The correspondence of Samuel Richardson ... selected from the original manuscripts, bequeathed by him to his family, to which are prefixed, a biographical account of that author, and observations on his writings

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g.^lVtRSHY OF CALIFORNIA,
LIBRARY,

M>S ANGELES. CALtF.

THE

CORRESPONDENCE

OF

:SAMUEJL MCHARJDSOK,

AUTHOR OF

TAMEXA, CLARISSA, and SIR CHARLES GRANDISON.

SELTCTID FROM THE

ORIGINAL MA NUSCR IP TS,

BEeUEATHFD l;v HIM TO HI« FAMILY,

To Which arr preSxeJ,

A BIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT

OF THAT AUTHOR,

A^D

OBSERVATIONS on uis WRITINGS.

Pr ANN\ L/ETITIA BARBAULD.

IX SIX VOLUMES.

T-^NDCI.'i: PRINTED FOR RICHARD PHILLIPS, KO. 71,
ST. FAUL's CHUKCa-lTAKO.

1804.

• *•* •' • • • •

ADVERTISEMENT.

i> Tt^HEN a private correspondence is
presented to the public, the first ques-

"^-tion which occurs is, how have they
been procured? — In the present in*
stance this admits of the most satis-
factory answer. It was the custom of
Mr. Richardson, not only to pre-
serve the letters of his numerous cor-
respondents, but to take copies of his
own, generally by the hands of his
daughters, — particularly his daughter
Martha, and his nephew, who per-
formed to him the office of SLtn^nu-

r) a 2 ensis.

IV ADVERTISEMENT*^

v-ensk. It was the favourite employ-
ment of his declining years to select
-and arrange them, and he always
looked forward to their publication at
some distant period, when the lapse
of time should have precluded the
necessity of observing that delicacy
which living .characters have always a
claim to. Indeed, he was not with-
out thoughts of publishing them in his
life time, in which case he would
have subjected them to such restric-
tions as his correspondents thought pro-
per to impose.' After his death they
remained in the hands of Mrs. Ann€
Richardson, his last-surviving daughter,
till her xkath, which took place in Ja-
nuary last. After that event they be-
came

ADVERTISEMENT. V

Came the property of his grandchildren^
of whom Mr. Phillips purchased them:
Jrt a very liberal price : he trusts for re-
muneration to the curiosity of the pub-
lic, which has always shewn an eager-
ness, more natural perhaps than strictly
justifiable, to penetrate into the domes-
tic retirements, and to be introduced
to the companionable hours of eminent-
characters. That this inclination may
be gratified without impropriety, care
has been taken that no letters should
be published of any living character,
except the correspondence of Mrs.
Duncombe, (formerly Miss Highmore)
which that lady has had the goodness
to communicate herself. She also sup-
plied the correspondence with Miss
a 3 Mulsor

VJ ADVERTISEMENT.

Mulso. Mr. Scudamore also obligingly
sent several letters of his deceased mo-
ther's. The whole collection is very-
numerous.

When Mr. Phillips had completed
his purchase, he engaged me to per-
form the necessary office of selection.
I have endeavoured to do justice to hitti
and to the public ; how 1 have suc-
ceeded I am yet ignorant. No two per-
sons probably would fix precisely upon
the same standard of choice. But it
may be fairly observed, that neither can
any one criticise that standard with judg-
ment, unless he had submitted to his
inspection, not only the letters that are
taken, but those also which are left.

ANNA LvETITIA BARBAULD.

CONTENTS

OF

VOL. I.

TAGZ

Life of Richardson vii

Correspondence with Aaron Hill I

Letter from Mr, Warburton 133

Correspondence ivith Mr. St rah an 136

Mr Harris 161

]^r^ Qave 164

Letter front Lord Orrery 171

Correspondence tvith the Rev. S. Lobby and Mr,

W. Lobbfjun. . . , 173

LIFE

or

SAMUEJL MICHAUBSON,

WITH

REMARKS ON HIS WRITINGS.

