he lived a few years longer he would have inherited the estate of Bonhill, of the value of about £1000 a year, and thus have been enabled to end his days in comfort and affluence.

Shortly before his death, Smollett completed his last and best work, the "Expedition of Humphrey Clinker," "the most laughable story," says Thackeray, "that ever was written since. the goodly art of novel-writing began." Humphrey Clinker himself, Winifred Jenkins, Matthew Bramble, Mrs. Tabitha Bramble, and above all Lismahago, are characters that none but a writer of first-rate humorous genius could have created. There is, too, a fine mellow flavour about "Humphrey Clinker," which makes it a fitting close to Smollett's literary life. There is in it, too, a vein of pathos, not uncommon in Smollett's novels, but never found in Fielding's. "I remember," said Carlyle to Mr. Moncure Conway, speaking about his early years, "few happier days than those in which I ran off into the woods to read 'Roderick Random,' and how inconsolable I was that I could not get the second volume. To this day I know of few writers equal to Smollett. Humphrey Clinker' is precious to me now as he was in those years. Nothing by Dante or any one else surpasses in pathos the scene where Humphrey goes into the smithy made for him in the old house, and whilst he is heating the iron, the poor woman who has lost her husband and is deranged comes and talks to him as to her husband, John, they told me you were dead. How glad I am you are come.' And Humphrey's tears fall down and bubble on the hot iron." Comparing Fielding's novels with Smollett's, Hazlitt said that the one was an observer of the characters of human life, the other a describer of its various eccentricities. The distinction is just. Smollett could not draw his characters without, like Dickens, adding to them a considerable touch of caricature, while Fielding painted men as they really were. There is, too, an air of culture and refinement about Fielding's novels which is absent from Smollett's. To relish Fielding properly one must have some literary taste and knowledge, while Smollett's riotous fun can be appreciated by any one who is able to read. On the other hand, in variety

Laurence Sterne.

229

and originality of incident and character Smollett decidedly surpassed Fielding, and he was besides no contemptible poet, as his "Tears of Caledonia," written after the massacre of Culloden, and his "Ode to Independence," sufficiently show. As a man Smollett in many ways deserves to be held in kindly remembrance. Proud, frank, imprudent, he was a hard hitter, always ready to give a blow, and always ready to take one manfully. Good-hearted and generous, but petulant and sometimes revengeful, he made many enemies; but when he saw that he had done any one an injustice, he was always ready to make noble reparation. To his poor brethren of the quill, the ragged denizens of Grub Street, he, poor himself, gave bountiful aid, though he could not refrain from making fun of their eccentricities. In person he is said to have been remarkably handsome, "with a certain air of dignity that seemed to show that he was not unconscious of his own powers."

A writer of equal genius to Fielding or Smollett, but differing from them in almost every respect, was the last great novelist of the eighteenth century, Laurence Sterne. As a novelist he stands unique; for though many, inspired by his success, endeavoured to imitate him, they succeeded only in catching a portion of his peculiar mannerism: his subtle humour and his singular vein of sentiment were beyond their reach. Sterne's one work of fiction is not a novel of real life, neither has it any elaborately constructed plot: he seems, indeed, to have thought, with Bayes in the "Rehearsal," "what is a plot. good for except to bring in good things?" He rambles on in the most incoherent and eccentric way, constantly indulging in digressions and meditations, so that through the whole long work the plot scarcely makes any material progress. It is by his finely conceived sketches of character and by the depth and tenderness of his humour that Sterne has won :or himself an immortal name in literature. Sterne is one of the happily few men of genius whose character was such as to cause one to approach the study of their writings with a feeling of prejudice. He was born at Clonmel, Ireland, of English parents, in 1713. His father was a lieutenant, who was

