y met on their way. And so there is the promise
that Smollett, after his departure in Count Fathom from the field of
personal experience which erstwhile he cultivated so successfully, has
returned to see if the ground will yield him another rich harvest.
Though it must be admitted that in Sir Launcelot Greaves his labours were
but partially successful, yet the story possesses a good deal of the
lively verisimilitude which Fathom lacked. The very first page, as we
have seen, shows that its inns are going to be real. So, too, are most
of its highway adventures, and also its portion of those prison scenes of
which Smollett seems to have been so fond. As for the description of the
parliamentary election, it is by no means the least graphic of its kind
in the fiction of the last two centuries. The speech of Sir Valentine
Quickset, the fox-hunting Tory candidate, is excellent, both for its
brevity and for its simplicity. Any of his bumpkin audience could
understand perfectly his principal points: that he spends his estate of
"vive thousand clear" at home in old English hospitality; that he comes
of pure old English stock; that he hates all foreigners, not excepting
those from Hanover; and that if he is elected, he "will cross the
ministry in everything, as in duty bound."

In the characters, likewise, though less than in the scenes just spoken
of, we recognise something of the old Smollett touch. True, it is not
high praise to say of Miss Aurelia Darnel that she is more alive, or
rather less lifeless, than Smollett's heroines have been heretofore.
Nor can we give great praise to the characterisation of Sir Launcelot.
Yet if less substantial than Smollett's roystering heroes, he is more
distinct than de Melvil in Fathom, the only one of our author's earlier
young men, by the way, (with the possible exception of Godfrey Gauntlet)
who can stand beside Greaves in never failing to be a gentleman. It
is a pity, when Greaves's character is so lovable, and save for his
knight-errantry, so well conceived, that the image is not more distinct.
Crowe is distinct enough, however, though not quite consistently drawn.
There is justice in Scott's objection [Tobias Smollett in Biographical
and Critical Notices of Eminent Novelists] that nothing in the seaman's
"life . . . renders it at all possible that he should have caught" the
baronet's Quixotism. Otherwise, so far from finding fault with the old
sailor, we are pleased to see Sm