y, but vigorously written: the fantasy was not understood as
Smollett intended it to be, and the book is blotted, as usual, with
loathsome medical details. But people in Madame du Deffand's circle used
openly to discuss the same topics, to the confusion of Horace Walpole. As
the hero of this book is a generous gentleman, as the most of it is kind
and manly, and the humour provocative of an honest laugh, it is by no
means to be despised, while the manners, if caricatured, are based on
fact.

It is curious to note that in "Sir Launcelot Greaves," we find a
character, Ferret, who frankly poses as a _strugforlifeur_. M. Daudet's
_strugforlifeur_ had heard of Darwin. Mr. Ferret had read Hobbes,
learned that man was in a state of nature, and inferred that we ought to
prey upon each other, as a pike eats trout. Miss Burney, too, at Bath,
about 1780, met a perfectly emancipated young "New Woman." She had read
Bolingbroke and Hume, believed in nothing, and was ready to be a "Woman
who Did." Our ancestors could be just as advanced as we are.

Smollett went on compiling, and supporting himself by his compilations,
and those of his vassals. In 1762 he unluckily edited a paper called
_The Briton_ in the interests of Lord Bute. _The Briton_ was silenced by
Wilkes's _North Briton_. Smollett lost his last patron; he fell ill; his
daughter died; he travelled angrily in France and Italy. His "Travels"
show the choleric nature of the man, and he was especially blamed for not
admiring the Venus de Medici. Modern taste, enlightened by the works of
a better period of Greek art, has come round to Smollett's opinions. But,
in his own day, he was regarded as a Vandal and a heretic.

In 1764, he visited Scotland, and was warmly welcomed by his kinsman, the
laird of Bonhill. In 1769, he published "The Adventures of an Atom," a
stupid, foul, and scurrilous political satire, in which Lord Bute, having
been his patron, was "lashed" in Smollett's usual style. In 1768,
Smollett left England for ever. He desired a consulship, but no
consulship was found for him, which is not surprising. He died at Monte
Nova, near Leghorn, in September (others say October) 1771. He had
finished "Humphrey Clinker," which appeared a day or two before his
death.

Thackeray thought "Humphrey Clinker" the most laughable book that ever
was written. Certainly nobody is to be envied who does not laugh over
the epistles of Winifred Jenkins. The book is to