Tl HERE is no period in the history of
any country, at all advanced in elegant
literature, in which Jictitioiis adventures
have not made a large part of the reading
men have most delighted in. They have
been grafted upon tlie actions of their heroes,
they have been interwoven with their my-
thology, they have been moulded upon the
manners of the age, and, in return, have in-
fluenced not a little the manners of the next
generation, by the principles they have in-
sinuated, and the sensibilities they have
a 4 exercised

TlH THE LIF£

exercised. A spirit of adventure, a high
sense of honour, of martial glory, refined
and romantic passion, sentimental delicacy,
or all the mating sensibilities of humanity,
hav€ been, in their turns, inspired by this
powerful engine, which takes so strong a
hold on the fancy and the passions of young
readers. Adorned with the embellishments
of poetry, tliey produce the epic ; more
concentrated in the story, and exchanging
narrative for action, they become dramatic j
allied with some great moral end, didactic,
as in the Telemaque of Fenelon, and the
Belisaire of Marmontel. They are often
the vehicles of satire, as in the Candide
and Babouc of Voltaire, and the Gulliver *!?
Travels of Swift. They take a tincture from
the learning and politics of the times, and
are often made use of successfully to at-
tack or to recommend the prevailing sys-
tems of the day. We have seen liberty
and equality recommended from one pub-
lication, and French principles exposed in

another^

OF MR. RICHARDSON. i«

another. When the range of this kind
of writing is so extensive, and its effect so
great, it is evident that it ought to hold no
me^n rank among the productions of ge-
nius j and, in truth, there is hardly any
department of literature in which we shall
meet with more fme writing than in the
best productions of this kind. It is not
easy therefore to say, why the poet should
have so high a place allotted him in the
temple of Fame, and the romance-writer so
low a one, as, in the general estimation^
he is confined to ; for his dignity as a writer
has by no means been measured by the
pleasure he affords to his readers ; yet the
invention of a story, the choice of proper
incidents, the ordonnance of the plan, th"*
exhibition of the character, the gradual
development of a plot, occasional beauties
of description, and, above all, the power
exercised over the reader's heart, by filling
it with the successive emotions of love,
pity, jo)', anguish, transport, or iudigna/-
a 5 tion.

X THE LIFE

tion, together with the grave impressive
moral resulting from the whole, imply ta-
lents of the highest order, and ought to
command our warmest praise. There is
no walk in which taste and genius have
more distinguished themselves, or in which
virtuous and noble sentiments have come
out with greater lustre, than in the splen-
did fictions, or pathetic tales, with which
France, Germany, Switzcland, and our
own country, have adorned the annals of
their literature. A history of romance
writing, under all its various forms, would
be an acceptable present to the public, if
given by a man of taste and sufficient
reading. But there are some periods which
make, as it were, a new era in this kind of
writing, and those productions are more
particularly deserving our attention which
stand at the head of a class, and have di-
verted the taste of the public into some
new channel. Of this kind are the writings
of Mr. Richardson, whose name, on the

present

OF MR. RICHARDSON. XI

present occasion, is brought anew before

the public. He may, in a great measure,

be said to be the father of the modern novel

^of the serious or pathetic kind,' and he was

N'^o^also original . in the mode of epistolary

^ writing by which he carried on the story.

\' yj If we were to search among the treasures?

(^„^5 of ancient literature for fictions similar to

^ >A.^ the modern novel, we should find none

'v.|>n'^* * ^ymore nearly resembling it than Theagenes

\^^^ and Chariclea, the production of Heliodo-

^K^' *^us, a Christian bishop of Trieca, in Thes-

^^j^-* «aly. Though his romance was unexcep-

^j^^tf'tionably pure and virtuous, he was called

^^ ' upon either to burn his book, or resign his

bishopric ; upon which, with the heroism

of an author, he chose the latter.

