SHOWMAN.

Why, those who burn had, you must learn,

As fair a chance as they

But Adam's fall doth doom them all
Upon God's judgment day.

I thus conclude with moral good,

Not soon to be forgot ;

And you must own what I have shown

Is dreadful truth, God wot.

A LITTLE BOY.

O look at him, that Showman grim,
A frown is on his cheek:
Come away quick, for I am sick
When'er I hear him speak!

A GIRL.

Along this way, last Holy Day,
In blessed Whitsun week,

There passed a wight, so sweet and bright
He seemed an Angel meek :

He bare, also, an old Peep-show,

But finer far to view,

And loud cried he "O look and see!

For all, God wot, is true!"

CHILDREN.

And did you peep? and did you weep
To see the pictures wild?

GIRL.

Ah nay, ah nay, I laughed, full gay,

I looked and laughed and smiled! For I discern'd, with bright face turned On mine, a little Child;

And round him, bright burn'd many a light,

And cakes and sweets were piled;

And scents most rare fill'd all the air

All round the heavenly spot,

While loud and wide that Showman cried

"This is our Lord, God wot!"

FIRST CHILD.

'Twas Jesus Child! so good and mild!

He grew on Mary's breast!

GIRL.

Sweet were his eyes, his look was wise,
And his red lips were blest;

I longed, I wis, those lips to kiss,
And by his side to rest.

This man's Peepshow is strange, I know,
But the other was the best!
Now let us go where daisies blow,
Sweet ferns, and speedwells blue,
And Posies make for Christ His sake,
For He is bright and true!

SHOWMAN (Solus).

Folk, I'm afraid, are changed; my trade
Grows worse each day, I know.
How they did throng when I was young,
To see this very Show!

My rivals pass, and lad and lass

Follow where'er they go,

While up and down, from town to town,
I creep, most sad and slow.

I too must try some novel cry,
Lest I be quite forgot :

These pictures old that I unfold

Have ceased to please, God wot!

NOTE. The "Peepshow" is the last of the series of short poems purchased from Mr. Buchanan for publication in this Magazine. Our readers will be glad to hear that we have secured from the same distinguished poet a narrative poem of peculiar pathos, to be commenced in the Gentleman's Magazine for January, 1876, and to be continued until completed in six monthly parts.-Ed.

TOBIAS SMOLLETT.

BY GEORGE BARNETT SMITH.

ICKENS in early childhood sat at the feet of Tobias Smollett. From the author of "Roderick Random" came to the author of "David Copperfield" the first inspiration of the story-teller. Each of these two men was the most popular fiction writer of his time, and there cannot be a doubt that the artist whose loss from among us we have not yet ceased to mourn gathered something both in style and substance from the novelist whose fictions so delighted his own childhood. It is not then quite wise in us, whose moral and intellectual lives have been largely influenced by Dickens, to pass by wholly unheeded the old master whom the child Dickens studied so intently and to such great purpose.

But for the brilliant genius of Henry Fielding, Smollett must have stood the most important figure among British novelists till the appearance of Sir Walter Scott. In depicting certain aspects of human nature, the author of "Roderick Random" is the chief of humourists; but when we weigh his talent generally against that of his rival, the gold is not quite so pure and genuine. There was an admixture of simulation in him which was absent from Fielding, and is indeed absent from all really lofty and creative minds. To Smollett it was necessary that he should have a predecessor; Fielding, on the contrary, was spontaneous and original, and the founder of a race. He made successors, but was himself no man's successor. The third novelist of the same illustrious age, Samuel Richardson, had little in common with either, nor did he reach to their height. He was less able than they to assimilate the lessons of humanity, or to reproduce individual character.

Smollett, however much we may dislike his method, is remarkably truthful in his delineations. His pictures of rollicking sailors are as realistic as the works of Hogarth, with whose genius his own had some affinity. Unless expurgated, he is scarcely a fit subject for illustrative readings in the drawing-room, but then the same may be said to a large extent of almost every other prominent literary man of his own or any preceding era. We condone his offences against purity because of his great gifts. Smollett's most important work is VOL. XIV., N.S. 1875.

