Chapter LX: Book III: , chap, i, p. 326, line 19: for “Frank”, Thackeray by an (15)

“Lord Bolingbroke had not the least harm by his fall; I wish he had
received no more by his other fall. But Lord Bolingbroke is the most
improved mind since you saw him, that ever was improved without
shifting into a new body, or being _paullo minus ab angelis_. I have
often imagined to myself, that if ever all of us meet again, after
so many varieties and changes, after so much of the old world and of
the old man in each of us has been altered, that scarce a single
thought of the one, any more than a single action of the other,
remains just the same; I have fancied, I say, that we should meet
like the righteous in the millennium, quite at peace, divested of
all our former passions, smiling at our past follies, and content to
enjoy the kingdom of the just in tranquillity.

——

“I designed to have left the following page for Dr. Arbuthnot to
fill, but he is so touched with the period in yours to me,
concerning him, that he intends to answer it by a whole letter.”

125 Of the Earl of Peterborough, Walpole says:—“He was one of those men
of careless wit, and negligent grace, who scatter a thousand _bons
mots_ and idle verses, which we painful compilers gather and hoard,
till the authors stare to find themselves authors. Such was this
lord, of an advantageous figure, and enterprising spirit; as gallant
as Amadis and as brave; but a little more expeditious in his
journeys; for he is said to have seen more kings and more postilions
than any man in Europe.... He was a man, as his friend said, who
would neither live nor die like any other mortal.”

FROM THE EARL OF PETERBOROUGH TO POPE.

“You must receive my letter with a just impartiality, and give
grains of allowance for a gloomy or rainy day; I sink grievously
with the weather-glass, and am quite spiritless when oppressed with
the thoughts of a birthday or a return.

“Dutiful affection was bringing me to town, but undutiful laziness,
and being much out of order keep me in the country: however, if
alive, I must make my appearance at the birthday....

“You seem to think it vexatious that I shall allow you but one woman
at a time either to praise or love. If I dispute with you on this
point, I doubt, every jury will give a verdict against me. So, sir,
with a Mahometan indulgence, I allow you pluralities, the favourite
privileges of our Church.

“I find you don’t mend upon correction; again I tell you you must
not think of women in a reasonable way; you know we always make
goddesses of those we adore upon earth; and do not all the good men
tell us we must lay aside reason in what relates to the Deity?

“... I should have been glad of anything of Swift’s. Pray when you
write to him next, tell him I expect him with impatience, in a place
as odd and as out of the way as himself.

“Yours.”

Peterborough married Mrs. Anastasia Robinson, the celebrated singer.

126 “Button had been a servant in the Countess of Warwick’s family, who,
under the patronage of Addison, kept a coffee-house on the south
side of Russell Street, about two doors from Covent Garden. Here it
was that the wits of that time used to assemble. It is said that
when Addison had suffered any vexation from the Countess, he
withdrew the company from Button’s house.

“From the coffee-house he went again to a tavern, where he often sat
late and drank too much wine.”—DR. JOHNSON.

Will’s coffee-house was on the west side of Bow Street, and “corner
of Russell Street”. See _Handbook of London_.

127 “My acquaintance with Mr. Addison commenced in 1712: I liked him
then as well as I liked any man, and was very fond of his
conversation. It was very soon after that Mr. Addison advised me
‘not to be content with the applause of half the nation’. He used to
talk much and often to me, of moderation in parties: and used to
blame his dear friend Steele for being too much of a party man. He
encouraged me in my design of translating the _Iliad_, which was
begun that year, and finished in 1718.”—POPE (_Spence’s Anecdotes_).

128 “Addison, who was no stranger to the world, probably saw the
selfishness of Pope’s friendship; and, resolving that he should have
the consequences of his officiousness to himself, informed Dennis by
Steele that he was sorry for the insult.”—JOHNSON (_Life of
Addison_).

129 “While I was heated with what I had heard, I wrote a letter to Mr.
Addison, to let him know ‘that I was not unacquainted with this
behaviour of his; that if I was to speak of him severely in return
for it, it should not be in such a dirty way; that I should rather
tell him himself fairly of his faults, and allow his good qualities;
and that it should be something in the following manner.’ I then
subjoined the first sketch of what has since been called my satire
on Addison. He used me very civilly ever after; and never did me any
injustice, that I know of, from that time to his death, which was
about three years after.”—POPE (_Spence’s Anecdotes_).

130 “That Tickell should have been guilty of a villany seems to us
highly improbable; that Addison should have been guilty of a villany
seems to us highly improbable; but that these two men should have
conspired together to commit a villany, seems, to us, improbable in
a tenfold degree.”—MACAULAY.

131 LORD BOLINGBROKE TO THE THREE YAHOOS OF TWICKENHAM.

“July 23, 1726.

“JONATHAN, ALEXANDER, JOHN, MOST EXCELLENT TRIUMVIRS OF PARNASSUS,—

“Though you are probably very indifferent where I am, or what I am
doing, yet I resolve to believe the contrary. I persuade myself that
you have sent at least fifteen times within this fortnight to Dawley
farm, and that you are extremely mortified at my long silence. To
relieve you, therefore, from this great anxiety of mind, I can do no
less than write a few lines to you; and I please myself beforehand
with the vast pleasure which this epistle must needs give you. That
I may add to this pleasure, and give further proofs of my beneficent
temper, I will likewise inform you, that I shall be in your
neighbourhood again, by the end of next week: by which time I hope
that Jonathan’s imagination of business will be succeeded by some
imagination more becoming a professor of that divine science, _la
bagatelle_. Adieu. Jonathan, Alexander, John, mirth be with you!”

