A diurnal drudgery was imposed on him, irksome to his indolent
habits, and attended by circumstances humiliating to his pride. He had to
write daily from nine o'clock until two, and often throughout the day;
whether in the vein or not, and on subjects dictated by his taskmaster,
however foreign to his taste; in a word, he was treated as a mere literary
hack. But this was not the worst; it was the critical supervision of
Griffiths and his wife which grieved him: the "illiterate, bookselling
Griffiths," as Smollett called them, "who presumed to revise, alter, and
amend the articles contributed to their 'Review.' Thank heaven," crowed
Smollett, "the 'Critical Review' is not written under the restraint of a
bookseller and his wife. Its principal writers are independent of each
other, unconnected with booksellers, and unawed by old women!"
This literary vassalage, however, did not last long. The bookseller became
more and more exacting. He accused his hack writer of idleness; of
abandoning his writing-desk and literary workshop at an early hour of the
day; and of assuming a tone and manner _above his situation_.
Goldsmith, in return, charged him with impertinence; his wife with meanness
and parsimony in her household treatment of him, and both of literary
meddling and marring.
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