irs, Never a poor Wight of a Diarist had leſs hopes from her Journal than I have from this of mine; for it is written in a bye corner of the kingdome, and in a retired thatch’d houſe, where I live in conſtant endeavour to fence againſt the infirmities of ill health, and other evils of life, by mirth; being firmly perſuaded that every time a man ſmiles,-but much more ſo, when he laughs, that it adds ſomething to this Fragment of Life. I humbly beg, Sirs, that you will honour this journal by taking it—(not under your protection,—it muſt protect itſelf, but)—into your thoughts with you; where, if I am ever told, it hath made you ſmile, or can conceive, it hath beguiled you of one moment’s pain—I ſhall think myſelf happy;perhaps much happier than any one (one only excepted) that I have ever read or heard of.
I confeße that about eleven years paſt, for my private exerciſe and ſatisfaction, I began compoſing this during my leiſure hours, which being communicated unto one, it has become common unto many. He that peruſes this work ſhall take notice of ſundry particularities and perſonall expreßions therein, and will eaſily diſcern my intention as a private exerciſe directed to my ſelf. What is delivered therein is rather a memoriall unto me than an example or rule unto any other. What you read within theſe pages had begun to be ſet down many yeares paſt, and was the ſenſe of my conceptions at that time, not an immutable law unto my advancing judgement at all times, and therefore there might be many things therein plauſible unto my paßed apprehenſion, which are not agreeable unto my preſent ſelfe. There are many things delivered Rhetorically, many expreßions therein merely Tropical, and as they beſt illuſtrate my intention; and therefore alſo there are many things to be taken in a ſoft and flexible ſenſe, and not to be called unto the rigid teſt of reaſon. Laſtly all that is contained therein is in ſubmißion unto maturer diſcernments, and as I have declared ſhall no further mother them then the beſt and learned Judgements and animadverſions ſhall authorize them; under favour of which conſiderations I have made its ſecrecie publike and committed the truth thereof to every ingenuous Reader.
Mine humble beginnings can be traced to a beleaguered lineage of my countries' naturale ſon, as well as the mythic iſles of Arth Fawr's Labirynth of Snowdonia. My formative years were whiled away in the bucolick marches of my native Shire, rife with ſadneſs, poverty, and ſickneſs. Upon my coming of age, my gypſy blood inſpired travels to far and ſundry lands, and my comfort was gained from a life I maintained upon the æther, which I ſtill rely on in the form you ſee now. Since a young age, I have found myself in a pretty Humour for the writing of mine own thoughts, and the discourse of Natural Philosophy and Technologick Arts. I am a ſtudente focuſing on Ideas; Ideas of Artificial Life, Automata, Neuroſcience, Swarm Intelligence, Hermetic Philoſophy, and Hiſtory. The fearesomme curse of myne: I travel— I ſtay— I love— I flee. It is unintentional, and I never intend to be cavalier with the emotions of man, but my paſt ſpeaks so loudly, my words are without ſound. My curse is to be a Muſe, and while I do this well, the coſt is dire to the reciever of my gift. I uſed to be ſomeone elſe, but I've moved ſomewhere beyond that now, under another veil. I've viſited beautiful places— met inſpiring people. I have fallen in love— I've cried. I am only a perſon, after all.
Only for you, children of doctrine and learning, have I written unto this work. Examine this quainte journal, ponder the meaning I have diſperſed in various places and gathered again; what I have concealed in one place I have diſcloſed in another, that it may be underſtood by your wiſdom. Stay well, and love one who eſteems you.
I am, great Sirs, (and what is more to your Honours,) I am, good Sirs, Your Well-wiſher, and moſt humble Fellow-Subject, THE AUTHOR