HISTORY OF ENGLAND—SIR LAUNCELOT GREAVES—THE NORTH BRITON—HACK HISTORICAL WORK—THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

Despite all his hastiness of temper and irritability, despite his wife’s lack of management, despite, too, the fact of the burden of debt weighing him down, the Chelsea home must have been a very happy one. At this time Smollett had one child, a daughter, Elizabeth, to whom he was tenderly attached. Nothing rejoiced him more than a frolic with his little one. ‘Many a time,’ he remarks in one of his unpublished letters, now in the possession of Mr. Goring, ‘do I stop my task and betake me to a game of romps with Betty, while my wife looks on smiling and longing in her heart to join in the sport: then back to the cursed round of duty.’

Mrs. Smollett appears to have been of a most affectionate and loving disposition, though, like himself, she was affected with a hasty temper. Though they had many quarrels, they were deeply and sincerely attached to each other. ‘My Nancy’ appears in many of his letters in conjunction with expressions of the tenderest and truest affection. The home was always bright and cheerful for the weary worker, hence, when absent from it, he is ever craving ‘to be back to Nancy and little Bet’ Yet these were feelings Smollett scrupulously concealed from his fellows, so that the world might suppose him the acidulous cynic he desired to be esteemed. What Smollett’s reason for so acting was, is now hard to divine. His Matthew Bramble in Humphrey Clinker is the exact reproduction of his own character. His kindliness of nature only broke out like gleams of sunshine on a wintry day, while, like Jonathan Oldbuck, the very suggestion of gratitude seemed to irritate him. He was one who all his life preferred to do good by stealth.

In 1758, Smollett published a work that had occupied his attention throughout the better part of eighteen months—The Complete History of England, deduced from the descent of Julius CÆsar to the Treaty of Aix–la–Chapelle in 1748. It was published by Messrs. Rivington & Fletcher, in four vols. 4to, and embellished by engraved allegorical frontispieces, designed by Messrs. Hayman & Miller. It has been stated, and never contradicted, says Anderson (substantiated also by Herbert), that the history was written in fourteen months, an effort to which nothing but the most distinguished abilities and the most vigorous application could have been equal. When one considers that he consulted three hundred books for information, that he had other literary work to prosecute in order to keep the pot boiling, and when one has regard also to the high literary character of the composition, this rapidity of production is simply marvellous. Of course none of the facts were new, but the method was novel, and the treatment fresh and brilliant. As Sir Walter Scott justly remarks, ‘All the novelty which Smollett’s history could present, must needs consist in the mode of stating facts, or in the reflections deduced from them.’ The success which attended the publication of the history surpassed the expectations of even Smollett himself. His political standpoint had been that of a Tory and an upholder of the monarchy. In writing to Dr. Moore early in 1758, Smollett says: ‘I deferred answering your kind letter until I should have finished my History, which is now completed. I was agreeably surprised to hear that my work had met with any approbation in Glasgow, for it is not at all calculated for that meridian. The last volume will, I doubt not, be severely censured by the West Country Whigs of Scotland. I desire you will divest yourself of prejudice before you begin to peruse it, and consider well the facts before you pass judgment. Whatever may be its defect, I profess before God I have, as far as in me lay, adhered to truth, without espousing any faction.’ Then in September of the same year he again writes to Dr. Moore: ‘You will not be sorry to hear that the weekly sale of the History has increased to above 10,000. A French gentleman of talents and erudition has undertaken to translate it into that language, and I have promised to supply him with corrections.’

But sadder and still more sad grows the picture of distress. During the whole time he was writing his History he was pestered by duns, and could not leave his home without dodging bailiffs. When all was over, he found himself a man broken in health and spirits, and already ‘earmarked’ for the tomb. For fourteen years he was to live and labour, like the brave, honest, independent spirit he was, but the end was only a question of time. That he realised this fact about this period is almost certain. Henceforth his diligence was redoubled. Like the stranger from another world in the fable, when confronted with the fact of inevitable death, he cried, ‘I must die, I must die; trouble me not with trifles; I must die.’

