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[Jeremiah Whitaker Newman], from The Lounger

[Jeremiah Whitaker Newman], from The Lounger

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equal to the best efforts of Smollett, I cannot deny; yet, after perusing their works, I

never quit them with such reluctance as I feel on closing the pages of our author, who,

without introducing so much ofwhat has been called fine writing, possesses, in an

eminent degree, the art of rousing our feelings, and fixing the attention of his readers.

The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle, though they have been censured as low, scurrilous,

and immoral, (a charge of a serious nature, and which I shall hereafter consider) I have

always preferred to the other productions of Smollett: they relate, in language by turns

strong, easy, elegant, and pathetic, a succession of events, forming a natural, well-drawn

picture of human life, which the thoughtless may peruse with advantage, and the

prudent man, with emotions of triumph.

From the wild unlucky boy, teizing his aunt and the commodore, by mischievous

pranks, and heading a rebellion at school against his master, we trace the headstrong

youth, of pride unbroken, and unbridled appetite, plunging into folly, vice, and

dissipation; wasting his substance, injuring the woman of all others he loved, and at last

pining in a prison, that severe school, which too tardily teaches us the falsehood and

treachery of a base world, fascinating only to plunder, and bewitching, only to destroy.

Roused by the voice of friendship, and again restored to affluence, he returns, with a

stern reluctance, founded on a sense of his own unworthiness and vicious imprudence,

to society and love; convinced that, after all the bustle of pleasure, and glitter of wealth,

real happiness is only to be found in moderate enjoyment, domestic tranquility, and

social virtue.

A good style has been defined, ‘proper words in proper places;’ and I have not met

with a more just selection of appropriate terms, and descriptive expressions, than in the

following short passage of Smollett, though on a trifling subject; it is when Tom Pipes kills

the gardener’s dog. ‘He was that instant assaulted by the mastiff, who fastened on the

outside of his thigh. Feeling himself incommoded by this assailant, he quitted the

prostrate gardner, turned round to the dog, and grasping the throat of that ferocious

animal with both his hands, he squeezed it with such incredible force and perseverance,

that the creature quitted his hold: his tongue lolled out of his jaws, the blood started

from his eyes, and he swung, a lifeless trunk, in the hands of his vanquisher.’

His feast, after the manner of the ancients, is well managed and replete with rich

strokes of humour, and pointed satire, which, in the rancour of toryism, he directed, with

engerness, against hiswhig opponent, Akenside. Yet in this, and other parts of Peregrine

Smollett has, with some justice, been thought indelicate; but it should be recollected,

that in delineations of certain circumstances, and certain characters, it is difficult for the

author who draws from nature, and real life, to avoid shocking the fastidious eye of

nicety, and scrupulous decorum. The path of humour is pleasant and inviting, but it is a

dangerous one, and too often leads us astray into the bye roads of indelicacy, as well as

illnature. To say a good thing, how ever smutty or malignant, is a temptation equally

irresistible to the humourist, the mimic, and the bon-vivant; and, as I have said in

another place, we ought to recollect, that it is the nature of all humour to be

sometimes gross, and sometimes inelegant.


In this respect, the dialogue between Pipes, and the hedge nymph, his master had

accidentally picked up on the road, and afterwards introduced into company as a fine

lady, is culpably obscene, though the story is well told, and the irresistible buoyancy of

early impression well marked. The behaviour of Pickle to Hornbeck, is also highly

unjustifiable; not satisfied with injuring that unfortunate husband, beyond repair, he

adds personal violence to insult. Yet, with these, and other faults, I can not but

consider it, contrary to the general opinion, as superior to Roderick Random, and as a firstrate novel, whose merits far exceed the modern puny productions of frivolous fashion,

and feeble sentiment, which load the shelves of our libraries, and teach nonsense and

iniquity to our wives and daughters.

