PEREGRINE PICKLE AND FERDINAND COUNT FATHOM—DOCTOR OF PHYSIC

Both during his stay in Paris, and on his return, Smollett had been working steadily at his new novel, which he had called The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle. The title of all his books affords a clue to their character. Incident—vigorous, well described incident, lively, incessant, exhaustless—such was the ‘mode’ of fiction our author had determined to make his own. Hence the titles of his works—The Adventures of Roderick Random, The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle, The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom, The Adventures of Sir Launcelot Greaves, The Expedition of Humphrey Clinker—are genuinely descriptive of his style of writing. He had no patience for the slow analysis of character, or the exhibition of wire–drawn sentiments. His novels were always on the boil. There was no cooling down of the interest permitted, even for a moment. No sooner was the hero done with one incident than another was hard on its trail to overtake him. Ennui and dullness have a bad time of it while one of Smollett’s novels is in course of perusal.

In 1750, acting upon the urgent solicitations of his wife, he made a last attempt to establish himself as a physician. Mrs. Smollett did not exactly appreciate a husband who had no profession. Poor Nancy does not seem to have been a very suitable yokefellow for our busy litterateur. She had no reverence for literature as such, or for its professors. She had all a woman’s desire for social distinction. But in order to take any position in that society after which this poor little Eve of the eighteenth century panted as eagerly as those of the nineteenth, an indispensable desideratum was that her husband should belong to one of the recognised professions, even although it might be only ‘something in the City’! To hope to settle in London was out of the question. That had been already tried, and had failed. Perhaps the good folks of the city of King Bladud might be more amenable to the recommendations of Dr. Smollett’s skill. Therefore Smollett resolved to settle at Bath, and see whether he could gain a living as a doctor at the great eighteenth century Spa.

Before this project could be put into practice, however, medical etiquette demanded he should take a physician’s degree. Hitherto he only had secured a surgeon’s certificate, and that was of little service at Bath. Accordingly, he proceeded to take his degree of M.D., and thereafter had a right to sign himself ‘Dr. Smollett.’ Considerable doubt existed formerly regarding the University whence our author obtained his diploma. Even so late as in Dr. Anderson’s time (1805–1820, the dates of the editions of his book), the question had not been decided. The statement in his Life of Smollett that his diploma was probably obtained from some foreign University, and that ‘the researches which have hitherto been made in the lists of graduates in the Scottish Universities, have not discovered his name,’ led investigators to every other quarter but the right one. All the registers of the foreign medical schools were ransacked in vain. To Sir Walter Scott must be ascribed the honour of settling the matter once for all, by proving that Smollett was a medical graduate of Aberdeen. Let Sir Walter speak for himself. He says: ‘The late ingenious artist, Mr. H. W. Williams of Edinburgh, tells us in his Travels, that a friend of his had seen in 1816, at Leghorn, the diploma of Smollett’s doctorate, and that it was an Aberdeen one. The present editor thought it worth while to inquire into this, and Professor Cruikshank has politely forwarded a certificated copy of the diploma, which was granted by the Marischal College of Aberdeen in 1750.’ Accordingly, therefore, for a year or two at least, we must picture the author of Roderick Random feeling the pulses and examining the tongues of patients who, in many cases, were mere valetudinarians, or, on the other hand, feigned themselves ill that they might have an excuse for visiting the gay city of Bath. With that irritating class of patients Smollett would have no patience. He would brusquely expose their petty deceit; and in one case, at least, informed a lady that ‘if she had time to play at being ill, he had not time to play at curing her.’ Such a physician was like a wild buffalo let loose over the conventional parterres of the sentimental femininity of both sexes. He simply gored with his rude satire the pleasant fictions of lusty but lazy invalids, or scattered to the winds the fond delusions of hypochondriacs, in whom too much old port and high living had induced the demons of dyspepsia. Little wonder is it, then, that Smollett as a physician was as supreme a failure as Oliver Goldsmith. Within two years we find him back in London, cursing his folly in ever having been induced to try an experiment that was doomed to failure from the very outset. Alas, poor little Mrs. Smollett! her dreams of social importance were rudely dispelled. From a brief experience of playing ‘the doctor’s dame’ among the good folks of Bath, she had ignominiously to return to London and sink into the obscurity of a lady who cannot even aspire to the credit of having a husband who is ‘something in the City.’ In ‘Narcissa’s’ eyes—for there is little doubt that the character of Narcissa in Roderick Random was at least suggested by his wife—her husband’s literary work was worse than degrading. In common with many others of her time, she deemed ‘a man of letters’ to be synonymous with a gentleman who spent one–half his time in the Fleet or the Marshalsea for debt, and the other half in dodging bailiffs from post to pillar for the privilege of enjoying God’s sunshine without the walls of a jail.