But his publication of the History was not suffered to pass without the formation of another party bent on injuring him. The extensive sale of Smollett’s work alarmed the proprietors of Rapin’s History, who caballed and encouraged his political adversaries to expose what they termed ‘the absurdities, inconsistencies, contradictions, and misrepresentations of the book,’ most of which existed solely in the minds of his malignant enemies. In the Whig periodicals of the time Smollett is vilified and abused, represented as a partisan and panegyrist of the House of Stuart, a Papist and a prostitute. The following pamphlet, written, however, by a man of some learning and discernment, would have been valuable and useful had it only been penned with more moderation and good sense. But party zeal is an enemy to good sense, and the truth of this remark has seldom been more clearly demonstrated than in ‘A Vindication of the Revolution in 1688, and of the character of King William and Queen Mary, together with a computation of the character of King James ii., as misrepresented by the author of the Complete History of England, by extracts from Dr. Smollett: to which are added some strictures on the said historian’s account of the punishment of the rebels in A.D. 1715 and 1746, and on the eulogium given to the History of England by the critical reviewers, by Thomas Comber, B.A. 8vo, 1758.’ Comber was a clergyman, and a relative of the Duke of Leeds. He was, in fact, engaged by the Whig Ministry to undertake the duty, as none of the professed litterateurs of the day in the Whig ranks cared to cross swords with the Tory champion in his own field. The publication of his History did Smollett much good in the eyes of the learned and cultured. Henceforth to them he was no longer a mere ‘teller of tales,’ but one of the great historians of the epoch—an author deservedly honoured for his integrity and impartiality.

In 1761 the British Magazine—a sixpenny monthly on whose staff Oliver Goldsmith was one of the leading writers—published The Adventures of Sir Launcelot Greaves, the fourth of Smollett’s novels, but the one which we could quite well have spared, provided something in the same vein as Humphrey Clinker had taken its place. It was written hastily, and to supply the demand for copy. Scott relates that, while engaged on it, he was residing at Paxton in Berwickshire, on a visit to Mr. George Home. When post time drew near, he was wont to retire for half an hour or an hour, and then and there scribble off the necessary amount of matter for the press. But he never gave himself even the trouble to read over and correct what he had written. Work written under such circumstances did not deserve to succeed. And yet, singularly enough, in this novel are to be found some of Smollett’s most original creations and most felicitously conceived situations. The design of the work is far from happy. Obviously suggested by his recent study of Don Quixote, Sir Launcelot is only a bad imitation of the immortal Knight of La Mancha. Of this, indeed, Smollett himself seems to have had a suspicion. In the course of the dialogue he makes Ferret express an opinion like that to Sir Launcelot, who sternly repudiates it. ‘What! you set up for a modern Don Quixote? The scheme is too stale and extravagant. What was a humorous and well–timed satire in Spain near two hundred years ago will make but a sorry jest when really acted from affectation at this time of day in England.’ The knight, eyeing the censor, whose character was none of the best, replied, ‘I am neither an affected imitation of Don Quixote, nor, as I trust in Heaven, visited by that spirit of lunacy so admirably displayed in the fictitious character exhibited by the inimitable Cervantes. I see and distinguish objects as they are seen and described by other men. I quarrel with none but the foes of virtue and decorum, against whom I have declared perpetual war, and them I will everywhere attack as the natural enemies of mankind. I do purpose,’ added Sir Launcelot, eyeing Ferret with a look of ineffable contempt, ‘to act as a coadjutor to the law, and even to remedy evils which the law cannot reach, to detect fraud and treason, abase insolence, mortify pride, discourage slander, disgrace immodesty, stigmatise ingratitude.’

The work was written in part during his imprisonment. Taking this into consideration, as well as the rapidity of production, the conception, amid the sordid surroundings of the King’s Bench Prison, of such cleverly drawn characters as Aurelia Darnel, Captain Crowe, and his nephew, Tom Clarke, the attorney of the amorous heart, is passing wonderful. Although the least popular of his works, and deservedly so, the book in some parts is redolent of ‘Flora and the country green.’

