poor author hath had at home but a scurvy bin and piggin, a bare floor and barer trencher, a cup void not only of canary, but even of small ale. How many a scholar, I say, hath passed away the best years of his life, the flower of his age, in some mean cock-loft, with scarce enough air, (let alone meat and drink) for his sustenance: the which lack of air being by itself well recognised for a sufficient cause of melancholy. And when we consider the other misfortunes which are rather to be esteemed essential than accidental to such a life: the slow decay of hope, the loneliness of days and weeks and years, the scorn of others, and (often) the contempt of one's very self, it will readily be received that whosoever doth aught to mitigate the hardships of this estate is most worthy of praise, thankofferings, and lowly service. The which hath been Your Grace's office, I mean to entertain a sort of men mighty little esteemed in the Commonwealth, being held by the most of the people at an equal price with mere strollers or common vagabonds; differing only in this, that we scholars so far from roaming about do rather use not to venture out of doors, for fear and shame lest our ragged small-clothes and greasy doublets should draw on us open scorn and derision. But I suspect that in this particular I shall scarcely gain much credit, scholarship and shame being generally accounted as incompatibles, and as little likely to coexist in one person as heat and cold, at the same time, in one and the same substance. And indeed it were well for us if this should be so: and let him that leaveth the shelter of his chimney corner (though it be in a kitchen) and adventureth up to town to make his fortune by letters, take heed that he have about his heart that harness of strong oak and triple brass that Horace writes of. I say nothing of them that are driven by ill hap to try their luck (as the phrase goes), they have no choice, and may be are as well off as they expected. But I would have him who abandons of his own free will a good home, kindred, acquaintance, and the life to make account of these things. That for plenty, he shall have want, for love, scorn and contempt, for familiarity, loneliness and desolation. For pure air he shall gain a Stygian fume, a black mist, a sooty smoke: for those delicious meadows, heathery mountains, rustling woods, and all such prospects of delight, a Cretan labyrinth, a stony wilderness, a dædal wandering along whose turnings and returnings do go such companies and pomps as the old Tuscan Poet beheld in his vision. Vexilla regis prodeunt inferni, said he of them, in a parody of Vincentius his hymn; and I doubt not that the line would stand as good in application to certain of our trained bands as to those of Hell itself. Truly then do we poor folk owe what service we are able to pay Your Grace, who, spite of mean dress and poverty (justly accounted by Mr. Hobbes for shame and dishonour) is pleased to entertain us at that board, where so great a multitude of our brotherhood has feasted before. For your illustrious line hath now for many generations made it a peculiar glory to supply the needs of lettered men; and as we sit at meat it seems (methinks) as if those mighty men of old did sit beside us and taste with us once more the mingled cup we drink. The ingenious author of Don Quixote de la Mancha must, I suppose, have often dined with the Duke of his age, Mr. Peter Corneille and Mr. Otway, Senhor Camoens, Rare Old Ben, Signori Tasso and Ariosto, not seldom: while young Mr. Chatterton the poet did not only dine, but break his fast, take his morning draught, and sup with Your Grace's great-grandfather, till at last he died of a mere repletion. In fine, throughout all ages the House of Gloucester hath stood our friend; and not one whit do you (most honourable) degenerate from the Dukes of the former time. Nay, I believe that there are as many bucks killed and butts of claret and canary tapped, as many benches round the board now as ever there were; for our race doth in these days discover no very manifest signs of diminution: I can assert at all events that did we (like Holy Church) draw our graces and inspiration as by a chain and a continual succession, there would be no fear warranted lest the line should become extinct.
This poor offering then I am bold to present for Your Grace's acceptance; and if there shall be found in it aught of sweet savour or pleasant discoursing, lay it not up to my poor wit (or at least in but a small degree) but to Your Grace's entertainment and familiarity. And let it please you, my Lord, to be assured of this: that the butler may always set a cup and trencher on the board for me, since (unlike to some others) I shall never scorn Your Grace's hospitality:
But do now, and ever shall remain
Your Grace's most obliged,
humble servant,
ARTHUR MACHEN, Silurist.
Here begins the veracious Chronicle of Clemendy, the which was compiled and written by Gervase Perrot of Clemendy, Gentleman, Lord of the Manor of Pwllcwrw (Beerpool) and Tankard Marshall of the Assize of Ale. And in this volume are contained all those witty and facetious discourses, jests and histories done in the parlour of Clemendy, on the Forest Road, and in the town of Uske, when the Silurists journeyed thither on the Portreeve's festival. And first is set down the Discourse of Ale, the same standing first in the Latin book.