Peregrine’s transition from mirth, petulance, and gaiety, to anxiety, agitation,

confusion, and concern, after first beholding the lovely Emilia Gauntlett, and the

progress of the generous passion of love, as long as he restrained himself within the

bounds of good sense; also the curious mode of replacing a lost love letter, are well

imagined. But when the young man was corrupted by prosperity, and his principles

contaminated by excess and the baleful maxims of foreign climes, that aweful

veneration, which her presence used to inspire, gradually abated, and he gazed on the

lovely, the virtuous Emilia, with impure desire.

After a variety of plans to lull her vigilance and apprehensions, he considers the

licentiousness and late hours of a masquerade, (that hot-house of sin and hell) as a fit

place for the execution of his purpose. The address of Emilia to her lover, on

discovering his treacherous and unprincipled design, deserves to be repeated; it

isanimated, pointed, and such as her situation would naturally inspire: ‘for, what must

have been the emotions of a virtuous sensible woman, at this insolent treatment from a

man whom she had honored with the most disinterested affection, and genuine esteem?

it was not simply horror, grief, or indignation, but the united pangs of them all.’

As soon as her feeling suffered her to speak, she addresses him in the following words.

[quotes Peregrine Pickle, chs LXXXII and CXI, and reports the narrative of Peregrine’s

attempt upon Emilia’s virtue, and their ultimate reconciliation at the close of the novel.

Cf. vol. III, ch. 76, pp. 29–33]

I was very young when these adventures fell in my way, and perhaps on that

account, they made a deeper impression, and appeared in the eyes of a school-boy more

worthy of attention, and better written, than they really are; circumstances which I

hope will excuse thus serving up to my readers a second-hand hash from the novel

shop. I well remember the forlorn situation of Peregrine, his declining every kind of

proffered assistance, and the obstinate peculiarity of his conduct, with regard to Emilia,

struck me as a noble exertion of manly and philosophical self-denial, not unworthy the

characters of Socrates or Cato. I could not help bestowing on his behaviour warm

encomiums, and viewing him with a mixture of envy and admiration, but the happy

conclusion was not suitable to the enthusiasm of juvenile fancy, dreaming of, and

seeking, as objects of meditation, themes far more gratifying, interesting, and affecting,

than reason, nature and probability.


‘Had I been in such a situation,’ (have I often exclaimed in the blissful extacy of

fourteen) ‘had I written this novel, or had I been in the circumstances of Peregrine, I

would have suffered myself or my hero to perish in prison, unassisted; the cup of

comfort should have been dashed untasted from my lips; to add to my punishment, my

last look should have been cast on the woman I was dying for and adored. Without

suffering myself to enjoy a heaven, which was placed within my grasp; after darting my

eyes on that bosom, where gods would wish to have revelled, I would have turned them

from the delicious, enchanting sight, and sunk into everlasting sleep.

I need not add, that to the pourer forth of such a rhapsody, the performance of

Smollett would have been more pleasing, had itstermination been in the stile of

Spagnolet, less happy.

As a traveller, Smollett was petulant, illiberal, and almost on every occasion lost his

temper; but some excuse is to be made for a frame, convulsed by the pangs of disease,

and a life embittered by disappointment, and domestic calamity; a spirit wounded by

ingratitude, and irritated by the malignant shafts of envy, dullness, and profligacy. He is

said to have been a literary retainer to the Earl of Bute, and to have experienced

ingratitude from that nobleman, who in many instances was a generous patron to men

very inferior in ability to Smollett. Under such impressions perhaps he ought not to

have written, but on certain occasions, the pen will be found to afford a similar relief to

the dram-bottle, or a round of diversions; and where is the man, who having once

found solace in a pursuit, will not naturally seek for comfort and consolation in the

same path?

At the age of eighteen, this writer produced the Regicide, a Tragedy on the subject of

James the First, King of Scotland, animated, nervous, and pathetic. The character of

the virtuous, the brave, but the gentle Dunbar, is finely contrasted with the

headstrong, fierce, ambitious Stewart, while the amiable Eleanora, esteeming the first,

but in spite of herself loving the latter, is distracted between her passion and her duty.

