eminding the reader of
one of Dumas' stories of a count among the forcats. To learn that there
were always volunteer oarsmen among these poor outcasts is to reflect
bitterly upon the average happiness of mankind. As to whether they wore
much worse off than common seamen in the British navy of the period
(who were only in name volunteers and had often no hope of discharge
until they were worn out) under such commanders as Oakum or Whiffle [In
Roderick Random.] is another question. For confirmation of Smollett's
account in matters of detail the reader may turn to Aleman's Guzman
d'Afarache, which contains a first-hand description of the life on
board a Mediterranean slave galley, to Archenholtz's Tableau d'Italie
of 1788, to Stirling Maxwell's Don John of Austria (1883, i. 95), and
more pertinently to passages in the Life of a Galley Slave by Jean
Marteilhe (edited by Miss Betham-Edwards in 1895). After serving in the
docks at Dunkirk, Marteilhe, as a confirmed protestant, makes the
journey in the chain-gang to Marseilles, and is only released after
many delays in consequence of the personal interest and intervention of
Queen Anne. If at the peace of Utrecht in 1713 we had only been as
tender about the case of our poor Catalan allies! Nice at that juncture
had just been returned by France to the safe-keeping of Savoy, so that
in order to escape from French territory, Marteilhe sailed for Nice in
a tartane, and not feeling too safe even there, hurried thence by
Smollett's subsequent route across the Col di Tende. Many Europeans
were serving at this time in the Turkish or Algerine galleys. But the
most pitiable of all the galley slaves were those of the knights of St.
John of Malta. "Figure to yourself," wrote Jacob Houblon [The Houblon
Family, 1907 ii. 78. The accounts in Evelyn and Goldsmith are probably
familiar to the reader.] about this year, "six or seven hundred dirty
half-naked Turks in a small vessel chained to the oars, from which they
are not allowed to stir, fed upon nothing but bad biscuit and water,
and beat about on the most trifling occasion by their most inhuman
masters, who are certainly more Turks than their slaves."

After several digressions, one touching the ancient Cemenelion, a
subject upon which the Jonathan Oldbucks of Provence without exception
are unconscionably tedious, Smollett settles down to a capable
historical summary preparatory to setting his palette for a picture of
the Nissards "as they