But, after Europe had sunk into bar-
barism, a taste was again to be formed ;
and a taste for the natural, the grace-
ful, and the simple-pathetic, is generally
the late result of a long course of civili-
zation.

a 6 Every

Xll THE LIFE

Every one knows the character of the*
romances of chivalry. — Amadis do Gaul at
their head, with whose merits the English
reader has lately been made acquainted in.
an elegant abridged version. They were
jDroperly historical, but they heightened
the traditionary adventures of the heroes
of their different countries, with the more
wonderful stories of giants, enchantments,
and other embellishments of the superna-
tural kind. But we are not to suppose that
even these fictions were considered, as we
now consider them, the mere play of the
imagination : " le vrai seal est aimable' was
always so far a maxim, that no work of
imagination can greatly succeed, which is
not founded upon popular belief j but what
is le vrai? In those times talismans, and
woimds cured by sympathetic powder, and
charms of all kinds, were seriously cre-
dited.

A great deal of love adventure was in-
termixed in these narratives, but not always-

of

OF MR. RICHARDSON. xiil

of the purest or most delicate kind. Poetry
was often made the vehicle of them, parti-
cularly in Italy : the Orlando Furioso of
Ariosto, is a chivalrous romance in verse.

As, however, the spirit of military ad-
venture subsided, these softened, by de-
grees, into the languishing love romances
of the French school — the Clelias and Cas-
sandras, the laboured productions of the
Calprenedes and Scuderis. I might indeed
have mentioned before these a romance of
a peculiar kind, the Astrea of d'Urfe, which
all France read with eagerness at the time
it was published. It is a pastoral romance,
and its celebrity was, in a great measure,
owing to its being strongly seasoned with
allusions to the amours of the court of
Henry the Fourth.

But to return to the Romances de longue
kaleine. The principle of these was high
honour, impregnable chastity, a constancy
unshaken by time or accident, and a spe-
eies of love so exalted and refined, that it

bore

XIV THE LIFE

bore but little resemblance t6 a natural
passion. In the story, however, they were a
step nearer to nature -, the adventures were
marvellous, but not impossible. Their
personages were all removed from common
life, and taken from ancient history ; but
without the least resemblance to the heroes
whose names they bore. The manners
therefore, and the passions, referred to an
ideal world, the creation of the writer ; but
the situations were often striking, and the
sentiments always noble. They would
have reigned longer, had they been less
tedious — ^there exists no appeal for an au-
thor who makes his readers weary. Boi-
lieu ridiculed these, as Cervantes had done
the others, and their knell was rung : peo-
ple were ready to wonder they had ever
admired them.,

A closer imitation of nature began now
to be called for : not but that, from the
earliest times, there had been tales and
stories imitating real life j a few serious,

but

OF ME. RICHARDSON. XV

but generally comic. The Decamerone of
Boccacio, the Cent Nouvelles of the Queen of
Navarre, contes and fabliaux without num-
ber, may be considered as novels, though
of a lighter texture j they abounded with
adventure, generally of the humourous,
often of the licentious kind, and, indeed,
were mostly founded on intrigue, but the
nobler passions were seldom touched. The
Roman Comique of Scarron is a regular
piece of its kind, and possesses great merit
in the humourous way ; but the Zaide, and
the Prlncesse de Cleves» of Madame de la
Fayette, are esteemed t© be the first that
approach the modern novel of the serious
kind, the latter especially ; they were writ-
ten in the reign of Louis XIV. greatly ad-
mired, and considered as making a new
era in works of invention. Voltaire says
of them, that they were " I^s premiers Rc»
" mans oh Von vit les mmurs des honnctes genSt
" ei des avantiires naturelles, decrites avec
*' grace. Avant elle on ecrivait d'un stile emf

poule,

XTi THE LIFE

" po?ile, des chases pen vraisemblables." "The
" first romances in which were seen natural
" incidents, and the manners of good com-
" pany, described with elegance. Before
*' her time, improbable adventures were de-
" scribed in aturgidand affected stile." The
novels of Madame la Fayette are certainly
beautiful, but a step is still wanting ; they
no longer speak, indeed, of Alexanders and
Brutus's, still less of giants and fairies ; but
the heroes and lieroines are princes and
princesses — they are not people of our ac-
quaintance. The scene is, perhaps, in
Spain, or amongst the Moors ; it does not
reflect the picture of domestic life, they are
not the men and women we see about u&
every day.

