TOBIAS SMOLLETT was the grandson of Sir James Smollett, of Bonhill, a member of the Scottish parliament, and one of the commissioners for the Union. The father of the novellist was a younger son of the knight, and had married without his consent. He died in the prime of life, and left his children dependent on their grandfather. Were we to trust to Roderick Random's account of his relations, for authentic portraits of the author's family, we should entertain no very prepossessing idea of the old gentleman; but it appears that Sir James Smollett supported his son, and educated his grandchildren.

Smollett was born near Renton, in the parish of Cardross, and shire of Dumbarton, and passed his earliest years among those scenes on the banks of the Leven, which he has described with some interest in the Adventures of Humphrey Clinker. He received his first instructions in classical learning at the school of Dumbarton. He was afterward removed to the college of Glasgow, where he pursued the study of medicine; and, according to the practice then usual in medical education, was bound apprentice to a Mr. Gordon, a surgeon in that city. Gordon is generally said to have been the original of Potion in Roderick Random. This has been denied by Smollett's biographers; but their conjecture is of no more weight than the tradition which it contradicts. In the characters of a work, so compounded of truth and fiction, the author alone could have estimated the personality which he intended, and of that intention he was not probably communicative. The tradition still remaining at Glasgow, is, that Smollett was a restive apprentice, and a mischievous strippling. While at the university he cultivated the study of literature, as well as of medicine, and showed a disposition for poetry, but very often in that bitter vein of satire which he carried so plentifully into the temper of his future years. He had also, before he was eighteen, composed a tragedy, entitled "The Regicide." This tragedy was not published till after the lapse of ten years, and then it probably retained but little of its juvenile shape. When printed, "to shame the rogues," it was ushered in by a preface, abusing the stage-managers, who had rejected it, in a strain of indignation with which the perusal of the play itself did not dispose the reader to sympathize.

The death of his grandfather left Smollett without provision, and obliged him to leave his studies at Glasgow prematurely. He came to London, and obtained the situation of a surgeon's mate on board a ship of the line, which sailed in the unfortunate expedition to Carthagena. The strong picture of the discomforts of his naval life,

which he afterward drew, is said to have atrracted considerable attention to the internal economy of our ships of war, and to have occasioned the commencement of some salutary reformations. But with all the improvements which have been made, it is to be feared that the situation of an assistant surgeon in the navy is still less respectable and comfortable than it ought to be made. He is still without equal advantages to those of a surgeon's mate in the army, and is put too low in the rank of officers.

Smollett quitted the naval service in the West Indies, and resided for some time in Jamaica. He returned to London in 1746, and in the following year married a Miss Lascelles, whom he had courted in Jamaica, and with whom he had the promise of 3000l. Of this sum, however, he obtained but a small part, and that after an expensive lawsuit. Being obliged therefore to have recourse to his pen for his support, he, in 1748, published his Roderick Random, the most popular of all the novels on which his high reputation rests. Three years elapsed before the appearance of Peregrine Pickle. In the interval he had visited Paris, where his biographer, Dr. Moore, who knew him there, says that he indulged in the common prejudices of the English against the French nation, and never attained the language so perfectly as to be able to mix familiarly with the inhabitants. When we look to the rich traits of comic effect, which his English characters derive from transferring the scene to France, we can neither regard his journey as of slight utility to his powers of amusement, nor regret that he attended more to the follies of his countrymen than to French manners and phraseology. After the publication of Peregrine Pickle he attempted to establish himself at Bath as a physician, but was not successful. His failure has been attributed to the haughtiness of his manners. It is not very apparent, however, what claims to medical estimation he could advance; and the celebrity for aggravating and exposing personal follies, which he had acquired by his novels, was rather too formidable to recommend him as a confidential visitant to the sick chambers of fashion. To a sensitive valetudinarian many diseases would be less alarming than a doctor, who might slay the character by his ridicule, and might not save the body by his prescriptions.

