_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!