Le Sage, in his Gil Bias, a work of infi-
nite entertainment, though of dubious mo-
pality, presented us such, people; but hi9
portraits were mostly of the humourous
kind, and his work was rather a series of
separate adventures than a chain of events

con-

Of MR. RICHARDSON. xvif

CDiicurring, in one plan, to the production
of the catastrophe. There was still want-
ing a mode of writing which should con-
nect the high passion, and delicacy of sen-
timent of the old romance, with character*
moving in the same sphere of life with our-
selves, and brought into action by inci-
dents of daily occurrence.

In the earlier periods of English histor3%
we had our share in the rude literature of
the times, and we were familiar, either by
translations or stories of our own growth^
with the heroes of the chivalrous times,^
many of whom belonged to our own coun-
try. We had also, in common with our
neighbours, the monkish legends, a species
of romance abounding with the marvellous,
and particularly suited to the taste of a
superstitious age. Many of these merit
attention as a branch, and no small one^
of fiction ; they have been properly ex-
ploded for their falsehood ; they should
now be preserved for their invention : they

are

XVIU THE LIFE

are now harmless j they can no longer ex-
cite our indignation, let them be permitted
to amuse our fancy.

In the reign of Queen Elizabeth, we had
the once famous romance Sidney^s Arcadia,
of the pastoral heroic kind, if the expres-
sion may be permitted. It is a book that
all have heard of, that some few possess,
but that nobody reads.

From that period, to the middle of the
last reign, we had tales and stories of va-
rious kinds, but scarcely one that continues
to be read to the present day, and, I believe,
not any (the singularly ingenious allegori-
cal fiction of the Pilgrim's Progress ex-
cepted) that was known out of our own
country. We had poets, we had philoso-
phers, long before we had attained any
excellence in the lighter kinds of prose
composition. Harrington's Oceana is po-
litical, and will grievously disappoint those
who look into it for amusement. The Ata-
lantis of Mrs. Manley lives only in that line

of

OF MR. RICHARDSON. xix-

of Pope which seems to promise it immor-
tality,

** As long as Atalantis shall be read."

It was, like Astrea, filled with fashionable
scandal. Mrs. Behn's novels were licen-
tious : they are also fallen. Till the middle
of the last century, theatrical productions
and poetry made a greater part of polite
reading than novels, which had not at-
tained cither elegance or nice discrimina-
tion of characters ; some adventure and a
love story, were all they aimed at. Tlie La*
dies' Libraryy described in the Spectator,
contains " the Grand Cyrus, vf\i\i a pin stuck
" in one of the leaves, and Cklia, which
" opened of itself in the place that describes
** two lovers in a bower j" but there does not
occur either there, or, I believe, in any
other part of the work, the name of one
English novel, the Atalantis excepted.
Plays are often mentioned as a favourite
and dangerous part of ladies' reading. The

first

XX THE LIFE

first author we had, who distinguished hmt-
self by natural painting, was that truly ori-
ginal genius De Foe ; and if from any on>e
Richardson caught, in some, measure, his
peculiar manner of writing, to him it must
be traced, whose Robinson Crusoe and
Family Instructor (the latter consisting of
domestic dialogues,) he must have read in-
his youth. They were both accurate de-
scribers, minute and circumstantial, but
with this difF(prence, that the minuteness of
De Foe was more employed about things,
and that of Richardson about persons and
sentiments. No one ever knew like De
Foe to give to fiction, by an accumulation
of circumstance, and a grave natural way
of telling the story, the most serious air of
truth ; except, indeed. Swift, in his Gulli-
ver's Travels. De Foe wrote also some
novels; I cannot speak of them, for I have
not seen them : they do not appear to have
attained much celebrity. Richardson was-
the man who was to introduce a new kind