One piece of work Smollett accomplished before he left Bath. He published a short treatise on the mineral waters of the place under the title, An Essay on the External Use of Water, in a letter to Dr.——, with Particular Remarks on the Present Method of Using the Mineral Waters at Bath in Somersetshire, and a Plan for rendering them more Safe, Agreeable, and Efficacious (4to, 1752). The book is full of sound maxims for the preservation of health. But here and there he cannot resist girding at those who visited the place for no other purpose than to participate in its gaieties, and whose ailments were as fictitious as in many cases was their social standing. This was, of course, a hit at the crowds of sharpers and adventurers of all sorts, male and female, that frequented Bath during its palmy days last century.

While at Bath, however, that is, in March 1751, Peregrine Pickle, his second great novel, was published in two volumes duodecimo, the imprint being ‘London: Printed for the Author, and Sold by D. Wilson, at Plato’s Head, near Round Court in the Strand, 1751.’ This implies that Smollett had found the method more to his advantage to act as his own publisher, than to submit to the extortion of the greedy Shylocks of the press in those days. The race of great publishers, taking a genuine interest in their authors and their work, had yet to arise—that race of which Scott’s friend Constable was one of the earliest examples and the best.

The success of the new novel was unparalleled. As Herbert says in his excellent prefatory Life to the Works of Smollett: ‘It was received with such extraordinary avidity that a large impression was quickly sold in England, another was bought up in Ireland, a translation was executed into the French language, and it soon made its appearance in a second edition with an apologetic Advertisement and Two Letters relating to the Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, sent to the editor by “a Person of Honour.” This first edition is in our day scarce enough, and sufficiently coarse to fetch an enhanced price.’ Edition followed edition of the popular work. If any doubt had previously existed whether Smollett was worthy to take his place beside Richardson and Fielding, none could be urged now. In all contemporary records we find the three bracketed together, as the great fictional trio whose works were at once the delight and the despair of imitators.

But although his career was so successful, we must not run away with the idea that Smollett had no enemies—that, in a word, admiration had swallowed up animosity. Alas, no! Human nature is human nature through all. Despite all the furore of enthusiasm awakened by the appearance of his great novel, there were not lacking detractors and vilifiers, who, too despicable to attack him openly, snapped at him from under the shield of anonymity. That they were able to do him harm, or at least to cause him keen chagrin and vexation, is made manifest by the tone of sorrow and wounded pride wherewith he speaks in the preface to the second edition of Peregrine Pickle. In such circumstances it is always best to let the aggrieved party speak for himself without offering any opinion. He says: ‘At length Peregrine Pickle makes his appearance in a new edition, in spite of all the art and industry that were used to stifle him in the birth by certain booksellers and others, who were at uncommon pains to misrepresent the work and calumniate the author. The performance was decried as an immoral piece, and a scurrilous libel; the author was charged with having defamed the characters of particular persons to whom he lay under considerable obligations; and some formidable critics declared the book was void of humour, character, and sentiment. These charges, had they been supported by proof, would have certainly damned the writer and all his works; and, even unsupported as they were, had an unfavourable effect with the public. But luckily for him his real character was not unknown; and some readers were determined to judge for themselves, rather than trust implicitly to the allegations of his enemies. He has endeavoured to render the book less unworthy of their acceptance. Divers uninteresting incidents are wholly suppressed. Some humorous scenes he has endeavoured to heighten; and he flatters himself he has expunged every adventure, phrase, and insinuation that could be construed by the most delicate reader into a trespass upon the rules of decorum. He owns with contrition that in one or two instances he gave way too much to the suggestions of personal resentment, and represented characters as they appeared to him at that time through the exaggerating medium of prejudice. However he may have erred in point of judgment or discretion, he defies the whole world to prove that he was ever guilty of one act of malice, ingratitude, or dishonour. This declaration he may be permitted to make, without incurring the imputation of vanity or presumption, considering the numerous shafts of envy, rancour, and revenge that have lately, both in public and private, been levelled at his reputation.’