This piece of Smollett’s, excels in language, situation, and every other dramatic

requisite, most of the wretched things which were presented to the public at that

period, but are now forgotten; yet, with all its merits, it was never able to procure

admission on the stage. I was tempted to mention it in this place, by the following

passage in a Preface prefixed to the play, which I submit, without a comment, to the

consideration of Messrs. Harris, Sheridan, and Colman, jun.

‘As early as the year 1739, my play was taken into the protection of one of those

little fellows, who sometimes fancy themselves great men. After being neglected by

him, with the strictest attention to politeness and etiquette, I was introduced to Mr

Lacy, of courteous memory, who found means to amuse me for two seasons, by

practising on me the various arts of procrastination, occasionally sweetened with

compliments and promises. My patience was at last exhausted, and I demanded from

him, in warm terms, a final answer, which amounted to a refusal. The gentleman

coolly added, that he really saw no great objection to the piece, butfeared my interest

was not sufficient to support it in the representation, as no dramatic composition, however


perfect, could succeed with an English audience, by its merit only, but must depend in a great

measure, on a faction raised in its behalf.’


James Lackington on Smollett’s popularity


From James Lackington, Memoirs of the forty-five first Years of the Life of James

Lackington, Bookseller etc. (1793), 1795 new edn, corr. and enlarged, p.


Before I conclude this letter, I cannot help observing, that the sale of books in general has

increased prodigiously within the last twenty years. According to the best estimation I

have been able to make, I suppose that more than four times the number of books are

sold now than were sold twenty years since. The poorer sort of farmers, and even the

poor country people in general, who before that period spent their winter evenings in

relating stories of witches, ghosts, hobgoblins, &c. now shorten the winter nights by

hearing their sons and daughters read tales, romances, &c. and on entering their

houses, you may see Tom Jones, Roderick Random, and other entertaining books, stuck up

on their bacon racks, &c. If John goes to town with a load of hay, he is charged to be

sure not to forget to bring home Peregrine Pickle’s Adventures; and when Dolly is sent to

market to sell her eggs, she is commissioned to purchase The History of Pamela Andrews.

It short, all ranks and degrees now READ. But the most rapid increase of the sale of

books has been since the termination of the late war.


Isaac D’Israeli on Smollett as Petronius


From Isaac D’Israeli, Essay on the Manners and Genius of the Literary

Character, 1795, pp. 140–1. The extract comes in chapter XI, ‘The

Characters of Writers not Discoverable in their Writings’. The Bayle

referred to is probably Pierre Bayle, the seventeenth-century French


The licentious tales of La Fontaine are well known, but not a single amour has been

recorded of the ‘bon homme.’ Bayle is a remarkable instance; no writer is more ample

in his detail of impurity, but he resisted the pollution of the senses as much as Newton.

He painted his scenes of lewdness merely as a faithful historian, and an exact compiler.

Smollett’s character is immaculate, yet what a description has he given of one of his

heroes with Lord Straddle. I cannot but observe on such scenes, that their delineation

answers no good purpose. Modesty cannot read, and is morality interested? He

assumed the character of Petronius Arbiter; we applaud and we censure this mere

playfulness of fancy. It is certain, however, by these instances, that licentious writers

may be very chaste men.


Richard Cumberland on ‘fast writing’


In his novel Henry, 4 vols, 1795, Richard Cumberland the younger (1732–

1811) gives a comic account of the work ofFielding, Richardson and

Smollett. This extract comes from the 3rd ed of 1798, vol. I, book 2,

chapter I, p. 98, bearing the chapter heading ‘Reasons for writing as fast as

we can’.

There was third, somewhat posterior in time, not in talents, who was indeed a rough

driver, and rather too severe to his cattle; but in faith, he carried us on at a merry pace

over land or sea; nothing came amiss to him, for he was up to both elements, and a

match for nature in every shape, character, and degree: he was not very courteous, it

must be owned, for he had a capacity for higher things, and was above his business: he

only wanted a little more suavity and discretion to have figured with the best.

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[Jeremiah Whitaker Newman], from The Lounger

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