132 Prior must be excepted from this observation. “He was lank and
lean.”

133 Swift exerted himself very much in promoting the _Iliad_
subscription; and also introduced Pope to Harley and
Bolingbroke.—Pope realized by the _Iliad_ upwards of 5,000_l._,
which he laid out partly in annuities, and partly in the purchase of
his famous villa. Johnson remarks that “it would be hard to find a
man so well entitled to notice by his wit, that ever delighted so
much in talking of his money”.

134 Garth, whom Dryden calls “generous as his Muse”, was a Yorkshireman.
He graduated at Cambridge, and was made M.D. in 1691. He soon
distinguished himself in his profession, by his poem of the
_Dispensary_, and in society, and pronounced Dryden’s funeral
oration. He was a strict Whig, a notable member of the Kit-Kat and a
friendly, convivial, able man. He was knighted by George I, with the
Duke of Marlborough’s sword. He died in 1718.

135 “Arbuthnot was the son of an episcopal clergyman in Scotland, and
belonged to an ancient and distinguished Scotch family. He was
educated at Aberdeen; and, coming up to London—according to a Scotch
practice often enough alluded to—to make his fortune—first made
himself known by ‘an examination of Dr. Woodward’s account of the
Deluge’. He became physician, successively to Prince George of
Denmark and to Queen Anne. He is usually allowed to have been the
most learned, as well as one of the most witty and humorous members
of the Scriblerus Club. The opinion entertained of him by the
humourists of the day is abundantly evidenced in their
correspondence. When he found himself in his last illness, he wrote
thus, from his retreat at Hampstead, to Swift:

“Hampstead, Oct. 4, 1734.

“MY DEAR AND WORTHY FRIEND,—

“You have no reason to put me among the rest of your forgetful
friends, for I wrote two long letters to you, to which I never
received one word of answer. The first was about your health; the
last I sent a great while ago, by one De la Mar. I can assure you
with great truth that none of your friends or acquaintance has a
more warm heart towards you than myself. I am going out of this
troublesome world, and you, among the rest of my friends, shall have
my last prayers and good wishes.

“... I came out to this place so reduced by a dropsy and an asthma,
that I could neither sleep, breathe, eat, nor move. I most earnestly
desired and begged of God that he would take me. Contrary to my
expectation, upon venturing to ride (which I had forborne for some
years), I recovered my strength to a pretty considerable degree,
slept, and had my stomach again.... What I did, I can assure you was
not for life, but ease; for I am at present in the case of a man
that was almost in harbour, and then blown back to sea—who has a
reasonable hope of going to a good place, and an absolute certainty
of leaving a very bad one. Not that I have any particular disgust at
the world; for I have as great comfort in my own family and from the
kindness of my friends as any man; but the world, in the main,
displeases me, and I have too true a presentiment of calamities that
are to befall my country. However, if I should have the happiness to
see you before I die, you will find that I enjoy the comforts of
life with my usual cheerfulness. I cannot imagine why you are
frightened from a journey to England: the reasons you assign are not
sufficient—the journey I am sure would do you good. In general, I
recommend riding, of which I have always had a good opinion, and can
now confirm it from my own experience.

“My family give you their love and service. The great loss I
sustained in one of them gave me my first shock, and the trouble I
have with the rest to bring them to a right temper to bear the loss
of a father who loves them, and whom they love, is really a most
sensible affliction to me. I am afraid, my dear friend, we shall
never see one another more in this world. I shall, to the last
moment, preserve my love and esteem for you, being well assured you
will never leave the paths of virtue and honour; for all that is in
this world is not worth the least deviation from the way. It will be
great pleasure to me to hear from you sometimes; for none are with
more sincerity than I am, my dear friend, your most faithful friend
and humble servant.”

“Arbuthnot,” Johnson says, “was a man of great comprehension,
skilful in his profession, versed in the sciences, acquainted with
ancient literature, and able to animate his mass of knowledge by a
bright and active imagination; a scholar with great brilliance of
wit; a wit who in the crowd of life, retained and discovered a noble
ardour of religious zeal.”

Dugald Stewart has testified to Arbuthnot’s ability in a department
of which he was particularly qualified to judge: “Let me add, that,
in the list of philosophical reformers, the authors of _Martinus
Scriblerus_ ought not to be overlooked. Their happy ridicule of the
scholastic logic and metaphysics is universally known; but few are
aware of the acuteness and sagacity displayed in their allusions to
some of the most vulnerable passages in Locke’s Essay. In this part
of the work it is commonly understood that Arbuthnot had the
principal share.”—See Preliminary Dissertation to _Encyclopaedia
Britannica_, note to p. 242, and also note B. B. B., p. 285.

136 TO MR. RICHARDSON.

“Twickenham, June 10, 1733.

“As I know you and I mutually desire to see one another, I hope that
this day our wishes would have met, and brought you hither. And this
for the very reason, which possibly might hinder you coming, that my
poor mother is dead. I thank God, her death was as easy as her life
was innocent; and as it cost her not a groan, or even a sigh, there
is yet upon her countenance such an expression of tranquillity, nay,
almost of pleasure, that it is even amiable to behold it. It would
afford the finest image of a saint expired that ever painter drew;
and it would be the greatest obligation which even that obliging art
could ever bestow on a friend, if you could come and sketch it for
me. I am sure, if there be no very precedent obstacle, you will
leave any common business to do this; and I hope to see you this
evening, or to-morrow morning as early, before this winter flower is
faded. I will defer her interment till to-morrow night. I know you
love me, or I could not have written this—I could not (at this time)
have written at all. Adieu! May you die as happy!

“Yours,” &c.