of

OF MR. RICHARDSON. XXI

of moral j>ainting ; he drew equally from
nature and from his own ideas. From the
world about him he took the incidents,
manners, and general character, of the
times in which he lived, and from his own
beautiful ideas he copied that sublime of
virtue which charms us in his Clarissa, and
that sublime of passion which interests us
in his Clementina. That kind of fictitious
writing of which he has set the example,
disclaims all assistance from giants or ge-
nii. The moated castle is changed to a
modern parlour ; the princess and her
pages to a lady and her domestics, or even
to a simple ^naiden, witliout birth or for-
tune ; we are not called on to wonder at
improbable events, but to be moved by
natural passions, and impressed by salu-
tary maxims. The pathos of the story,
and the dignity of the sentiments, interest
and charm us ; simplicity is warned, vice
rebuked, and, from the perusal of a novel,
5ve rise better prepared to meet the ills of

life

Xxii THE Lirfe

life with firmness, and to perform our re-
spective parts on the great theatre of life.
It was the high and just praise given by
our great critic. Dr. Johnson, to the author
of Clarissa, that " he had enlarged the
*' knowledge of human nature, and taught
** the passions to move at the command of
** virtue." The novelist has, indeed, all the
advantage of the preacher in introducing
useful maxims and sentiments of virtue ;
an advantage which Richardson made large
use of, and he has besides the power of
impressing them upon the heart through
the best sensibilities of our nature. Rich-
ardson prided himself on being a moral and
religious writer ; and, as Addison did be-
fore him, he professed to take under his
particular protectiou that sex which
is supposed to be most open to good or
evil impressions j whose inexperience most
requires cautionary precepts, and whose
sensibilities it is most important to se-
cure against a wrong direction. The

manner

OF MB. RICHARDSON. xxiii

inanner of this captivating writer was also
new.

There are three modes of carrying on
^ story: the narrative or epic as it may
be called; in this the author relates him-
self the whole adventure ; this is the man-
ner of Cervantes in his Don Quixote, and
of Fielding in his Tom Jones. It is the most
common way. The author, like the muse,
is supposed to know every thing; he can
reveal the secret springs of actions, and
iet us into events in his own time and
manner. He can be concise, or diffuse,
according as the different parts of his story
require it. He can indulge, as Fielding has
done, in digressions, and thus deliver senti-
ments and display knowledge which would
not 2^roperly belong to any of the charac-
ters. But his narration will not be lively,
except he frequently drops himself, and
runs into dialogue: all good writers there-
fore have thrown as much as possible of
the dramatic into their narrative. Mad.

d'Arblay

XXIV THE LIFE

d'Arblay has done this so successfully,
that we have as clear an idea, not only of
the sentiments, but the manner of expres-
sion of her different personages, as if we
took it from the scenes in a play.

Another mode is that of memoirs ; where
the subject of the adventures relates his
own story. Smollet, in his Roderic Ran-
dom, and Goldsmith, in his Vicar of Wake-
field, have adopted this mode; it confines
the author's stile, which should be suited,
though it is not always, to the supposed
talents and capacity of the imaginary
narrator. It has the advantage of the
warmth and interest a person may be sup-
posed to feel in his own affairs; and he
can more gracefully dwell upon minute
circumstances which have affected him.
It has a greater air of truth, as it seems
to account for the communication to the
public. The author, it is true, knows every
thing, but when the secret recesses of the
heart are to be laid open, we can hear no

one

OF M-R. RICHARDSON. XXV

'One with so much pleasure as the person
himself. Mai'ivaux, whose productions
partly followed, and partly were cotem-
porary with those of Richardson, has put
the history of Marianne into her own
mouth, and we are amused to hear her
dwell on little touches which are almost
too trivial to be noticed by any body but
herself.

But what the hero cannot gay, the author
cannot tell, nor can it be rendered pro-
bable, that a very circumstantial nar-rative
should be given by a person, perhaps at
the close of a long life, of conversations
that have happened at the beginning of it.
The author has all along two characters to
support, for he has to consider how his
hero felt at the time the events to be related,
and how it is natural he should feel them
at the time he is relating them; at a period,
perhaps, when curiosity is extinguished,
passion cooled, and when, at any rate, the
suspense which rendered them interesting

VOL. I. b is

XXVI THE LIFE

is over. This seems, therefore, the least
perfect mode of any.