Not a moment could his busy pen afford to rest. No sooner was one piece of work thrown off than another must be commenced. In 1761, Smollett lent his assistance to the furtherance of a great work. This was the publication, in 42 vols. 8vo, of The Modern Part of an Universal History, compiled from Original Writers. In this colossal undertaking we know that Smollett’s share was the Histories of France, Italy, and Germany. Not alone these, however, were the fruit of his industry. Other authors failed to produce their quota. There was one pen that never failed. The willing horse had to do the work. Though this additional labour brought in guineas, it still further exhausted his strength, and left him little better than a confirmed invalid. From this drudgery he passed on to something else that was a little more agreeable and congenial, namely, his Continuation of the History of England. The first volume was published in the end of 1761, the second, third, and fourth in 1762, and a fifth some years after (1765), bringing the narrative down to that period. It is stated that Smollett cleared £2000 by his History and the Continuation. He sold the latter to his printer at a price which enabled the purchaser to sell it to Mr. Baldwin the bookseller at a profit of £1000. From these facts one can gather the extraordinary popularity of Smollett’s work at that period.

Henceforward the story of his life is summed up in little more than the dates of the publication of his books. Of relaxation there was no interval for him. His expenses of living were considerable, though he never was a man who loved luxury or display. But he had been hampered by debts, by lawsuits, to pay the costs of which he had to borrow money at sixty per cent. Had Smollett’s feet been free from the outset, the £600 per annum, at which he reckoned his income, would have more than sufficed for all his wants. But the interest of borrowed money is like the rolling snowball of which we spoke before,—unless it be paid regularly, it constantly adds to the bulk of the original. Poor Smollett! A more pitiable picture can scarcely be conceived than this splendid genius yoked like a pug–mill horse to tasks the most ignoble, in order that he might keep his wife and daughter from feeling the pinch of want. A hero—yea, a hero indeed—one of those heroes in commonplace things, whose virtues are every whit as praiseworthy in their way as though he had led England’s armies to victory, or swept the seas of her enemies.

In connection with Smollett’s historical work, it should be mentioned here, that although his History has not held its place as a standard work, his Continuation undoubtedly has. To this day it is printed along with Hume’s volumes, under the title of Hume and Smollett’s History of England, and is justly held in esteem for its impartiality and accuracy. His other historical works have long since met the fate they deserved. They were hack–work, designed to supply a temporary need. When that need was met by something better, they were forgotten.

We must note here, however, in disproof of that jealousy of contemporaries which has been laid to his charge, the following generous estimate of those who were his collaborateurs in some respects, his rivals in others. In the Continuation he thus repairs the hasty judgments of immature years: ‘Akenside and Armstrong excelled in didactic poetry. Candidates for literary fame appeared even in the higher sphere of life, embellished by the nervous style, superior sense, and extensive erudition of a Coke, by the delicate taste, the polished muse, and tender feelings of a Lyttleton. There are also the learned and elegant Robertson, and, above all, the ingenious, penetrating, and comprehensive Hume, whom we rank among the first writers of the age, both as a historian and a philosopher. Johnson, inferior to none in philosophy, philology, poetry, and classical learning, stands foremost as an essayist, justly admired for the dignity, strength, and variety of his style, as well as for the agreeable manner in which he investigates the human heart, tracing every interesting emotion, and opening all the sources of morality!’ And this was the man whom his political opponents accused of never speaking of a man save to depreciate him.