Along with the Adventures of Peregrine were bound up Memoirs of a Lady of Quality—a distinct story, sandwiched, as it were, between the two halves of the hero’s life. Clumsy indeed is the fictional skill that permitted such an arrangement. The introduction of the Memoirs, apart altogether from their moral quality, was a constructive error, inasmuch as the thread of interest of the novel is thereby broken. Though Smollett received a handsome sum (£150 one account mentions, £300 another) for granting the favour of their insertion in the novel, he lived to regret most deeply the indiscretion. So notorious was the reputation of the lady, that her infamous character in some people’s estimation condemned the book. The ‘Lady of Quality,’ as is well known, was the unhappy Lady Vane. Her maiden name was Frances Hawes. She was married when little more than a child to Lord William Hamilton, who died shortly afterwards; then to Viscount Vane, who used her with such cruelty that she was driven to accept the protection of the Hon. Sewallis Shirley, son of Robert, first Earl of Ferrers; then that of Lord Berkeley, Lord Robert Bertie, and others. Of course we have only her ladyship’s side of the story. From other sources, however, information is forthcoming that she had been at least as much sinned against as sinning. But although the world may acknowledge thus much, it will never forgive a woman the breach of her marriage vows, and Lady Vane, although undoubtedly the most beautiful woman of her decade, has passed into a byword of reproach. Dr. Johnson in the Vanity of Human Wishes remarks:

‘Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring,
And Sedley cursed the form that pleased a king.’

But undoubtedly the quality which most of all recommended Peregrine Pickle to the British public was the marvellously true, albeit richly humorous, portraits of our seamen in the persons of Commodore Hawser Trunnion, Lieutenant Hatchway, and Boatswain Tom Pipes. It is questionable, however, if any of those exhibited so much insight into the human heart as that of Lieutenant Bowling in Roderick Random, a noble–spirited man if ever one was created. Smollett has since had many imitators, such as Captain Marryat, Mr. Clark Russell, and others, but none of them have excelled the inimitable wit and humour which invest the sayings and doings of these personages. They have become part and parcel of ourselves. We know them and love them, and they live with us, so to speak, in our daily life.

He now took up house in Chelsea, and set himself doggedly and perseveringly to obtain his subsistence as a professional man of letters. From the Government of the day he could look for no favours. The unmerciful manner in which he had lashed the Ministry, says Chambers, precluded all Court patronage, even had it been the fashion of the Court of George II. to extend it. He depended solely on the booksellers for whom he wrought in the various departments of compilations, translations, criticisms, and miscellaneous essays.

The next fruit of his genius was one which has never been popular, simply because it describes an utterly impossible and repulsive character. In 1753 appeared The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom. A more depressing and unhealthy work, despite the immense genius displayed in it, could scarcely be conceived. Sir Walter Scott’s analysis of the novel is so admirable that we cannot do better than cite it here in place of any lengthened remarks of our own. ‘It seems to have been written for the purpose of showing how far humour and genius can go in painting a complete picture of human depravity.... To a reader of good disposition and well–regulated mind, the picture of moral depravity presented in the character of Count Fathom is a disgusting pollution of the imagination. To those, on the other hand, who hesitate on the brink of meditated iniquity, it is not safe to detail the arts by which the ingenuity of villainy has triumphed in former instances; and it is well known that the publication of the real account of uncommon crimes, although attended by the public and infamous punishment of the perpetrators, has often had the effect of stimulating others to similar actions.’

