characters, but through failure to make them flesh and blood. In that
book, however, he put the adventures together more skilfully than in Sir
Launcelot Greaves, the plot of which is not only rather meagre but also
far-fetched. There seems to be no adequate reason for the baronet's whim
of becoming an English Don Quixote of the eighteenth century, except the
chance it gave Smollett for imitating Cervantes. He was evidently
hampered from the start by the consciousness that at best the success of
such imitation would be doubtful. Probably he expresses his own
misgivings when he makes Ferret exclaim to the hero: "What! . . . you
set up for a modern Don Quixote? The scheme is rather too stale and
extravagant. What was a . . . well-timed satire in Spain near two
hundred years ago, will . . . appear . . . insipid and absurd
. . . at this time of day, in a country like England." Whether from
the author's half-heartedness or from some other cause, there is no
denying that the Quixotism in Sir Launcelot Greaves is flat. It is a
drawback to the book rather than an aid. The plot could have developed
itself just as well, the high-minded young baronet might have had just as
entertaining adventures, without his imitation of the fine old Spanish
Don.

I have remarked on the old Smollett touch in Sir Launcelot Greaves,--the
individual touch of which we are continually sensible in Roderick Random
and Peregrine Pickle, but seldom in Count Fathom. With it is a new
Smollett touch, indicative of a kindlier feeling towards the world. It
is commonly said that the only one of the writer's novels which contains
a sufficient amount of charity and sweetness is Humphry Clinker. The
statement is not quite true. Greaves is not so strikingly amiable as
Smollett's masterpiece only because it is not so striking in any of its
excellences; their lines are always a little blurred. Still, it shows
that ten years before Clinker, Smollett had learned to combine the