“But the deep and fertile genius of Smollett afforded resources sufficient to make up for these deficiencies . . .  If Fielding had superior taste, the palm of more brilliancy of genius, more inexhaustible richness of invention, must in justice be awarded to Smollett.  In comparison with his sphere, that in which Fielding walked was limited . . .”  The second part of Scott’s parallel between the men whom he considered the greatest of our novelists, qualifies the first.  Smollett’s invention was not richer than Fielding’s, but the sphere in which he walked, the circle of his experience, was much wider.  One division of life they knew about equally well, the category of rakes, adventurers, card-sharpers, unhappy authors, people of the stage, and ladies without reputations, in every degree.  There were conditions of higher society, of English rural society, and of clerical society, which Fielding, by birth and education, knew much better than Smollett.  But Smollett had the advantage of his early years in Scotland, then as little known as Japan; with the “nautical multitude,” from captain to loblolly boy, he was intimately familiar; with the West Indies he was acquainted; and he later resided in Paris, and travelled in Flanders, so that he had more experience, certainly, if not more invention, than Fielding.

In “Roderick Random” he used Scottish “local colour” very little, but his life had furnished him with a surprising wealth of “strange experiences.”  Inns were, we must believe, the favourite home of adventures, and Smollett could ring endless changes on mistakes about bedrooms.  None of them is so innocently diverting as the affair of Mr. Pickwick and the lady in yellow curl-papers; but the absence of that innocence which heightens Mr. Pickwick’s distresses was welcome to admirers of what Lady Mary Wortley Montagu calls “gay reading.”

She wrote from abroad, in 1752, “There is something humorous in R. Random, that makes me believe that the author is H. Fielding”—­her kinsman.  Her ladyship did her cousin little justice.  She did not complain of the morals of “R.  Random,” but thought “Pamela” and “Clarissa” “likely to do more general mischief than the works of Lord Rochester.”  Probably “R.  Random” did little harm.  His career is too obviously ideal.  Too many ups and downs occur to him, and few orphans of merit could set before themselves the ideal of bilking their tailors, gambling by way of a profession, dealing in the slave trade, and wheedling heiresses.

The variety of character in the book is vast; in Morgan we have an excellent, fiery, Welshman, of the stage type; the different minor miscreants are all vividly designed; the eccentric lady author may have had a real original; Miss Snapper has much vivacity as a wit; the French adventures in the army are, in their rude barbaric way, a forecast of Barry Lyndon’s; and, generally, both Scott and Thackeray owe a good deal to Smollett in the way of suggestions.