137 “Mr. Pope was with Sir Godfrey Kneller one day, when his nephew, a
Guinea trader, came in. ‘Nephew,’ said Sir Godfrey, ‘you have the
honour of seeing the two greatest men in the world.’—‘I don’t know
how great you may be,’ said the Guinea man, ‘but I don’t like your
looks: I have often bought a man, much better than both of you
together, all muscles and bones, for ten guineas.’ ”—DR. WARBURTON
(_Spence’s Anecdotes_).

138 Swift’s mention of him as one

—— whose filial piety excels,
Whatever Grecian story tells,

is well known. And a sneer of Walpole’s may be put to a better use
than he ever intended it for, à propos of this subject.—He
charitably sneers, in one of his letters, at Spence’s “fondling an
old mother—in imitation of Pope!”

139 Joseph Spence was the son of a clergyman, near Winchester. He was a
short time at Eton, and afterwards became a Fellow of New College,
Oxford, a clergyman, and professor of poetry. He was a friend of
Thomson’s, whose reputation he aided. He published an _Essay on the
Odyssey_ in 1726, which introduced him to Pope. Everybody liked him.
His _Anecdotes_ were placed, while still in MS., at the service of
Johnson and also of Malone. They were published by Mr. Singer in
1820.

140 He speaks of Arbuthnot’s having helped him through “that long
disease, my life”. But not only was he so feeble as is implied in
his use of the “buckram”, but “it now appears”, says Mr. Peter
Cunningham, “from his unpublished letters, that, like Lord Hervey,
he had recourse to ass’s-milk for the preservation of his health.”
It is to his lordship’s use of that simple beverage that he alludes
when he says—

Let Sporus tremble!—A. What, that thing of silk,
Sporus, that mere white-curd of ass’s-milk?

141 “He (Johnson) repeated to us, in his forcible melodious manner, the
concluding lines of the _Dunciad_.”—BOSWELL.

142 “Mr. Langton informed me that he once related to Johnson (on the
authority of Spence), that Pope himself admired these lines so much
that when he repeated them his voice faltered. ‘And well it might,
sir,’ said Johnson, ‘for they are noble lines.’ ”

J. BOSWELL, junior.

143 Coleridge speaks of the “beautiful female faces” in Hogarth’s
pictures, “in whom,” he says, “the satirist never extinguished that
love of beauty which belonged to him as a poet.”—_The Friend._

144 “I was pleased with the reply of a gentleman, who, being asked which
book he esteemed most in his library, answered, ‘Shakespeare’: being
asked which he esteemed next best, replied ‘Hogarth’. His graphic
representations are indeed books: they have the teeming, fruitful,
suggestive meaning of _words_. Other pictures we look at—his prints
we read....

“The quantity of thought which Hogarth crowds into every picture
would almost unvulgarize every subject which he might choose....

“I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of Hogarth have
necessarily something in them to make us like them; some are
indifferent to us, some in their nature repulsive, and only made
interesting by the wonderful skill and truth to nature in the
painter; but I contend that there is in most of them that sprinkling
of the better nature, which, like holy water, chases away and
disperses the contagion of the bad. They have this in them, besides,
that they bring us acquainted with the every-day human face,—they
give us skill to detect those gradations of sense and virtue (which
escape the careless or fastidious observer) in the circumstances of
the world about us; and prevent that disgust at common life, that
_taedium quotidianarum formarum_, which an unrestricted passion for
ideal forms and beauties is in danger of producing. In this, as in
many other things, they are analogous to the best novels of Smollett
and Fielding.”—CHARLES LAMB.

“It has been observed that Hogarth’s pictures are exceedingly unlike
any other representations of the same kind of subjects—that they
form a class, and have a character, peculiar to themselves. It may
be worth while to consider in what this general distinction
consists.

“In the first place, they are, in the strictest sense, _historical_
pictures; and if what Fielding says be true, that his novel of _Tom
Jones_ ought to be regarded as an epic prose-poem, because it
contained a regular development of fable, manners, character, and
passion, the compositions of Hogarth, will, in like manner, be found
to have a higher claim to the title of epic pictures than many which
have of late arrogated that denomination to themselves. When we say
that Hogarth treated his subjects historically, we mean that his
works represent the manners and humours of mankind in action, and
their characters by varied expression. Everything in his pictures
has life and motion in it. Not only does the business of the scene
never stand still, but every feature and muscle is put into full
play; the exact feeling of the moment is brought out, and carried to
its utmost height, and then instantly seized and stamped on the
canvas for ever. The expression is always taken _en passant_, in a
state of progress or change, and, as it were, at the salient
point.... His figures are not like the background on which they are
painted: even the pictures on the wall have a peculiar look of their
own. Again, with the rapidity, variety, and scope of history,
Hogarth’s heads have all the reality and correctness of portraits.
He gives the extremes of character and expression, but he gives them
with perfect truth and accuracy. This is, in fact, what
distinguishes his compositions from all others of the same kind,
that they are equally remote from caricature, and from mere still
life.... His faces go to the very verge of caricature, and yet never
(we believe in any single instance) go beyond it.”—HAZLITT.

145 He made this excursion in 1732, his companions being John Thornhill
(son of Sir James), Scott the landscape-painter, Tothall, and
Forrest.

146 “Dr. Johnson made four lines once, on the death of poor Hogarth,
which were equally true and pleasing: I know not why Garrick’s were
preferred to them:—

The hand of him here torpid lies,
That drew th’ essential forms of grace;
Here, closed in death, th’ attentive eyes,
That saw the manners in the face.