A tliird way remains, that of epistolary
'Correspondence t carried on between the cha-
racters of the novel. This is the form made
use of by Richardson and many others af-
ter, none, I believe, before him. He seems
to have been led to it by circumstances in
his early youth, which will be hereafter
related. This method unites, in a good
measure, the advantages of the other two ;
it gives the feelings of the moment as the
writers felt them at the moment. It allows
a pleasing variety of stile, if the author
has suflicient command of pen to assume
it. It makes the whole work dramatic,
since all the characters speak in their own
persons. It accounts for breaks in the
jstory, by the omission or loss of letters.
It is incompatible with a rapi4 stile, but
;gives room for the graceful introduction of
remark and sentiment, or any kind, almost,
4)f digressive matter. But, on the other

hand.

OF MR. RICHARDSON. XXVli

hand, it is highly fictitious ; it is the most
natural and the least probable way of tell-
ing a story. That letters should be writ-
ten at all times, and upon every occasion
in life, that those letters should be pre-
served, and altogether form a connected
story, it requires much art to render spe-
cious. It introduces the inconvenience so
much felt in dramatic writing, for want of
a narrator ; the necessity of having an in-
.sipid confidant to tell the circumstances to
that an author cannot relate in any other
way. It obliges a man to tell of himself,
what perhaps no man would tell ; and some-
times to repeat compliments which modesty
would lead him to suppress : and when along
conversation is repeated, supposes a me-
mory more exact than is generally found.
Artificial as it therefore is, still as it enables
an author to assume, in a lively manner, the
hopes and fears, and passions, and to imi-
tate the peculiar way of thinking of his
/characters, it became fashionable, and has
b 2 been

KXVMl THE LIFE

>been adopted by many both at home and
abroad, especially by the French writers;
4jieir language, perhaps, being particularly
asuited to the epistolary stile, and Rousseau
himself, in his Nouvelle Heloise, has fol-
iowed the steps of our countryman.

Our author had a most ready pen, in-
deed it was seldom out of his hand, and
this readiness, with the early habit of writ-
ing letters, made him take pleasure in an
extensive correspondejnce, with which he
filled the interstices of a busy day. Be-
fore this -correspondence is presented to
the reader, it may not be undesirable to
preface the collection with all the particu-
lars which can now be collected, relative
to hijii who Avas the centre of it. The facts
are taken either from the letters themselves,
or the objigin^ communications of some of
his surviving cotemporaries, or from printed
biographical anecdotes.

Mr. Samuel Richardswi, whose name and
genius no English readers, and it may be

added.

OF MR. RICHARDSON. XXi3f

added, few foreign ones, are nnacouaintccl
with, is one instance, among innumerable
others, of natural talents making their way
to eminence, under the pressure of narrov/
circumstances, the disadvantage of obscure?
birth, and the want of a liberal education.

The following is the account he gives of
his family, in a letter to Mr. Stinstra. " My
** father was a very honest man, descended
" of a family of middling note, in the county
" of Surry, but which having for several ge-
** nerationsahu'ge number of children, the
** not large possessions were s-plit and di-
** vidcd, so that he and his brothers were
•* put to trades j and the sisters were mar-
" ried to tradesmen. My mother was also
** a good woman,^ of a family not ungen-
" teel } but wliose father and mother died, irr
** her infancy, within half-an-liour of each
** other, in the London pestilence of 1665.

" My father's business was that of a join-

^ er, then more distinct from that of a car-

^ neuter than now it is with us. He was

b 3 a good

X3K THE LIFE

" a good draughtsman, and understood ar-
" chitecture. His skill and ingenuity, and
** an understanding superior to his busi-
" ness, with his remarkable integrity of
" heart and manners, made him person-
•* ally beloved by several persons of rank,
•' among whom were the Duke of Mon-
•* mouth and the first Earl of Shaftsbury,
" both so noted in our English history;
" their known favour for him having, on
" the Duke's attempt on the crown, sub-
*' jected him to be looked upon with a
*^ jealous eye, notwithstanding he was
" noted for a quiet and inoffensive man,
" he thought proper, on the decollation
" of the first-named unhappy nobleman,
** to quit his London business, and to re-
•* tire to Derbyshire, though to his great
*' detriment ; and there I, and three other
" children out of nine, were born."