engaged in the wars in Flanders during the reign of Queen Anne; and Sterne thus spent rather a wandering childhood, following the sound of the drum as his father's regiment was ordered from place to place. When about ten years old he was sent to England, and put to school near Halifax, "with an able master," he says in the fragment of autobiography which he left behind him, "with whom I stayed some time, till, by God's care of me, my Cousin Sterne of Elvington became a father to me, and sent me to the University." One anecdote which he relates of his school-days would seem to show that his genius had been rather precocious. Upon the newly whitewashed ceiling of the schoolroom he wrote with a brush in large capital letters LAU. STERNE. For so doing he was severely whipped by the usher, but the head-master took Sterne's part strongly, and declared that his name should never be effaced, for he was a boy of genius, and sure to come to preferment. Sterne left school shortly after the death of his 1ather, which occurred in a duel, and in 1733 entered Jesus College, Cambridge, where he took his degree of M. A. in 1740. On leaving the University he took orders, and through the interest of his uncle, a well-beneficed clergyman, obtained the living of Sutton and the Prebendary of York. In York he met with the lady whom he afterwards married. The account of his courtship shall be given in his own words: "I courted her for two years. She owned she liked me, but thought herself not rich enough or me too poor to be joined together. She went to her sister's in S, and I wrote to her often. I believe then she was partly determined to have me, but would not say so. At her return she fell into a consumption; and one evening that I was sitting by her, with an almost broken heart to see her so ill, she said, 'My dear Laurey, I never can be yours, for I verily believe I have not long to live; but I have left you every shilling of my fortune. Upon this she showed me her will. This generosity overpowered me. It pleased God that she recovered, and 1 married her in the year 1741." It is a pity to have to relate, after this sentimental narrative, that within a few years after

Sterne's “Tristram Shandy."

231 his marriage Sterne grew very tired of his wife, and neglected her shamefully. She brought him a small fortune, and soon after his marriage a friend of hers presented him with the living of Stillington, in Yorkshire. At this period of his life, Sterne relates that he had very good health, and amused himself by books, painting, fiddling, and shooting. At Skelton Castle, the library of his friend John Hall Stevenson, author of some tales the indecency of which is much more apparent than the wit, he found a large library, containing many old and curious books, in turning over which he amassed that store of out-of-the-way, if superficial and often secondhand, erudition which he was fond of parading. He was in no hurry to appear as an author. Two sermons preached at York were his only publications, till, in 1759, he astonished the whole reading public by the first two volumes of "Tristram Shandy." They were originally published at York, and were reprinted in London early in 1760.

By "Tristram Shandy" Sterne was elevated from the position of an obscure Yorkshire parson to that of a metropolitan lion of the first magnitude. When he went up to London, invitations to dinner showered thickly upon him, and he was welcomed in all societies of rank and fashion as the humorous, eccentric, sentimental "Mr. Yorick," who had bestowed on them that inestimable boon-a new sensation. Gray says in one of his delightful letters, that at dinners which were honoured by Sterne's presence, the company were invited a fortnight before. "Any man who has a name," said Johnson in a conversation recorded by Boswell, or who has the power of pleasing, will be very generally invited in London. man Sterne, I have been told, has had engagements for three months." "And a very dull fellow, too," replied Goldsmith, with perhaps a touch of jealousy. "Why, no, sir," said JohnSterne wisely took advantage of his popularity to publish two volumes of sermons, which, as the production of the author of "Tristram Shandy," attracted an amount of attention which would certainly never have been vouchsafed to them on account of their intrinsic merits. "They are in

son.

The

the style," says Gray, "I think most proper for the pulpit, and show a strong imagination and a sensible heart; but you see him often tottering on the verge of laughter, and ready to throw his periwig in the face of his audience." Any one who from the latter part of this account may be induced to look over Sterne's sermons with the view of finding in them passages which recall "Tristram Shandy," will assuredly be disappointed. For the most part, they are barren and commonplace enough. To the two volumes of sermons published in 1760 Sterne afterwards added other four. The remaining seven volumes of "Tristram Shandy" appeared at intervals between 1761 and 1767. The latter volumes did not create the same sensation as the former ones: the novelty of the thing had worn off, and the numerous affectations and eccentricities of style began to repel rather than to attract. In 1764 Sterne went to Italy to recover his health, which had become greatly impaired. He returned in 1767, and in the following year published his "Sentimental Journey," giving an account, in his peculiar fashion, of his recent travels and of a former visit to France. The "Sentimental Journey" was received with the same rapturous avidity as the first volumes of "Tristram Shandy;" but Sterne was not destined to enjoy any longer the applause which was so sweet to him. He died in London on the 18th of March 1768, much in the manner in which he had wished to die in hired lodgings and attended by strangers.

Sterne's figure was tall and slight, his face pale and haggard, his general expression penetrating, scrutinising, and satirical. His moral nature, which had, it is to be feared, always something rotten about it, was too weak to endure uninjured the continuous course, trying to all but very strong minds, of flattery and dissipation which his success as an author brought upon him. "He degenerated in London," said David Garrick, "like an ill-transplanted shrub; the incense of the great spoiled his head and their ragouts his stomach. He grew sickly and proud, an invalid in body and mind." In his writings the most tender-hearted and sentimental of men, he was in his conduct heartless, hypo