Returning disappointed from Bath, he fixed his residence at Chelsea, and supported himself during the rest of his life by his literary employments. The manner in which he lived at Chelsea, and the hospitality which he afforded to many of his poorer brethren of the tribe of literature, have been somewhat ostentatiously described

by his own pen ;* but Dr. Moore assures us, that the account of his liberality is not overcharged. In 1753 he produced his novel of "Count Fathom ;" and three years afterward, whilst confined in prison, for a libel on Admiral Knowles, amused himself with writing the "Adventures of Sir Launcelot Greaves." In the following year he attempted the stage in a farce, entitled the "Reprisals," which, though of no great value, met with temporary success. Prolific as his pen was, he seems from this period to have felt that he could depend for subsistence more securely upon works of industry than originality; and he engaged in voluminous drudgeries, which added nothing to his fame, whilst they made inroads on his health and equanimity. His conduct of the Critical Review, in particular, embroiled him in rancorous personalities, and brought forward the least agreeable parts of his character. He supported the ministry of Lord Bute with his pen, but missed the reward which he expected. Though he had realized large sums by several of his works, he saw the evening of his life approach, with no provision in prospect, but what he could receive from severe and continued labours; and with him, that evening might be said to approach prematurely, for his constitution seems to have begun to break down when he was not much turned of forty. The death of his only daughter obliged him to seek relief from sickness and melancholy by travelling abroad for two years; and the Account of his Travels in France and

Italy, which he published on his return, afforded a dreary picture of the state of his mind. Soon after his return from the Continent, his health still decaying, he made a journey to Scotland, and renewed his attachment to his friends and relations. His constitution again requiring a more genial climate, and as he could ill support the expense of travelling, his friends tried, in vain, to obtain for him from ministers, the situation of consul at Nice, Naples, or Leghorn. Smollett had written both for and against ministers, perhaps not always from independent motives; but to find the man, whose genius has given exhilaration to millions, thus reduced to beg, and to be refused the means that might have smoothed the pillow of his death-bed in a foreign country, is a circumstance which fills the mind rather too strongly with the recollection of Cervantes. He set out, however, for Italy in 1770, and, though debilitated in body, was able to compose his novel of "Humphrey Clinker." After a few months' residence in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, he expired there, in his fifty-first year.t

The few poems which he has left have a portion of delicacy which is not to be found in his novels but they have not, like those prose fictions, the strength of a master's hand. Were he to live over again, we might wish him to write more poetry, in the belief that his poetical talent would improve by exercise; but we should be glad to have more of his novels just as they are.‡

Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.

The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their father stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor's soul was not appeased:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!
The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath,

is something melancholy in the similarity of their stories toward the close.]

[This passage is quoted by Sir Walter Scott in his Memoir of Smollett. "The truth is," he adds, "that in these very novels are expended many of the ingredients both of grave and humorous poetry." Misc. Works, vol. iii. p. 176.]

The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend;
And stretch'd beneath the inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

While the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow:
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn.*

ODE TO LEVEN-WATER.

ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod the Arcadian plain.

Pure stream, in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source;
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide ;
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine,
And edges flower'd with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gaily green, May numerous herds and flocks be seen, And lasses chaunting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale, And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry embrown'd with toil, And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy to guard.

What time the iron-hearted Gaul
With frantic superstition for his guide,
Arm'd with the dagger and the pall,
The sons of Woden to the field defied:
The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood,

In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow;
And red the stream began to flow:
The vanquish'd were baptized with blood !‡

ANTISTROPHE

The Saxon prince in horror fled From altars stain'd with human gore; And Liberty his routed legions led In safety to the bleak Norwegian shore. There in a cave asleep she lay, Lull'd by the hoarse-resounding main; When a bold savage pass'd that way, Impell'd by destiny, his name Disdain. Of ample front the portly chief appear'd: The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest; The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard; And his broad shoulders braved the furious blast. He stopped: he gazed: his bosom glow'd, And deeply felt the impression of her charms: He seized the advantage fate allow'd,

And straight compress'd her in his vigorous arms.

STROPHE.

The curlew scream'd, the tritons blew Their shells to celebrate the ravish'd rite; Old Time exulted as he flew;

And Independence saw the light.

