author. We think of Smollett, generally, as a rambling storyteller, a
rational, unromantic man of the world, who fills his pages with his own
oddly-metamorphosed acquaintances and experiences. The Smollett of Count
Fathom, on the contrary, is rather a forerunner of the romantic school,
who has created a tolerably organic tale of adventure out of his own
brain. Though this is notably less readable than the author's earlier
works, still the wonder is that when the man is so far "off his beat," he
should yet know so well how to meet the strange conditions which confront
him. To one whose idea of Smollett's genius is formed entirely by Random
and Pickle and Humphry Clinker, Ferdinand Count Fathom will offer many
surprises.

The first of these is the comparative lifelessness of the book. True,
here again are action and incident galore, but generally unaccompanied by
that rough Georgian hurly-burly, common in Smollett, which is so
interesting to contemplate from a comfortable distance, and which goes so
far towards making his fiction seem real. Nor are the characters, for
the most part, life-like enough to be interesting. There is an apparent
exception, to be sure, in the hero's mother, already mentioned, the
hardened camp-follower, whom we confidently expect to become vitalised
after the savage fashion of Smollett's characters. But, alas! we have no
chance to learn the lady's style of conversation, for the few words that
come from her lips are but partially characteristic; we have only too
little chance to learn her manners and customs. In the fourth chapter,
while she is making sure with her dagger that all those on the field of
battle whom she wishes to rifle are really dead, an officer of the
hussars, who has been watching her lucrative progress, unfeelingly puts a
brace of bullets into the lady's brain, just as she raises her hand to
smite him to the heart. Perhaps it is as well that she is thus removed
before our disappointment at the non-fulfilment of her promise becomes