It was not till 1752 that Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, in Italy, received
"Peregrine," with other fashionable romances--"Pompey the Little," "The
Parish Girl," "Eleanora's Adventures," "The Life of Mrs. Theresa
Constantia Phipps," "The Adventures of Mrs. Loveil," and so on. Most of
them contained portraits of real people, and, no doubt, most of them were
therefore successful. But where are they now? Lady Mary thought Lady
Vane's part of "Peregrine" "more instructive to young women than any
sermon that I know." She regarded Fielding as with Congreve, the only
"original" of her age, but Fielding had to write for bread, and that is
"the most contemptible way of getting bread." She did not, at this time,
even know Smollett's name, but she admired him, and, later, calls him "my
dear Smollett." This lady thought that Fielding did not know what sorry
fellows his Tom Jones and Captain Booth were. Not near so sorry as
Peregine Pickle were they, for this gentleman is a far more atrocious
ruffian than Roderick Random.
None the less "Peregrine" is Smollett's greatest work. Nothing is so
rich in variety of character, scene, and adventure. We are carried along
by the swift and copious volume of the current, carried into very queer
places, and into the oddest miscellaneous company, but we cannot escape
from Smollett's vigorous grasp. Sir Walter thought that "Roderick"
excelled its successor in "ease and simplicity," and that Smollett's
sailors, in "Pickle," "border on caricature.
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