But if the moral features of Count Fathom are thus repulsive, there can be no question of the supreme art wherewith the developments of such a character are both conceived and executed. The heartless villainy wherewith Fathom executes his devilish schemes are related with a subdued force that is unlike anything else in fiction; while the scene of the ruin of the unfortunate Monimia is one of the most terribly dramatic passages in the English language, comparable only to the terrible remorse scene in Macbeth, or to the great last act in Webster’s Duchess of Malfi. The horror is if anything overstrained. One recoils from it. It leaves an impression on the mind as though human nature were utterly debased and vicious, without a single redeeming trait. The novel once more achieved a great success. Though its weak points were indicated by the critics of the day, their objections had no influence on the popularity of the book.

The dedication of the novel can refer to no other individual than himself, because to no other whose friendship he valued would he dare use the language he employs. The work is inscribed to Dr. * * * and his own failings of character are therein inscribed with rare fidelity. ‘Know, then, I can despise your pride while I honour your integrity, and applaud your taste while I am shocked at your ostentation. I have known you trifling, superficial, and obstinate in dispute; meanly jealous and awkwardly reserved; rash and haughty in your resentments; and coarse and lowly in your connections. I have blushed at the weakness of your conversation, and trembled at the errors of your conduct. Yet, as I own you possess certain good qualities which overbalance these defects and distinguish you on this occasion as a person for whom I have the most perfect attachment and esteem, you have no cause to complain of the indelicacy with which your faults are reprehended; and as they are chiefly the excesses of a sanguine disposition and looseness of thought, impatient of caution and control, you may, thus stimulated, watch over your own intemperance and infirmity with redoubled vigilance and consideration; and for the future profit by the severity of my reproof.’ From this, one would gather that Smollett was quite cognisant of his own weakness of temper—a weakness from which many of us suffer, but few of us are quite so honest as to own!

The publication of Count Fathom was the indirect means of involving Smollett in an unpleasant affair, from which he was not extricated without some trouble. Warmth of temper again! A countryman, Peter Gordon, had got into difficulties and was brought to the verge of ruin, when Smollett came to his rescue, and, with more humanity than worldly wisdom, became security for him. Presently Gordon took sanctuary within the King’s Bench Prison, and sent defiant and insolent messages to Smollett when the latter appealed to his sense of honour to repay him his losses. This conduct so provoked the choleric Smollett, that on meeting the rascal he soundly caned him. Thereupon the latter raised an action against him in the Court of the King’s Bench, exaggerating the assault into attempted murder. Gordon’s counsel was a lawyer afterwards infamous in many senses, the Hon. Alexander Hume–Campbell, twin brother of Pope’s Earl of Marchmont. He opened the case for his client with a speech full of disgraceful and unwarranted abuse of Smollett. The jury, however, acquitted the latter from any blame in the matter beyond common assault, probably considering in their hearts that Gordon only received what he richly deserved. But Smollett felt keenly the innuendoes cast upon his character by Campbell. He therefore sent to his friend Daniel Mackercher—already familiar to us as the Mr. M—— of Peregrine Pickle—a long letter addressed to Campbell, expostulating with him upon his conduct, demanding an apology, and in the event of it not being forthcoming, threatening a challenge. The whole action was foolish. Probably Mackercher acted as a wise friend in the matter, by advising him not to send the epistle. At any rate, we hear no more of the matter, and Smollett had relieved his feelings by abusing his enemy—behind his back. Long years afterwards, the letter appeared in the European Magazine. But both the principals were dead!