As it was probably a great disadvantage
to Mr. Richardson's father to leave his
flourishing business in London, and as it is

not

OF MR. RICHARDSOK. XXxi

not very likely that a man in his way of
life should have so companionable an inti-
macy with the Duke of Monmouth and the
Earl of Shaftsbury, as to subject him to dan-
ger on that account merely; it is probable
that he entered further into their political
views, than appears from the foregoing ac-
count. Mr. Samuel Richardson was born
in the year 1689, in Derbyshire, but in
what particular place cannot be traced out.
It is said that Richardson, from some mo-^
lives known only to himself, always avoid-
ed mentioning the town which gave him
birth. If this concealment arose from a
reluctance to bring into view the obscu-
rity and narrow circumstances in which
his childhood was involved, the motive was
an unworthy one, since they only served
to reflect honour on the genius which could
break through so thick a cloud. But, in
truth, the candour and openness with which
he relates the circumstances of his early
life, ought to clear him from this imputa-
b 4 tion.

xxxu THE LIFE

tion. He goes on to inform his friend;^
that his father intended him for the churchy
^ designation perfectly agreeable to his
©wn inclinations, and which indeed his
strong sense of religion, and the sobriety
«f his conduct, gave him an appropriate
litness for. Bat he adds : " But while I
" was very young, some heavy losses hav-
** ing disabled hhn from supporting me as
" genteelly as he wished in an education
" proper for the function, he left me to
" choose, at the age of fifteen or sixteen,
" a business; having been able to give me
** only common school-learning."

Some of the admirers of Richardson have
wished to raise his character by asserting,
that he possessed a knowledge of the clas-
sics; but his own assertions are frequent-
in his letters, that he possessed no lan-
guage but his own, not even French. It is-
said, indeed, that Dr. Young and he have
been heard to quote Horace and other-
classics in their familiar conversations, and

the

OF MR. RICHARDSON. XXXiil-

tlie letters of the pedant Brand in Clarissa,
which are larded with Latin quotations, ave
adduced as proofs of his scholarship ; but,
with regard to the latter, it seems proba-
ble, as niav ])e seen in the letters, that he
was assisted by his friend Mr. Channing;
and, as to tlie former, it is not unlikely that
he might, be familiar with a few of those
Jvatin phrases which are used, in a manner
proverbially, by scholars, as the gar^iiture
of their discourse ; and that he might also re-
member something of the rudiments, which
he probably learnt at school, neither of which
circumstances imply any real knowledge of
the language. His deficiencies in this respect
he often lamented 5 and it is certain his
3tyle is as far as possible from that of a
scholar. It abounds with colloquial vul-
garisms, and has neither that precision,
nor that tincture of classic elegance, which
is generally the result of an early familiar-
ity with the best models.

But, however an ignorance of the learned
b 5 languages

XXXIV THE LIFE

languages might, some centuries ago, have
precluded the unlearned Englishman from
those treasures of literature which open the
faculties and enlarge the understanding,
our own tongue now contains productions
of every kind sufficient to kindle the flame
of genius in a congenial mind. Reading,
provided a man seeks rather after good
books than new books, still continues to
be the cheapest of all amusements j and
the boy who has barely learned to read at
a village school-dame's, is in possession of
a key which will unlock the treasures of
Shakespeare and of Milton, of Addison and
of Locke. Nor is time generally wanting j
the severest labour has its intervals, in
which the youth, who is stung with the
thirst of knowledge, will steal to the page
that gratifies his curiosity, and afterwards
brood over the thoughts which have been
there kindled, while he is plying the awl,
planing the board, or hanging over the
loom. To have this desire implanted in the

young:

