Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett Part 26

Here he became acquainted with Miss Lascelles, a beautiful lady whom he afterwards married. She sat for the portrait of Narcissa, in "Roderick Random."

In 1746 he returned to England. He found the country ringing with indignation at the cruelties inflicted by c.u.mberland on the Highland rebels, and he caught and crystalised the prevalent emotion in his spirited lyric, "The Tears of Scotland." He published the same year his "Advice,"--a satirical poem upon things in general, and the public men of the day in particular. He wrote also an opera ent.i.tled "Alceste" for Covent Garden; but owing to a dispute with the manager, it was neither acted nor printed. In 1747 he produced "Reproof," the second part of "Advice,"--a poem which breathes the same manly indignation at the abuses, evils, and public charlatans of the day.

This year also he married Miss Lascelles, by whom he expected a fortune of three thousand pounds. This sum, however, was never fully realised; and his generous housekeeping, and the expenses of a litigation to which he was compelled, in connection with Miss Lascelles' money, embarra.s.sed his circ.u.mstances, and, much to the advantage of the world, drove him to literature. In 1748, he gave to the world his novel of "Roderick Random,"--counted by many the masterpiece of his genius. It brought him in both fame and emolument.

In 1749 he published, by subscription, his unfortunate tragedy, "The Regicide." In 1750 he went to Paris, and shortly after wrote his "Adventures of Peregrine Pickle," including the memoirs of the notorious Lady Vane--the substance of which he got from herself, and which added greatly to the popularity of the work. Notwithstanding the success he met with as a novelist, he was anxious to prosecute his original profession of medicine; and having procured from a foreign university the degree of M.D., he commenced to practise physic in Chelsea, but without success. He wrote, however, an essay "On the External Use of Water," in which he seems to have partly antic.i.p.ated the method of the cold-water cure. In 1753 he published his "Adventures of Count Fathom;" and, two years later, encouraged by a liberal subscription, he issued a translation of "Don Quixote," in two quarto volumes. While this work was printing, he went down to Scotland, visited his old scenes and old companions, and was received everywhere with enthusiasm. The most striking incident, however, in this journey was his interview with his mother, then residing in Scotston, near Peebles. He was introduced to her as a stranger gentleman from the West Indies; and, in order to retain his incognita, he endeavoured to maintain a serious and frowning countenance. While his mother, however, continued to regard him steadfastly, he could not forbear smiling; and she instantly sprang from her seat, threw her arms round his neck, and cried out, "Ah, my son, I have found you at last! Your old roguish smile has betrayed you."

Returning to England, he resumed his literary avocations. He became the editor of the _Critical Review_--an office, of all others, least fitted to his testy and irritable temperament. This was in 1756. He next published the "Compendium of Voyages," in seven volumes, 12mo. In 1757 he wrote a popular afterpiece, ent.i.tled "The Reprisals; or, the Tars of England;" and in 1758 appeared his "Complete History of England," in four volumes, quarto,--a work said to have been compiled in the almost incredibly short time of fourteen months. It became instantly popular, although distinguished by no real historical quality, except a clear and lively style.

An attack on Admiral Knowles in the _Critical Review_ greatly incensed the Admiral; and when he prosecuted the journal, Smollett stepped forward and avowed himself the author. He was sentenced to a fine of 100, and to three months' imprisonment. During his confinement in King's Bench, he composed the "Adventures of Sir Lancelot Greaves,"

which appeared first in detached numbers of the _British Magazine_, and was afterwards published separately in 1762. About this time, his busy pen was also occupied with histories of France, Italy, Germany, &c., and a continuation of his English History--all compilations--and some of them exceedingly unworthy of his genius. He became an ardent friend and supporter of Lord Bute, and started _The Briton_, a weekly paper, in his defence; which gave rise to the _North Briton_, by Wilkes. In our Life of Churchill, we have recounted his quarrel with that poet, and the chastis.e.m.e.nt inflicted on Smollett in "The Apology to the Critical Reviewers."

In 1763 he lost his only daughter, a girl of fifteen. This event threw him into deep despondency, and seriously affected his health. He went to France and Italy for two years; and on his return, in 1766, published two volumes of Travels--full of querulous and captious remarks--for which Sterne satirised him, under the name of Smelfungus.

The same year he again visited Scotland. In 1767 he published his "Adventures of an Atom,"--a political romance, displaying, under j.a.panese names, the different parties of Great Britain. A recurrence of ill health drove him back to Italy in 1770. At Monte Nuovo, near Leghorn, he wrote his delightful "Humphrey Clinker." This was his last work. He died at Leghorn on the 21st October 1771, in the fifty-first year of his age. His widow erected a plain monument to his memory, with an inscription by Dr Armstrong. In 1774 a Tuscan monument was erected on the banks of the Leven by his cousin, James Smollett, Esq., of Bonhill. As his wife was left in poor circ.u.mstances, the tragedy of "Venice Preserved" was acted at Edinburgh for her benefit, and the money remitted to Italy.

