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Updated: May 18, 2025
Horace Walpole found that she had omitted the only feature in her career of which she had just reason to be proud: the number of her lovers. Nobody doubted that Smollett was paid for casting his mantle over Lady Vane: moreover, he might expect a success of scandal. The roman a clef is always popular with scandal-mongers, but its authors can hardly hope to escape rebuke.
Lawrence or Monmouth House stood on the north side of Lordship Yard. Here Dr. Smollett once lived and wrote many of his works; one of the scenes of "Humphrey Clinker" is actually laid in Monmouth House. The old parish church stands at the corner of Church Street.
It is a very simple shaft that rises over his grave, with the brief record, "Memoriae Tobiae Smollett, qui Liburni animam efflavit, 16 Sept., 1773," but it is imaginable with what wrath he would have disputed the record, if it is true, according to all the other authorities, that he exhaled his spirit two years earlier, and how he would have had it out with those "friends and fellow-countrymen" who had the error perpetuated above his helpless dust.
The grave of Smollett, who lived here for some time, is one of the objects of interest to visitors from the British Isles. There is always a degree of melancholy pleasure in coming across the last resting-place of a distinguished countryman in a foreign land. While at the post-restante, we experienced a singular example of the persistency and malevolence of the typical Italian beggar.
"Bravo!" cried the other. "'Twill be like an incident in a comedy, Dick." "Rather like a page of Smollett," replied Dick. "With your permission, madam, we'll accompany you to your lodgings." They sat around the fireplace, with their backs to her, and talked with easy gaiety, while she packed her possessions; Ned having first followed them in, and then fled to appease his mind at an ale-house.
Perhaps Smollett suspected Fielding, whom he attacks in several parts of his works, treating him as a kind of Jonathan Wild, a thief-taker, and an associate with thieves. Why Smollett thus misconducted himself is a problem, unless he was either "meanly jealous," or had taken offence at some remarks in Fielding's newspaper.
Captain Smollett rose from his seat, and knocked out the ashes of his pipe in the palm of his left hand. "Is that all?" he asked. "Every last word, by thunder!" answered John. "Refuse that, and you've seen the last of me but musket-balls." "Very good," said the captain. "Now you'll hear me.
In other words, you fear a mutiny." "Sir," said Captain Smollett, "with no intention to take offence, I deny your right to put words into my mouth. No captain, sir, would be justified in going to sea at all if he had ground enough to say that. As for Mr. Arrow, I believe him thoroughly honest; some of the men are the same; all may be for what I know.
By a natural reaction, Scott, much as he admired Smollett, introduced his own blameless heroes, and even Thackeray could only hint at the defects of youth, in "Esmond." Thackeray is accused of making his good people stupid, or too simple, or eccentric, and otherwise contemptible.
Before their time, despite the great examples of prose fiction produced by Bunyan, Defoe, Richardson, Fielding, Smollett, and Sterne, and the remarkable determination towards the life of ordinary society given, or instanced, by Miss Burney; despite the immense novel-production of the last half of the eighteenth century and the first decade of the nineteenth it is hardly too much to say that "the novel," as such, had not found its proper way or ways at all.
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