We reach now a period in Smollett’s career which must always give pain to those that are lovers of his genius. Hitherto, though dabbling in politics, and though editing, professedly on the Tory and High Church side, the Critical Review, his sympathies had been so predominatingly literary that he was able to maintain the friendliest of relations with prominent politicians on the Whig side, notably with John Wilkes. Now, in an evil hour, he was prevailed upon to accept a brief on the Tory side by assuming the editorship of the new weekly paper, The Briton, founded for the express purpose of defending the Earl of Bute. That nobleman, who owed his advancement to the favour wherewith he was regarded by George iii.(recently come to the throne), was, on the 29th May 1762, appointed First Lord of the Treasury, and assumed the management of public affairs. Although an able, honourable, and indefatigable Minister, he lacked experience in the discharge of public duties. Besides, the nation was still strongly Whig in its political inclinations. For the monarch, by an arbitrary exercise of his prerogative, thus to override the sentiments of his people and to dismiss their chosen representatives, was both a high–handed and a foolish action. More foolish still was Lord Bute that he permitted himself thus to be made a tool to gratify the king’s jealousy. The consequence was, that the appointment was received all over England with a storm of indignation, and no Ministry was ever more unpopular than that whereof the Earl of Bute was chief.

To stem the tide of adverse criticism, and endeavour to win Englishmen to view more favourably the advent of Lord Bute to power, The Briton was started, and Smollett was chosen as editor, inasmuch as his was the keenest pen on the Tory side. On hearing of the appointment of his friend to the post, John Wilkes, with a generosity that was quite in keeping with many of the actions of that strangely constituted man, remarked that ‘Lord Bute, after having distributed among his adherents all the places under Government, was determined to monopolise the wit also.’ A few days subsequent, the Whigs proposed that, to encounter The Briton, which had gone off with a great flourish of trumpets, as well as with some very bitter political writing, Mr. Wilkes should publish a paper, to be called ‘The Englishman.’ He agreed to the proposal, except that he did not adopt the title recommended, but chose another, that of The North Briton—the first number of which appeared on the 5th June 1762, or exactly a week after The Briton.

Wilkes exhibited great forbearance towards Smollett at the outset. The good–natured demagogue, it is believed, would have been content, like many another pair of friends, to fight strenuously for principles, and avoid personalities; or, if that were impossible, to confine their antagonism to the press alone, leaving the intercourse of friendship unimpaired. But Smollett was not of the stuff whereof great journalists are made. One of the prime qualities is that they should belong to the genus of literary pachydermata. Smollett was not so. He was sensitive to a degree. He imagined slights and insults where none were intended. Within a few days, therefore, of the issue of The North Briton, Smollett took umbrage at something said about The Briton, and retorted angrily with some personalities on Wilkes. Even then the latter would have passed over the ill–natured jibes with a jest. This, however, maddened Smollett more than aught else. He believed Wilkes despised him as an assailant. From that day Smollett devoted himself to the most unsparing personal castigation of Wilkes. The demagogue replied, and presently the two that had been such warm friends could not find terms bitter enough to hurl at one another.

But Smollett was not a match for Wilkes. The former was scrupulously careful in alleging nothing against his opponent but what he could prove. The latter fought with characteristic unscrupulousness. A matter of no moment to him was it whether a charge were true or false, provided it served the purpose of galling his adversary. Wilkes was absolutely impervious to abuse and vilification. He gloried in his indifference to all social restrictions and customs. The publication to the world of his debaucheries and lack of principle only extorted a horse–laugh from him. With all his generosity and faithful devotion to the cause of popular freedom, Wilkes was a man of absolutely no principle. He sneered at his family relations, was one of Sir Francis Dashwood’s Medmenham ‘Cistercians,’ who sought to outbid the ‘Hellfire’ and ‘Devil’s Own’ Clubs in abandoned wickedness and impiety. And yet this was the man who was capable of the most splendid sacrifice in the cause of national liberty. His abilities would have carried him to fame in any career. M. Louis Blanc states that many of his sayings are still repeated and admired in France as are those of Sydney Smith among us. Mr. J. Bowles Daly[8] relates that his wit was so constantly at his command, that wagers have been gained that from the time he quitted his house till he reached Guildhall, no one could address him or leave him without a smile or a hearty laugh. His bright conversation charmed away the prejudice of such a Tory as Dr. Johnson, fascinated Hannah More, and won over the gloomy Lord Mansfield, who said, ‘Mr. Wilkes is the pleasantest companion, the politest gentleman, and the best scholar I know.’