Smollett, for variety of powers, and indefatigable industry, has seldom been surpa.s.sed. He was a politician, a poet, a physician, a historian, a translator, a writer of travels, a dramatist, a novelist, a writer on medical subjects, and a miscellaneous author. It is only, however, as a novelist and a poet that he has any claims to the admiration of posterity. His history survives solely because it is usually bound up with Hume's. His translation of "Don Quixote" has been eclipsed by after and more accurate versions. His "Tour to Italy"

is a succession of asthmatic gasps and groans. His "Regicide", and other plays, are entirely forgotten. So also are his critical, medical, political, and miscellaneous effusions.

In fiction he is undoubtedly a great original. He had no model, and has had no imitator. His qualities as a novel-writer are rapidity of narrative, variety of incident, ease of style, graphic description, and an exquisite eye for the humours, peculiarities, and absurdities of character and life. In language he is generally careless, but whenever a great occasion occurs, he rises to meet it, and writes with dignity, correctness, and power. His sea-characters, such as Bowling, and his characters of low-life, such as Strap, have never been excelled. His tone of morals is always low, and often offensively coa.r.s.e. In wit, constructiveness, and general style, he is inferior to Fielding; but surpa.s.ses him in interest, ease, variety, and humour, "Roderick Random" is the most popular and bustling of his tales.

"Peregrine Pickle" is the filthiest and least agreeable; its humours are forced and exaggerated, and the sea-characters seem caricatures of those in "Roderick Random;" just as Norna of the Fitful Head, and Magdalene Graeme, are caricatures of Meg Merriless. "Sir Lancelot Greaves" is a tissue of trash, redeemed only here and there by traits of humour. "The Adventures of an Atom" we never read. "Humphrey Clinker" is the most delightful novel, with the exception of the Waverley series, in the English language. "Ferdinand, Count Fathom,"

contains much that is disgusting, but parts of it surpa.s.s all the rest in originality and profundity. We refer especially to the description of the pretended English Squire in Paris, who _bubbles_ the great _bubbler_ of the tale; to Count Fathom's address to Britain, when he reaches her sh.o.r.es,--a piece of exquisite mock-heroic irony; to the narrative of the seduction in the west of England; and to the matchless robber-scene in the forest,--a pa.s.sage in which one knows not whether more to admire the thrilling interest of the incidents, or the eloquence and power of the language. It is a scene which Scott has never surpa.s.sed, nor, except in the cliff-scene in the "Antiquary,"

and, perhaps, the barn-scene in the "Heart of Midlothian,"

ever equalled.

Smollett's poetry need not detain us long. In his twin satires, "Advice" and "Reproof," you see rather the will to wound than the power to strike. There are neither the burnished compression, and polished, pointed malice of Pope, nor the gigantic force and vehement fury of Churchill. His "Tears of Scotland" is not thoroughly finished, but has some delicate and beautiful strokes. "Leven Water" is sweet and murmuring as that stream itself. His "Ode to Independence," as we have said elsewhere, "should have been written by Burns. How that poet's lips must have watered, as he repeated the line--

'Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye,'

and remembered he was not their author! He said he would have given ten pounds to have written 'Donochthead'--he would have given ten times ten, if, poor fellow! he had had them, to have written the 'Ode to Independence'--although, in his 'Vision of Liberty,' he has matched Smollett on his own ground." Grander lines than the one we have quoted above, and than the following--

"A G.o.ddess violated brought thee forth,"

are not to be found in literature. Round this last one, the whole ode seems to turn as on a pivot, and it alone had been sufficient to stamp Smollett a man of lofty poetic genius.

SMOLLETT'S POEMS

ADVICE: A SATIRE.

----Sed podice levi Caeduntur tumidae, medico ridente, mariscae.

O proceres! censore opus est, an haruspice n.o.bis?

JUVENAL.

----Nam quis Peccandi finem posuit sibi? quando recepit Ejectum semel atterita de fronte ruborem?

_Ibid._

POET.

Enough, enough; all this we knew before; 'Tis infamous, I grant it, to be poor: And who, so much to sense and glory lost, Will hug the curse that not one joy can boast?

From the pale hag, oh! could I once break loose, Divorced, all h.e.l.l should not re-tie the noose!

Not with more care shall H-- avoid his wife, Nor Cope[1] fly swifter, las.h.i.+ng for his life, Than I to leave the meagre fiend behind.

FRIEND.

