"Dear Sir, I am this minute happy in yours, which affords me all the satisfaction of hearing from you, without the anxiety naturally flowing from its melancholy occasion; for I was informed of the decease of our late friend by a letter from Mr Gordon,[1] dated the day after his death.
"All those (as well as my dear Barclay) who knew the intimacy betwixt us, must imagine that no stroke of fate could make a deeper impression on my soul than that which severs me for ever from one I so entirely loved ! from one who merited universal esteem; and who, had he not been cut off in the very blossom of his being, would have been an ornament to society, the pride and joy of his parents, and a most inestimable jewel to such as were attached to him, as we were, by the sacred ties of love and friendship. O my dear Ritchie, little did I think, at our last parting, we should never meet again! How many hours, days, nay, years, of enjoyment, did I promise myself on the prospect of seeing thee again! How has my heart throbbed at thy imaginary presence! And how oft hare I conversed with thee by the indulgence of a dream! Even when I waked to my disappointment, I flew to pleasing hope for refuge, and reflected on the probability of real gratification! But now, alas, even that forsakes me. Hope itself lies buried with its object, and remembrance strives to soothe itself by recalling the delightful scenes of past intercourse! Dear brother, this is n theme I can scarce quit; my imagination broods o'er my melancholy, and teems with endless sentiments of grief and tenderness. My weeping muse would fain pay a tribute to his manes; and, were I vain enough to think my verse would last, I would perpetuate his friendship and his virtue.
"As for the particulars you expect from me, you must wait until I shall be better informed myself: for, to tell you an extraordinary truth, I do not know, as yet, whether you had better congratulate or condole with me. I wish I was near you, that I might pour forth my heart before you, and make you judge of its dictates, and the several steps I have lately taken; in which case, I am confident you and all honest men would acquit my principles, howsoever my prudentials might be condemned. However, I have moved into the house where the late John Douglas, surgeon, died, and you may henceforth direct for Mr Smollett, surgeon, in Downing Street, West My respects wait on Mr John Gordon and family ; and please let my condolence and best wishes be made acceptable to the parents of my much lamented friend. At the same time, receive yourself the additional portion of affection he possessed in the heart of
"Your own,
"London, May 22nd, 1744.
"Willy Wood, who is just now drinking a glass with me, offers you his good wishes, and desires you to present his compliments to Miss Becky Bogle.
In 1746, Smollett published a satirical poem, in the manner of Juvenal, entitled "Ad trice," and aimed at some of the chief political characters of the day. In the beginning of 1747, appeared a continuation of the same production, under the title of "Reproof," which attacked all kinds of odious characters, military cowards, army 'Contractors, usurers, gamesters, poetasters, &c. The keen and energetic expressions of those poems, caused the author to be respected, dreaded, and detested, the usual fate of satirists.
During his residence in Jamaica, Smollett had formed an attachment to Miss Lascelles, an elegant and accomplished young lady, of respectable connexions in that island, and who had the expectation of a fortune of £3000. He now married Bliss Lascelles, and, setting up an elegant domestic establishment in
- ↑ Probably his former master at Glasgow.