3

indubitably "Roderick Random." It exhibits in the strongest degree all the qualities which rendered him famous. Here we meet with, in all their fullness, the uproarious mirthfulness and the broad farce which are never wholly absent from any of his conceptions in fiction. His characters are not overdrawn, as some are in the habit of thinking. Le Sage was the writer most frequently in his thoughts, and the touches of realism to be met with throughout the work are almost unique.

Smollett has not made the friendless orphan the paragon of virtue which he would inevitably have been in the hands of most novelists. He presents him to us "with all his imperfections on his head," a faithful picture of what life would be under the disadvantageous circumstances of Roderick's history. The, evolution of the story affords the author that opportunity for reproving the baseness and the hollowness of men for which he was so well fitted, and the various situations of life are painted with admirable vigour and local colouring. The name of Bowling alone has passed into a synonym for all that is honest and manly in the sailor, and the character of the Lieutenant remains still unmatched by any similar creation. To the essentially comic characters of the novel almost the same high praise must be awarded. While doubtless written with a view to the promotion of good morals, it is not to be supposed that Smollett intends to hold up Roderick Random as an individual character worthy of imitation. Like Fielding, this other master of fiction did not assume at any time to draw perfect characters. The simpering perfections of the ordinary heroes of fiction would have been abhorrent to him, utterly devoid of resemblance to the people of real life. As he conceives the novelist's duty, it stands upon higher ground than the mere cutting out of faultless, pasteboard men, in which neither art nor truth is required.

Besides its excellence in striking and bold portraiture, "Roderick Random" is distinguished for the simplicity and ease of its narrative. Although the writing is not so exquisite as that to be found in the pages of Fielding, it yet varies on occasion from the intensely humorous to the genuinely pathetic. I do not attempt to conceal the disappointment which we must all feel that Smollett has made his heroes generally of so coarse a texture. They have in them—or at least many of them strike us in this manner-a good deal of grossness which cannot be excused, and are frequently overbearing, swaggering, and offensive in their manners. Roderick Random, for instance, deserved the severest physical castigation, at certain stages of his career, and so did Peregrine Pickle.

The author's genius has been not inaptly compared to that of Rubens. In both we get richness of colouring, though the two artists are frequently vulgar in idea, and exhibit an overcharged animalism in their pictures. I must protest, nevertheless, against the judgment that Smollett, "being mediocre, chalks out the figures tamely, prosaically, without transforming them by the illumination of genius." This exhibits a very deficient grasp of the novelist's talent. His manners may be vulgar, but his genius is undeniable.

Can any one who has studied "Peregrine Pickle" affirm for a moment that the figures which are prominent in that novel are sketched prosaically? Surely if there is one feeling uppermost after reading this work, it is that it is lightened and illumined by the power of real genius! Sir Walter Scott said of it :-"Peregrine Pickle' is more finished, more sedulously laboured into excellence, exhibits scenes of more accumulated interest, and presents a richer variety of character and adventure than 'Roderick Random.'" And with this verdict the bulk of mankind will agree. The interest in the novel never flags between the two covers; and it was a totally new attempt in fiction. The idea of these Adventures has been considerably worked upon in our own day. Smollett worked out this fiction with much more than his usual elaboration. "Roderick Random" has a greater air of spontaneity, but "Peregrine Pickle" is more polished, even while it is as uproariously mirthful. It is doubtful whether the sale of the latter during its author's lifetime would have borne comparison with that of the former novel but for one adventitious circumstance. Embedded in the story are certain "Memoirs of a Lady of Quality," which have no connection whatever with the novel itself. These memoirs were founded on fact, and contain the history of Lady Vane, a contemporary of Smollett's, who was celebrated for her beauty and her intrigues. So far from blushing at the revelation of her own life, or feeling herself degraded by the scandal attaching thereto, it is affirmed that she rewarded the novelist handsomely for incorporating the disclosures in his work. Exhibiting an astounding taste for celebrity, she even furnished the materials herself for the story. The town speedily rang with the history of Lady Vane, and the consequence was a great popular demand for the novel.

There is genuine comedy in this fiction from beginning to end. It teems with humorous situations; and although Trunnion and Hatchway may be considered by many to be stamped with exaggeration, the interest we take in their fortunes is intense and real. We get, too, in "Peregrine Pickle" Smollett's best attempt at a heroine,