in 1754. He had long anticipated the profits of his next work. This was
a translation of Don Quixote, published at the beginning of 1755. Lord
Woodhouselee, in his Essay on Translation, has observed, that it is
little else than an improvement of the version by Jarvis. On comparing a
few passages with the original, I perceive that he fails alike in
representing the dignity of Cervantes in the mock-heroic, and the
familiarity of his lighter manner. These are faults that might have been
easily avoided by many a writer of much less natural abilities than
Smollett, who wanted both the leisure and the command of style that were
requisite for such an undertaking. The time, however, which he gave to
that great master, was not thrown away. He must have come back from the
study with his mind refreshed, and its powers invigorated by
contemplating so nearly the most skilful delineation that had ever been
made of human nature, according to that view in which it most suited his
own genius to look at it.

On his return from a visit to Scotland, where a pleasant story is told
of his being introduced to his mother as a stranger, and of her
discovery of him after some time, with a burst of maternal affection, in
consequence of his smiling, he engaged (1756) in an occupation that was
not likely to make him a wiser, and certainly did not make him a happier
man. The celebrity obtained by the Monthly Review had raised up a rival
publication, under the name of the Critical. The share which Smollett
had in the latter is left in some uncertainty. Doctor Anderson tells us,
that he undertook the chief direction; and Mr. Nichols,[2] that he
assisted Archibald Hamilton the printer. Whatever his part might be, the
performance of it was enough to waste his strength with ignoble labour,
to embitter his temper by useless altercation, and to draw on him
contempt and insult from those who, however they surpassed him in
learning, could scarcely be regarded as his superiors in native vigour