eant, at your
desire, to put into my hands; but since that time I have neither seen
nor heard of the piece.

"I hope you enjoy your health abroad, and shall be glad of every
opportunity to convince you that I am most heartily and sincerely, dear
Sir, your, &c.,

"G. COLMAN.

"London, 28 Sept. 1770."

* * * * *

The piece referred to here by Colman (who was at this period, we
believe, the manager of the Haymarket Theatre) may possibly have been
a farce that was brought out fifteen years later on the Covent-Garden
stage, with the title of "The Israelites, or the Pampered Nabob." Its
merits and its success are said by Scott to have been but slight, and
the proof of its having been written by Smollett very doubtful; so that
it was never printed, and was soon forgotten.

At this time, (1770,) it must be remembered, Smollett was established at
Leghorn, where a milder climate and sunnier skies tended to promote,
we fancy, a serener condition of mind than he had known for years. In
leaving England, he left behind him some friends, but many enemies. In
his literary career, as he himself had not been over-merciful, so he
was in return not always tenderly handled. As a sample of the invective
which was occasionally poured forth on him, we will quote some lines
from "The Race," a dull imitation of "The Dunciad," ascribed to one
Cuthbert Shaw, and published in 1766. Although reprinted in "Dilly's
Repository," (1790,) it has long ago been very properly forgotten, and
is now utterly worthless save for purposes of illustration. The Hamilton
referred to is the same person to whom Colman makes allusion; he was
indeed Smollett's _fidus Achaies._

"--Next Smollet came. What author dare resist
Historian, critic, bard, and novelist?
'To reach thy temple, honoured Fame,' he cried,
'Where, where's an avenue I have not tried?
But since the glorious present of to-day
Is meant to grace alone the poet's lay,
My claim I wave to every art beside,
And rest my plea upon the Regicide.
* * * * *
But if, to crown the labours of my Muse,
Thou, inauspicious, should'st the wreath refuse,
Whoe'er attempts it in this scribbling age
Shall feel the Scottish pow'rs of Crilic rage.
Thus spurn'd, thus disappointed of my aim,
I'll stand a bugbear in the road to Fame,
Each future author's infant hopes undo,
And blast the budding honours of his brow.'
H