“Mr. Hogarth, among the variety of kindnesses shown to me when I was
too young to have a proper sense of them, was used to be very
earnest that I should obtain the acquaintance, and if possible the
friendship, of Dr. Johnson; whose conversation was, to the talk of
other men, like Titian’s painting compared to Hudson’s, he said:
‘but don’t you tell people now that I say so’ (continued he) ‘for
the connoisseurs and I are at war, you know; and because I hate
_them_, they think I hate _Titian_—and let them!’ ... Of Dr.
Johnson, when my father and he were talking about him one day, ‘That
man’ (says Hogarth) ‘is not contented with believing the Bible; but
he fairly resolves, I think, to believe nothing _but_ the Bible.
Johnson’ (added he), ‘though so wise a fellow, is more like King
David than King Solomon, for he says in his haste, _All men are
liars_.’ ”—MRS. PIOZZI.

Hogarth died on the 26th of October, 1764. The day before his death,
he was removed from his villa at Chiswick to Leicester Fields, “in a
very weak condition, yet remarkably cheerful.” He had just received
an agreeable letter from Franklin. He lies buried at Chiswick.

147 TO SIR WATKIN PHILLIPS, BART., OF JESUS COLLEGE, OXON.

“DEAR PHILLIPS,—In my last, I mentioned my having spent an evening
with a society of authors, who seemed to be jealous and afraid of
one another. My uncle was not at all surprised to hear me say I was
disappointed in their conversation. ‘A man may be very entertaining
and instructive upon paper,’ said he, ‘and exceedingly dull in
common discourse. I have observed, that those who shine most in
private company are but secondary stars in the constellation of
genius. A small stock of ideas is more easily managed, and sooner
displayed, than a great quantity crowded together. There is very
seldom anything extraordinary in the appearance and address of a
good writer; whereas a dull author generally distinguishes himself
by some oddity or extravagance. For this reason I fancy that an
assembly of grubs must be very diverting.’

“My curiosity being excited by this hint, I consulted my friend Dick
Ivy, who undertook to gratify it the very next day, which was Sunday
last. He carried me to dine with S——, whom you and I have long known
by his writings. He lives in the skirts of the town; and every
Sunday his house is open to all unfortunate brothers of the quill,
whom he treats with beef, pudding, and potatoes, port, punch, and
Calvert’s entire butt beer. He has fixed upon the first day of the
week for the exercise of his hospitality, because some of his guests
could not enjoy it on any other, for reasons that I need not
explain. I was civilly received in a plain, yet decent habitation,
which opened backwards into a very pleasant garden, kept in
excellent order; and, indeed, I saw none of the outward signs of
authorship either in the house or the landlord, who is one of those
few writers of the age that stand upon their own foundation, without
patronage, and above dependence. If there was nothing characteristic
in the entertainer, the company made ample amends for his want of
singularity.

“At two in the afternoon, I found myself one of ten messmates seated
at table; and I question if the whole kingdom could produce such
another assemblage of originals. Among their peculiarities, I do not
mention those of dress, which may be purely accidental. What struck
me were oddities originally produced by affectation, and afterwards
confirmed by habit. One of them wore spectacles at dinner, and
another his hat flapped; though (as Ivy told me) the first was noted
for having a seaman’s eye, when a bailiff was in the wind; and the
other was never known to labour under any weakness or defect of
vision, except about five years ago, when he was complimented with a
couple of black eyes by a player, with whom he had quarrelled in his
drink. A third wore a laced stocking, and made use of crutches,
because, once in his life, he had been laid up with a broken leg,
though no man could leap over a stick with more agility. A fourth
had contracted such an antipathy to the country, that he insisted
upon sitting with his back towards the window that looked into the
garden; and when a dish of cauliflower was set upon the table, he
snuffed up volatile salts to keep him from fainting; yet this
delicate person was the son of a cottager, born under a hedge, and
had many years run wild among asses on a common. A fifth affected
distraction: when spoke to, he always answered from the purpose.
Sometimes he suddenly started up, and rapped out a dreadful oath;
sometimes he burst out a-laughing; then he folded his arms, and
sighed; and then he hissed like fifty serpents.

“At first, I really thought he was mad; and, as he sat near me,
began to be under some apprehensions for my own safety; when our
landlord, perceiving me alarmed, assured me aloud that I had nothing
to fear. ‘The gentleman,’ said he, ‘is trying to act a part for
which he is by no means qualified: if he had all the inclination in
the world, it is not in his power to be mad; his spirits are too
flat to be kindled into phrenzy.’ ‘’Tis no bad p-p-puff,
how-owever,’ observed a person in a tarnished laced coat:
‘aff-ffected m-madness w-will p-pass for w-wit w-with nine-nineteen
out of t-twenty.’ ‘And affected stuttering for humour,’ replied our
landlord; ‘though, God knows! there is no affinity betwixt them.’ It
seems this wag, after having made some abortive attempts in plain
speaking, had recourse to this defect, by means of which he
frequently extorted the laugh of the company, without the least
expense of genius; and that imperfection, which he had at first
counterfeited, was now become so habitual, that he could not lay it
aside.

“A certain winking genius, who wore yellow gloves at dinner, had, on
his first introduction, taken such offence at S——, because he looked
and talked, and ate and drank, like any other man, that he spoke
contemptuously of his understanding ever after, and never would
repeat his visit, until he had exhibited the following proof of his
caprice. Wat Wyvil, the poet, having made some unsuccessful advances
towards an intimacy with S——, at last gave him to understand, by a
third person, that he had written a poem in his praise, and a satire
against his person: that if he would admit him to his house, the
first should be immediately sent to press; but that if he persisted
in declining his friendship, he would publish the satire without
delay. S—— replied, that he looked upon Wyvil’s panegyric as, in
effect, a species of infamy, and would resent it accordingly with a
good cudgel; but if he published the satire, he might deserve his
compassion, and had nothing to fear from his revenge. Wyvil having
considered the alternative, resolved to mortify S—— by printing the
panegyric, for which he received a sound drubbing. Then he swore the
peace against the aggressor, who, in order to avoid a prosecution at
law, admitted him to his good graces. It was the singularity in
S——’s conduct on this occasion, that reconciled him to the
yellow-gloved philosopher, who owned he had some genius; and from
that period cultivated his acquaintance.

