(even when he had, with great pains, half demolished it)
made him forget everything when he was before a venison pasty, or over a
flask of champagne; and I am persuaded he has known more happy moments
than any prince upon earth. His natural spirits gave him rapture with
his cook-maid, and cheerfulness when he was fluxing in a garret. There
was a great similitude between his character and that of Sir Richard
Steele. He had the advantage both in learning and, in my opinion,
genius: they both agreed in wanting money in spite of all their friends,
and would have wanted it, if their hereditary lands had been as
extensive as their imagination; yet each of them was so formed for
happiness; it is a pity he was not immortal."

Writing of imaginative prose literature generally, Lady Mary wrote:

"The general want of invention which reigns among our writers, inclines
me to think it is not the natural growth of our island, which has not
sun enough to warm the imagination. The press is loaded by the servile
flock of imitators. Lord B. [Bolingbroke] would have quoted Horace in
this place. Since I was born, no original has appeared excepting
Congreve and Fielding, who would, I believe, have approached nearer to
his excellences, if not forced by necessity to publish without
correction, and throw many productions into the world he would have
thrown into the fire if meat could have been got without money, or money
without scribbling. The greatest virtue, justice, and the most
distinguishing prerogative of mankind, writing, when duly executed, do
honour to human nature; but when degenerated into trades, are the most
contemptible ways of getting bread. I am sorry not to see any more of
Peregrine Pickle's performances: I wish you would tell me his name."

It appears strange that Lady Mary should have been ignorant, when she
wrote the above passage in July or August, 1755, of the authorship of
_Roderick Random_, for in January of that year she had evinced an
interest in Smollett: "I am sorry my friend Smollett loses his time in
translations; he has certainly a talent for invention, though I think it
flags a little in his last work. _Don Quixote_ is a difficult
undertaking: I shall never desire to read any attempt to redress him.
Though I am a mere piddler in the Spanish language, I had rather take
pains to understand him in the original than sleep over a stupid
translation."

_Peregrine Pickle_, however, Lady Mary had read shortly