Exert your talents; Nature, ever kind, 10 Enough for happiness bestows on all; 'Tis Sloth or Pride that finds her gifts too small.

Why sleeps the Muse?--is there no room for praise, When such bright constellations blaze?

When sage Newcastle[2], abstinently great, Neglects his food to cater for the state; And Grafton[3], towering Atlas of the throne, So well rewards a genius like his own: Granville and Bath[4] ill.u.s.trious, need I name, For sober dignity, and spotless fame; 20 Or Pitt, the unshaken Abdiel yet unsung: Thy candour, Chomdeley! and thy truth, O Younge!

POET.

The advice is good; the question only, whether These names and virtues ever dwelt together?

But what of that? the more the bard shall claim, Who can create as well as cherish fame.

But one thing more,--how loud must I repeat, To rouse the engaged attention of the great,--Amused, perhaps, with C--'s prolific hum[5], Or rapt amidst the transports of a drum;[6] 30 While the grim porter watches every door, Stern foe to tradesmen, poets, and the poor, The Hesperian dragon not more fierce and fell, Nor the gaunt growling janitor of h.e.l.l?

Even Atticus (so wills the voice of Fate) Enshrines in clouded majesty his state; Nor to the adoring crowd vouchsafes regard, Though priests adore, and every priest a bard.

Shall I then follow with the venal tribe, And on the threshold the base mongrel bribe? 40 Bribe him to feast my mute imploring eye With some proud lord, who smiles a gracious lie!

A lie to captivate my heedless youth, Degrade my talents, and debauch my truth; While, fool'd with hope, revolves my joyless day, And friends, and fame, and fortune, fleet away; Till, scandal, indigence, and scorn my lot, The dreary jail entombs me, where I rot!

Is there, ye varnish'd ruffians of the state!

Not one among the millions whom ye cheat, 50 Who, while he totters on the brink of woe, Dares, ere he falls, attempt the avenging blow,--A steady blow, his languid soul to feast, And rid his country of one curse at least?

FRIEND.

What! turn a.s.sa.s.sin?

POET.

Let the a.s.sa.s.sin bleed: My fearless verse shall justify the deed.

'Tis he who lures the unpractised mind astray, Then leaves the wretch, to misery a prey; Perverts the race of Virtue just begun, And stabs the Public in her ruin'd son. 60

FRIEND.

Heavens! how you rail; the man's consumed by spite!

If Lockman's fate[7] attends you when you write, Let prudence more propitious arts inspire; The lower still you crawl, you'll climb the higher.

Go then, with every supple virtue stored, And thrive, the favour'd valet of my lord.

Is that denied? a boon more humble crave.

And minister to him who serves a slave; Be sure you fasten on promotion's scale, Even if you seize some footman by the tail: 70 The ascent is easy, and the prospect clear, From the smirch'd scullion to the embroider'd peer.

The ambitious drudge preferr'd, postilion rides, Advanced again, the chair benighted guides; Here doom'd, if Nature strung his sinewy frame, The slave, perhaps, of some insatiate dame; But if, exempted from the Herculean toil, A fairer field awaits him, rich with spoil, There shall he s.h.i.+ne, with mingling honours bright, His master's pathic, pimp, and parasite; 80 Then strut a captain, if his wish be war, And grasp, in hope, a truncheon and a star: Or if the sweets of peace his soul allure, Bask at his ease, in some warm sinecure; His fate in consul, clerk, or agent vary, Or cross the seas, an envoy's secretary; Composed of falsehood, ignorance, and pride, A prostrate sycophant shall rise a Lloyd; And, won from kennels to the impure embrace, Accomplish'd Warren triumph o'er disgrace. 90

POET.

Eternal infamy his name surround, Who planted first that vice on British ground!

A vice that, spite of sense and nature, reigns, And poisons genial love, and manhood stains!

Pollio! the pride of science and its shame, The Muse weeps o'er thee, while she brands thy name!

Abhorrent views that prost.i.tuted groom, The indecent grotto, or polluted dome!

There only may the spurious pa.s.sion glow, Where not one laurel decks the caitiff's brow, 100 Obscene with crimes avow'd, of every dye, Corruption, l.u.s.t, oppression, perjury.

Let Chardin[8], with a chaplet round his head, The taste of Maro and Anacreon plead, 'Sir, Flaccus knew to live as well as write, And kept, like me, two boys array'd in white;'

Worthy to feel that appetence of fame Which rivals Horace only in his shame!

Let Isis[9] wail in murmurs as she runs, Her tempting fathers, and her yielding sons; 110 While dulness screens the failings of the Church, Nor leaves one sliding Rabbi in the lurch: Far other raptures let the breast contain, Where heaven-born taste and emulation reign.

FRIEND.