“Curious to know upon what subjects the several talents of my fellow
guests were employed, I applied to my communicative friend Dick Ivy,
who gave me to understand that most of them were, or had been,
understrappers, or journeymen, to more creditable authors, for whom
they translated, collated, and compiled, in the business of
bookmaking; and that all of them had, at different times, laboured
in the service of our landlord, though they had now set up for
themselves in various departments of literature. Not only their
talents, but also their nations and dialects, were so various, that
our conversation resembled the confusion of tongues at Babel. We had
the Irish brogue, the Scotch accent, and foreign idiom, twanged off
by the most discordant vociferation; for as they all spoke together,
no man had any chance to be heard, unless he could bawl louder than
his fellows. It must be owned, however, there was nothing pedantic
in their discourse; they carefully avoided all learned
disquisitions, and endeavoured to be facetious; nor did their
endeavours always miscarry; some droll repartee passed, and much
laughter was excited; and if any individual lost his temper so far
as to transgress the bounds of decorum, he was effectually checked
by the master of the feast, who exerted a sort of paternal authority
over this irritable tribe.

“The most learned philosopher of the whole collection, who had been
expelled the university for atheism, has made great progress in a
refutation of Lord Bolingbroke’s metaphysical works, which is said
to be equally ingenious and orthodox: but in the meantime, he has
been presented to the grand jury as a public nuisance for having
blasphemed in an alehouse on the Lord’s Day. The Scotchman gives
lectures on the pronunciation of the English language, which he is
now publishing by subscription.

“The Irishman is a political writer, and goes by the name of My Lord
Potatoe. He wrote a pamphlet in vindication of a minister, hoping
his zeal would be rewarded with some place or pension; but finding
himself neglected in that quarter, he whispered about that the
pamphlet was written by the minister himself, and he published an
answer to his own production. In this he addressed the author under
the title of ‘your lordship’, with such solemnity, that the public
swallowed the deceit, and bought up the whole impression. The wise
politicians of the metropolis declared they were both masterly
performances, and chuckled over the flimsy reveries of an ignorant
garreteer, as the profound speculations of a veteran statesman,
acquainted with all the secrets of the cabinet. The imposture was
detected in the sequel, and our Hibernian pamphleteer retains no
part of his assumed importance but the bare title of ‘my lord’, and
the upper part of the table at the potatoe-ordinary in Shoe Lane.

“Opposite to me sat a Piedmontese, who had obliged the public with a
humorous satire, entitled _The Balance of the English Poets_; a
performance which evinced the great modesty and taste of the author,
and, in particular, his intimacy with the elegances of the English
language. The sage, who laboured under the ἀγροφοβία, or ‘horror of
green fields’, had just finished a treatise on practical
agriculture, though, in fact, he had never seen corn growing in his
life, and was so ignorant of grain, that our entertainer, in the
face of the whole company, made him own that a plate of hominy was
the best rice-pudding he had ever eat.

“The stutterer had almost finished his travels through Europe and
part of Asia, without ever budging beyond the liberties of the
King’s Bench, except in term-time, with a tipstaff for his
companion: and as for little Tim Cropdale, the most facetious member
of the whole society, he had happily wound up the catastrophe of a
virgin tragedy, from the exhibition of which no promised himself a
large fund of profit and reputation. Tim had made shift to live many
years by writing novels, at the rate of five pounds a volume; but
that branch of business is now engrossed by female authors, who
publish merely for the propagation of virtue, with so much ease, and
spirit, and delicacy, and knowledge of the human heart, and all in
the serene tranquillity of high life, that the reader is not only
enchanted by their genius, but reformed by their morality.

“After dinner, we adjourned into the garden, where I observed Mr.
S—— give a short separate audience to every individual in a small
remote filbert-walk, from whence most of them dropped off one after
another, without further ceremony.”

Smollett’s house was in Lawrence Lane, Chelsea, and is now
destroyed. See _Handbook of London_, p. 115.

“The person of Smollett was eminently handsome, his features
prepossessing, and, by the joint testimony of all his surviving
friends, his conversation, in the highest degree, instructive and
amusing. Of his disposition, those who have read his works (and who
has not?) may form a very accurate estimate; for in each of them he
has presented, and sometimes, under various points of view, the
leading features of his own character without disguising the most
unfavourable of them.... When unseduced by his satirical
propensities, he was kind, generous, and humane to others; bold,
upright, and independent in his own character; stooped to no patron,
sued for no favour, but honestly and honourably maintained himself
on his literary labours.... He was a doating father, and an
affectionate husband; and the warm zeal with which his memory was
cherished by his surviving friends, showed clearly the reliance
which they placed upon his regard.”—SIR WALTER SCOTT.

148 Smollett of Bonhill, in Dumbartonshire. _Arms_, az. “a bend, or,
between a lion rampant, ppr., holding in his paw a banner, arg. and
a bugle-horn, also ppr. _Crest_, an oak-tree, ppr. _Motto,
Viresco._”

Smollett’s father, Archibald, was the fourth son of Sir James
Smollett of Bonhill, a Scotch judge and Member of Parliament, and
one of the commissioners for framing the Union with England.
Archibald married, without the old gentleman’s consent, and died
early, leaving his children dependent on their grandfather. Tobias,
the second son, was born in 1721, in the old house of Dalquharn in
the valley of Leven; and all his life loved and admired that valley
and Loch Lomond beyond all the valleys and lakes in Europe. He
learned the “rudiments” at Dumbarton Grammar-school, and studied at
Glasgow.