The light he saw in Albion's happy plains,
Where under cover of a flowering thorn,
While Philomel renew'd her warbled strains,
The auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was born-
The mountain dryads, seized with joy,
The smiling infant to their charge consign'd;
The Doric Muse caress'd the favourite boy;
The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind.
As rolling years matured his age,

He flourish'd bold and sinewy as his sire;
While the mild passions in his breast assuage
The fiercer flames of his maternal fire.

ANTISTROPHE

Accomplish'd thus he wing'd his way, And zealous roved from pole to pole, The rolls of right eternal to display,

And warm with patriot thoughts the aspiring soul.

On desert isles 'twas he that raised
Those spires that gild the Adriatic wave,
Where tyranny beheld amazed

Fair Freedom's temple, where he mark'd her

grave.

He steel'd the blunt Batavian's arms

To burst the Iberian's double chain;
And cities rear'd, and planted farms,
Won from the skirts of Neptune's wide domain.

[† Are not these noble verses? They are the introduetion of Smollett's Ode to Independence.-BURNS.]

[ Smollett's Ode to Independence, the most characteristic of his poetical works, was published two years after his death, by the Messrs. Foulis of Glasgow; the mytholo gical commencement is eminently beautiful.-SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

He, with the generous rustics, sate
On Uri's rocks in close divan;
And wing'd that arrow sure as fate,
Which ascertain'd the sacred rights of man.

STROPHE.

Arabia's scorching sands he cross'd, Where blasted nature pants supine, Conductor of her tribes adust,

To freedom's adamantine shrine;

And many a Tartar horde forlorn, aghast!
He snatch'd from under fell oppression's wing;
And taught amidst the dreary waste
The all-cheering hymns of liberty to sing.
He virtue finds, like precious ore,
Diffused through every baser mould,

Even now he stands on Calvi's rocky shore,
And turns the dross of Corsica to gold;
He, guardian genius, taught my youth
Pomp's tinsel livery to despise :
My lips by him chastised to truth,

Ne'er paid that homage which the heart denies.

ANTISTROPHE.

Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread, Where varnish'd Vice and Vanity combined, To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread; And forge vile shackles for the free-born mind. While Insolence his wrinkled front uprears, And all the flowers of spurious fancy blow; And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears, Full often wreathed around the miscreant's brow; Where ever-dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain, Presents her cup of stale profession's froth;

And pale Disease, with all his bloated train, Torments the sons of gluttony and sloth.

STROPHE.

In Fortune's car behold that minion ride, With either India's glittering spoils opprest; So moves the sumpter-mule, in harness'd pride, That bears the treasure which he cannot taste. For him let venal bards disgrace the bay, And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string; Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay; And all her jingling bells fantastic Folly ring; Disquiet, Doubt, and Dread shall intervene ; And Nature, still to all her feelings just, In vengeance hang a damp on every scene, Shook from the baleful pinions of Disgust.

ANTISTROPHE.

Nature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts, By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell, Where the poised lark his evening ditty chaunts, And Health, and Peace, and Contemplation dwell.

There Study shall with Solitude recline;
And Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains;
And Toil and Temperance sedately twine
The slender cord that fluttering life sustains:
And fearless Poverty shall guard the door;
And Taste unspoil'd the frugal table spread;
And Industry supply the humble store;
And Sleep unbribed his dews refreshing shed:
White-mantled Innocence, etherial sprite,
Shall chase far off the goblins of the night:
And Independence o'er the day preside,
Propitious power! my patron and my pride.

Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,

And if, by yon prattler, the stream, Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep,

Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills, Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,

And point out new themes for my Muse. To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire, The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire, And shepherds have named her Content.

MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN. THE silver moon's enamour'd beam Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go, balmy sleep,

('Tis where you've seldom been,) May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,

In rosy chaplets gay,

Till Morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promised May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,

The promised May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love:

And see-the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green: Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, "Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead.
Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love:

For see the rosy May draws nigh;
She claims a virgin queen!
And hark the happy shepherds cry,
"Tis Kate of Aberdeen.