ludens depinxit.
Adverso, interim, nefas! tali tantoque alumno,
Nisi quo satyrae opipare supplebat,
Seculo impio, ignavo, fatuo,
Quo Musse vix nisi nothae
Maerenatulis Britannicis
Fovebantur.
In memoriam
Optimi et amabilis omnino viri,
Permultis amicis desiderati,
Hocce marmor,
Dilectissima simul et amantissima conjunx
L. M.
Sacravit.

A column with a Latin inscription was also placed to commemorate him on
the banks of his favourite Leven, near the house in which he was born,
by his kinsman Mr. Smollett of Bonhill.

The person of Smollett is described by his friend Dr. Moore as stout and
well-proportioned, his countenance engaging, and his manner reserved,
with a certain air of dignity that seemed to indicate a consciousness of
his own powers.

In his disposition, he appears to have been careless, improvident, and
sanguine; easily swayed both in his commendation and censures of others,
by the reigning humour of the moment, yet warm, and (when not influenced
by the baneful spirit of faction) steady in his attachments. On his
independence he particularly prided himself. But that this was sometimes
in danger from slight causes is apparent, from an anecdote related by
Dr. Wooll, in his Life of Joseph Warton. When Huggins [4] had finished
his translation of Ariosto, he sent a fat buck to Smollett, who at that
time managed the Critical Review; consequently the work was highly
applauded; but the history of the venison becoming public, Smollett was
much abused, and in a future number of the Review retracted his
applause. Perpetual employment of his pen left him little time for
reflection or study. Hence, though he acquired a greater readiness in
the use of words, his judgment was not proportionably improved; nor did
his manhood bear fruits that fully answered to the vigorous promise of
his youth. Yet it may he questioned whether any other writer of English
prose had before his time produced so great a number of works of
invention. When, in addition to his novels, we consider his various
productions, his histories, his travels, his two dramatic pieces, his
poems, his translations, his critical labours, and other occasional
publications, we are surprised that so much should have been done in a
life of no longer continuance.

Excepting Congreve, I do not remember that any of the poets, whose lives
have been written by Johnson, is said to have produced anything in the
shape of a novel. Of the Incognita of Congreve, tha