But when he was only eighteen, his grandfather died, and left him
without provision (figuring as the old judge in _Roderick Random_ in
consequence, according to Sir Walter). Tobias, armed with the
_Regicide_, a tragedy—a provision precisely similar to that with
which Dr. Johnson had started, just before—came up to London. The
_Regicide_ came to no good, though at first patronized by Lord
Lyttelton (“one of those little fellows who are sometimes called
great men,” Smollett says); and Smollett embarked as “surgeon’s
mate” on board a line-of-battle ship, and served in the Carthagena
expedition, in 1741. He left the service in the West Indies, and,
after residing some time in Jamaica, returned to England in 1746.

He was now unsuccessful as a physician, to begin with; published the
satires, _Advice_ and _Reproof_—without any luck; and (1747) married
the “beautiful and accomplished Miss Lascelles”.

In 1748 he brought out his _Roderick Random_, which at once made a
“hit”. The subsequent events of his life may be presented,
chronologically, in a bird’s-eye view:—

1750. Made a tour to Paris, where he chiefly wrote _Peregrine
Pickle_.

1751. Published _Peregrine Pickle_.

1753. Published _Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom_.

1755. Published version of _Don Quixote_.

1756. Began the _Critical Review_.

1758. Published his _History of England_.

1763-1766. Travelling in France and Italy; published his _Travels_.

1769. Published _Adventures of an Atom_.

1770. Set out for Italy; died at Leghorn 21st of Oct., 1771, in the
fifty-first year of his age.

149 A good specimen of the old “slashing” style of writing is presented
by the paragraph on Admiral Knowles, which subjected Smollett to
prosecution and imprisonment. The admiral’s defence on the occasion
of the failure of the Rochfort expedition came to be examined before
the tribunal of the _Critical Review_.

“He is,” said our author, “an admiral without conduct, an engineer
without knowledge, an officer without resolution, and a man without
veracity!”

Three months imprisonment in the King’s Bench avenged this stinging
paragraph.

But the _Critical_ was to Smollett a perpetual fountain of “hot
water”. Among less important controversies may be mentioned that
with Grainger, the translator of _Tibullus_. Grainger replied in a
pamphlet; and in the next number of the _Review_ we find him
threatened with “castigation”, as an “owl that has broken from his
mew”!

In Dr. Moore’s biography of him is a pleasant anecdote. After
publishing the _Don Quixote_, he returned to Scotland to pay a visit
to his mother:—

“On Smollett’s arrival, he was introduced to his mother with the
connivance of Mrs. Telfer (her daughter), as a gentleman from the
West Indies, who was intimately acquainted with her son. The better
to support his assumed character, he endeavoured to preserve a
serious countenance, approaching to a frown; but while his mother’s
eyes were riveted on his countenance, he could not refrain from
smiling: she immediately sprung from her chair, and throwing her
arms round his neck, exclaimed, ‘Ah, my son! my son! I have found
you at last!’

“She afterwards told him, that if he had kept his austere looks and
continued to _gloom_, he might have escaped detection some time
longer, but ‘your old roguish smile’, added she, ‘betrayed you at
once.’ ”

“Shortly after the publication of _The Adventures of an Atom_,
disease again attacked Smollett with redoubled violence. Attempts
being vainly made to obtain for him the office of Consul in some
part of the Mediterranean, he was compelled to seek a warmer
climate, without better means of provision than his own precarious
finances could afford. The kindness of his distinguished friend and
countryman, Dr. Armstrong (then abroad), procured for Dr. and Mrs.
Smollett a house at Monte Nero, a village situated on the side of a
mountain overlooking the sea, in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, a
romantic and salutary abode, where he prepared for the press, the
last, and like music ‘sweetest in the close’, the most pleasing of
his compositions, _The Expedition of Humphry Clinker_. This
delightful work was published in 1771.”—SIR WALTER SCOTT.

150 The dispute with the captain arose from the wish of that functionary
to intrude on his right to his cabin, for which he had paid thirty
pounds. After recounting the circumstances of the apology, he
characteristically adds:—

“And here, that I may not be thought the sly trumpeter of my own
praises, I do utterly disclaim all praise on the occasion. Neither
did the greatness of my mind dictate, nor the force of my
Christianity exact this forgiveness. To speak truth, I forgave him
from a motive which would make men much more forgiving, if they were
much wiser than they are; because it was convenient for me so to
do.”

151 Lady Mary was his second cousin—their respective grandfathers being
sons of George Fielding, Earl of Desmond, son of William, Earl of
Denbigh.

In a letter dated just a week before his death, she says:—

“H. Fielding has given a true picture of himself and his first wife
in the characters of Mr. and Mrs. Booth, some compliments to his own
figure excepted; and I am persuaded, several of the incidents he
mentions are real matters of fact. I wonder he does not perceive Tom
Jones and Mr. Booth are sorry scoundrels.... Fielding has really a
fund of true humour, and was to be pitied at his first entrance into
the world, having no choice, as he said himself, but to be a hackney
writer or a hackney coachman. His genius deserved a better fate; but
I cannot help blaming that continued indiscretion, to give it the
softest name, that has run through his life, and I am afraid still
remains.... Since I was born no original has appeared excepting
Congreve, and Fielding, who would, I believe, have approached nearer
to his excellences, if not forced by his necessities to publish
without correction, and throw many productions into the world he
would have thrown into the fire, if meat could have been got without
money, or money without scribbling.... I am sorry not to see any
more of Peregrine Pickle’s performances; I wish you would tell me
his name,”—_Letters and Works_ (Lord Wharncliffe’s ed.), vol. iii,
pp. 93, 94.