This, then, was the man who was selected to do battle with Smollett and to demolish the Ministry of Lord Bute. Certainly the latter had given Wilkes ample handle for assailing him by selecting as his Chancellor of the Exchequer Lord Sandwich, one of the dissolute Medmenham monks, a man glaringly deficient in ability, and so utterly incompetent in finance as to cause the wits of the time to describe him as ‘a Chancellor of the Exchequer to whom a sum of five figures was an impenetrable mystery.’ The first sentence of The North Briton has often been copied and adopted as the motto of succeeding journals: ‘The liberty of the press is the birthright of the Briton, and is justly esteemed the firmest bulwark of the liberties of this country.’ The aim of Wilkes’ paper was to vilify Scotland, because Lord Bute, being a Scotsman, had wormed himself into the favour of the king. Not a very elevated principle, certainly, but quite characteristic of the low morale of the period, when personal pique was elevated into the domain of principle. His abuse of Scotland was quite of a piece with his political profligacy on every other point than national liberty. ‘He would have sold his soul to the devil for £1000 could he have induced his Satanic majesty to have invested in so worthless a commodity,’ said one of his own friends. As a specimen of the journalism wherewith Wilkes fought the battle of popular liberties, take the following paragraph, to pen which nowadays not the neediest penny–a–liner of gutter–journalism would stoop, notwithstanding the jealousy of Scotland and the Scots which still exists. Playing on the popular jealousy of Scotland, Wilkes went on to say that ‘The river Tweed is the line of demarcation between all that is noble and all that is base; south of the river is all honour, virtue, patriotism—north of it is nothing but lying, malice, meanness, and slavery. Scotland is a treeless, flowerless land, formed out of the refuse of the universe, and inhabited by the very bastards of creation; where famine has fixed her chosen throne; where a scant population, gaunt with hunger and hideous with dirt, spend their wretched days in brooding over the fallen fortunes of their native dynasty, and in watching with mingled envy and hatred the mighty nation that subdued them.’

This was the type of writing which Smollett strove to meet with pithy argument and epigrammatic smartness. No wonder it produced little effect, and less wonder is there that, after fighting the battle of the Ministry for nearly a year, he threw the task up in disgust (12th February 1763). Lord Bute had not given him the support he had a right to expect; and the Minister’s own fall followed hard upon the cessation of The Briton, namely, on the 8th April of the same year. Writing to Caleb Whiteford, a friend, some time after, he remarked: ‘The Ministry little deserve that any man of genius should draw his pen in their defence. They inherit the absurd stoicism of Lord Bute, who set himself up as a pillory to be pelted by all the blackguards of England, upon the supposition that they would grow tired and leave off.’

Back once more to hack–work was our weary, brain–worn veteran. So pressing were his needs that he had to condescend to tasks beneath them. He translated and edited the works of Voltaire, and compiled a publication entitled The Present State of all Nations, containing a geographical, natural, commercial, and political history of all the countries of the known world. Fancy Smollett engaged on such a task! Let us hope that only his name was given, not his labour. Next year we know his work became so great that he had to hire others to do portions of it for him. In a word, he became a literary ‘sweater.’

Alas! in this same year, 1763, when his own health was failing so rapidly, one of the links binding him most strongly to earth was severed. His daughter Elizabeth, a beautiful girl of some fifteen or sixteen years of age, and amiable and accomplished as well, was taken from him by death—the saddest of all deaths, consumption. Henceforth he was to tread the Valley of the Shadow alone. Even more than his wife, Elizabeth had been able to sympathise with her father’s feelings and to soothe his irritation. The light of his life had verily gone out!

But still no rest! Sorrow, however deep, must not check the pen that is fighting for daily bread. ‘I am writing with a breaking heart,’ he says in one letter. ‘I would wish to be beside her, were the wish not cowardly so long as poor Nancy is unprovided for.’ Brave, suffering heart! The end is nearing for you, though you know it not. Seven more years of increasing labour, and also of increasing anguish and suffering, and then—‘He giveth His beloved sleep!’