_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 ‘Many a time,’ he remarks in one of his unpublished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!’