152 He sailed for Lisbon, from Gravesend, on Sunday morning, June 30th,
1754; and began the _Journal of a Voyage_ during the passage. He
died at Lisbon, in the beginning of October of the same year. He
lies buried there, in the English Protestant church-yard, near the
Estrella Church, with this inscription over him:—

“HENRICUS FIELDING,
LUGET BRITANNIA GREMIO NON DATUM
FOVERE NATUM.”

153 Fielding himself is said by Dr. Warton to have preferred _Joseph
Andrews_ to his other writings.

154 “Richardson,” says worthy Mrs. Barbauld, in her Memoir of him,
prefixed to his Correspondence, “was exceedingly hurt at this
(_Joseph Andrews_), the more so as they had been on good terms, and
he was very intimate with Fielding’s two sisters. He never appears
cordially to have forgiven it (perhaps it was not in human nature he
should), and he always speaks in his letters with a great deal of
asperity of _Tom Jones_, more indeed than was quite graceful in a
rival author. No doubt he himself thought his indignation was solely
excited by the loose morality of the work and of its author, but he
could tolerate Cibber.”

155 It must always be borne in mind, that besides that the Doctor
couldn’t be expected to like Fielding’s wild life (to say nothing of
the fact, that they were of opposite sides in politics), Richardson
was one of his earliest and kindest friends. Yet Johnson too (as
Boswell tells us) read _Amelia_ through without “stopping”.

156 “Manners change from generation to generation, and with manners
morals appear to change—actually change with some, but appear to
change with all but the abandoned. A young man of the present day
who should act as Tom Jones is supposed to act at Upton, with Lady
Bellaston, &c., would not be a Tom Jones; and a Tom Jones of the
present day, without perhaps being in the ground a better man, would
have perished rather than submit to be kept by a harridan of
fortune. Therefore, this novel is, and indeed, pretends to be, no
example of conduct. But, notwithstanding all this, I do loathe the
cant which can recommend _Pamela_ and _Clarissa Harlowe_ as strictly
moral, although they poison the imagination of the young with
continued doses of _tinct. lyttae_, while _Tom Jones_ is prohibited
as loose. I do not speak of young women; but a young man whose heart
or feelings can be injured, or even his passions excited by this
novel, is already thoroughly corrupt. There is a cheerful, sunshiny,
breezy spirit, that prevails everywhere, strongly contrasted with
the close, hot, day dreamy continuity of Richardson.”—COLERIDGE,
_Literary Remains_, vol. ii, p. 374.

157 “Nor was she (Lady Mary Wortley Montagu) a stranger to that beloved
first wife, whose picture he drew in his _Amelia_, when, as she
said, even the glowing language he knew how to employ, did not do
more than justice to the amiable qualities of the original, or to
her beauty, although this had suffered a little from the accident
related in the novel—a frightful overturn, which destroyed the
gristle of her nose. He loved her passionately, and she returned his
affection....

“His biographers seem to have been shy of disclosing that after the
death of this charming woman, he married her maid. And yet the act
was not so discreditable to his character as it may sound. The maid
had few personal charms, but was an excellent creature, devotedly
attached to her mistress, and almost brokenhearted for her loss. In
the first agonies of his own grief, which approached to frenzy, he
found no relief but from weeping along with her; nor solace when a
degree calmer, but in talking to her of the angel they mutually
regretted. This made her his habitual confidential associate, and in
process of time he began to think he could not give his children a
tenderer mother, or secure for himself a more faithful housekeeper
and nurse. At least, this was what he told his friends; and it is
certain that her conduct as his wife confirmed it, and fully
justified his good opinion.”—_Letters and Works of Lady Mary Wortley
Montagu._ Edited by Lord Wharncliffe. _Introductory Anecdotes_, vol.
i, pp. 80, 81.

Fielding’s first wife was Miss Craddock, a young lady from
Salisbury, with a fortune of 1,500_l._, whom he married in 1736.
About the same time he succeeded, himself, to an estate of 200_l._
per annum, and on the joint amount he lived for some time as a
splendid country gentleman in Dorsetshire. Three years brought him
to the end of his fortune; when he returned to London, and became a
student of law.

158 In the _Gentleman’s Magazine_, for 1786, an anecdote is related of
Harry Fielding, “in whom,” says the correspondent, “good nature and
philanthropy in their extreme degree were known to be the prominent
features.” It seems that “some parochial taxes” for his house in
Beaufort Buildings had long been demanded by the collector. “At
last, Harry went off to Johnson, and obtained by a process of
literary mortgage the needful sum. He was returning with it, when he
met an old college chum whom he had not seen for many years. He
asked the chum to dinner with him at a neighbouring tavern; and
learning that he was in difficulties, emptied the contents of his
pocket into his. On returning home he was informed that the
collector had been twice for the money. ‘Friendship has called for
the money and had it,’ said Fielding; ‘let the collector call
again.’ ”

It is elsewhere told of him, that being in company with the Earl of
Denbigh, his kinsman, and the conversation turning upon their
relationship, the Earl asked him how it was that he spelled his name
“Fielding”, and not “Feilding”, like the head of the house? “I
cannot tell, my lord,” said he, “except it be that my branch of the
family were the first that knew how to spell.”

159 In 1749, he was made Justice of the Peace for Westminster and
Middlesex, an office then paid by fees, and very laborious, without
being particularly reputable. It may be seen from his own words, in
the Introduction to the _Voyage_, what kind of work devolved upon
him, and in what a state he was, during these last years; and still
more clearly, how he comported himself through all.

“Whilst I was preparing for my journey, and when I was almost
fatigued to death with several long examinations, relating to five
different murders, all committed within the space of a week, by
different gangs of street-robbers, I received a message from his
grace the Duke of Newcastle, by Mr. Carrington, the King’s
messenger, to attend his grace the next morning in Lincoln’s Inn
Fields, upon some business of importance: but I excused myself from
complying with the message, as, besides being lame, I was very ill
with the great fatigues I had lately undergone, added to my
distemper.

“His grace, however, sent Mr. Carrington the very next morning, with
another summons; with which, though in the utmost distress, I
immediately complied; but the duke happening, unfortunately for me,
to be then particularly engaged, after I had waited some time, sent
a gentleman to discourse with me on the best plan which could be
invented for these murders and robberies, which were every day
committed in the streets; upon which I promised to transmit my
opinion in writing to his grace, who, as the gentleman informed me,
intended to lay it before the Privy Council.

“Though this visit cost me a severe cold, I, notwithstanding, set
myself down to work, and in about four days sent the duke as regular
a plan as I could form, with all the reasons and arguments I could
bring to support it, drawn out on several sheets of paper; and soon
received a message from the Duke, by Mr. Carrington, acquainting me
that my plan was highly approved of, and that all the terms of it
would be complied with.

“The principal and most material of these terms was the immediately
depositing 600_l._ in my hands; at which small charge I undertook to
demolish the then reigning gangs, and to put the civil policy into
such order, that no such gangs should ever be able for the future,
to form themselves into bodies, or at least to remain any time
formidable to the public.

“I had delayed my Bath journey for some time, contrary to the
repeated advice of my physical acquaintances, and the ardent desire
of my warmest friends, though my distemper was now turned to a deep
jaundice; in which case the Bath waters are generally reputed to be
almost infallible. But I had the most eager desire to demolish this
gang of villains and cut-throats....

“After some weeks the money was paid at the Treasury, and within a
few days, after 200_l._ of it had come into my hands, the whole gang
of cut-throats was entirely dispersed....”

Further on, he says—

“I will confess that my private affairs at the beginning of the
winter had but a gloomy aspect; for I had not plundered the public
or the poor of those sums which men, who are always ready to plunder
both as much as they can, have been pleased to suspect me of taking;
on the contrary, by composing, instead of inflaming, the quarrels of
porters and beggars (which I blush when I say hath not been
universally practised), and by refusing to take a shilling from a
man who most undoubtedly would not have had another left, I had
reduced an income of about 500_l._, a year of the dirtiest money
upon earth, to little more than 300_l._, a considerable portion of
which remained with my clerk.”

160 He came of a Suffolk family—one of whom settled in Nottinghamshire.
The famous “starling” was actually the family crest.

161 “It was in this parish” (of Animo, in Wicklow), “during our stay,
that I had that wonderful escape in falling through a mill-race,
whilst the mill was going, and of being taken up unhurt; the story
is incredible, but known for truth in all that part of Ireland,
where hundreds of the common people flocked to see me.”—STERNE.

162 “My wife returns to Toulouse, and proposes to pass the summer at
Bagnères—I, on the contrary, go and visit my wife, the church, in
Yorkshire. We all live the longer, at least the happier, for having
things our own way; this is my conjugal maxim. I own ’tis not the
best of maxims, but I maintain ’tis not the worst.”—STERNE’S
_Letters_, 20th January, 1764.

163 In a collection of _Seven Letters by Sterne and His Friends_,
(printed for private circulation), in 1844, is a letter of M.
Tollot, who was in France with Sterne and his family in 1764. Here
is a paragraph:—

“Nous arrivâmes le lendemain à Montpellier, où nous trouvâmes notre
ami Mr. Sterne, sa femme, sa fille, Mr. Huet, et quelques autres
Anglaises; j’eus, je vous l’avoue, beaucoup de plaisir en revoyant
le bon et agréable Tristram.... Il avait été assez longtemps à
Toulouse, où il se serait amusé sans sa femme, qui le poursuivit
partout, et qui voulait être de tout. Ces dispositions dans cette
bonne dame, lui ont fait passer d’assez mauvais momens; il supporte
tous ces désagrémens avec une patience d’ánge.”

About four months after this very characteristic letter, Sterne
wrote to the same gentleman to whom Tollot had written; and from his
letter we may extract a companion paragraph:—

“... All which being premised, I have been for eight weeks smitten
with the tenderest passion that ever tender wight underwent. I wish,
dear cousin, thou couldst conceive (perhaps thou canst without my
wishing it) how deliciously I canter’d away with it the first month,
two up, two down, always upon my _hanches_, along the streets from
my hotel to hers, at first once—then twice, then three times a day,
till at length I was within an ace of setting up my hobby-horse in
her stable for good and all. I might as well, considering how the
enemies of the Lord have blasphemed thereupon. The last three weeks
we were every hour upon the doleful ditty of parting—and thou mayest
conceive, dear cousin, how it altered my gait and air—for I went and
came like any louden’d carl, and did nothing but _jouer des
sentimens_ with her from sun-rising even to the setting of the same;
and now she is gone to the south of France; and to finish the
_comédie_, I fell ill and broke a vessel in my lungs, and half bled
to death. _Voilà mon histoire!_”

Whether husband or wife had most of the _patience d’ánge_ may be
uncertain; but there can be no doubt which needed it most!

164 “_Tristram Shandy_ is still a greater object of admiration, the man
as well as the book; one is invited to dinner, when he dines, a
fortnight before. As to the volumes yet published, there is much
good fun in them, and humour sometimes hit and sometimes missed.
Have you read his _Sermons_, with his own comick figure, from a
painting by Reynolds, at the head of them? They are in the style I
think most proper for the pulpit, and show a strong imagination and
a sensible heart; but you see him often tottering on the verge of
laughter, and ready to throw his periwig in the face of the
audience.”—GRAY’S _Letters_, June 22nd, 1760.