OF MR. RICHARDSON. XXXY

young mind, does, indeed, require some pe-
culiarly favourable circumstances. These
Can sometimes be traced, oftener not. In
regular education, the various stimuli that
produce this effect are subject to our ob-
servation, and distinctly marked ; in like
manner as we know the nature and qua-
lity of the seed we sow in gardens and
cultured ground ; but of those geniuses
called self-taught, we usually know no more
than we do of the wild flowers that spring
up in the fields. We know very well they
had a seed, but we are ignorant by what
accidental circumstances the seed of one
has been conveyed by the winds to some
favourable spot, where it has been safely
lodged in the bosom of the ground, nor
why it germinates there, and springs up in
health and vigour, wliiie a thousand others
perish. Some observation struck the young
sense ; some verse, repeated in his hearing,
dropt its sweetness on the unfolding ear ;
some nursery story, told with impressive
b 6 tones

XXX VI THE LIFE

tones and gestures, has laid hold on the
kindling imagination, and thus have been
formed, in solitude and obscurity, the ge-
nius of a Burns or a ^akespeare.

With regard to Richardson,- it is not
often we possess such particular informa-
tion as he has given us, in his own. words,
of his early invention, and powers of af-
fecting the heart. — " I recollect, that I was
" early noted for having invention. I
" was not fond of play, as other boys : my
" school-fellows used to call me Serious and
" Oravittj s and five of them particularly
" delighted to single me out, either for a
" walk, or at their father's houses, or at
" mine, to tell them stories, as they phrased
" it. Some I told them, from my reading,
" as true ; others from my head, as mere
** invention ; of which they would be most
** fond, and often were affected by them.
" One of them particularly, I remember,
** was for putting me to write a history, as
** he called it, on the model of Tommy

<« Pots :

OF MR. RICHARDSON. XXXviv-

*^ Pots; I now forget what it was, only
" that it was of a servant-man preferred
** by a fine young lady (for his goodness)
" to a lord, who was a libertine. All my
" stories carried with them, I am bold to
" say, an useful moral."

It is in like manner related of the Abbe
Prevost, one of the most affecting of the
Frenclr novelists, that, when he was among
the Carthusians, into which order he had
originally entered, he was accustomed to
amuse the good fathers with telling them
stories of his invention ; and once, it is re-
corded, they sat up the whole night listen-
ing to him. But not only our author's in-
ventive turn, the particular mode in which
he exercised it was very early determined.
He was fond of two things, which boys have
generally an aversion to — letter-writing,
and the company of the other sex. An in-
cident, which he relates in the following
words, shews how early he had devoted
himself to be the Mentor of his female ac-
quaintance:

A r: 'J '? «> ** From

't J O -i ^

Xxxviii THE LIFE

'* From my earliest youth, I had a love
" of letter-Writing : I was not eleven years
" old when I wrote, spontaneously, a
** letter to a widow of near fifty, who,
" pretending to a zeal for religion, and
" being a constant frequenter of church
" ordinances, was continually fomenting
** quarrels and disturbances, by back-
*' biting and scandal, among all her ac-
" quaintance. I collected from the scrip-
" ture texts that made against her. As-
*• suming the style and address of a person
** in years, I exhorted her, I expostu-
•* lated with her. But my hand-writing
•* was known. I was challenged with it,
** and owned the boldness; for she com-
" plained of it to my mother with tears.
" My mother chid me for the freedom
" taken by such a boy with a woman of
•* her years 3 but knowing that her son was
'* not of a pert or forward nature, but, on
** the contrary, shy and bashful, she com-
** mended my principles, though she ccn-
" sured the liberty taken."

OF MR. RICHARDSON. xxxix

Notwithstanding the ill-will which this
freedom might draw upon him from indivi-
duals, he was, he tells us, a general favourite
with young and old.

" As a bashful and not forward boy,
** I was an early favourite with all the
** young women o^* taste and reading in
" the neighbourhood. Half a dozen of
" them, when met to work with their
** needles, used, when they got a book
** they liked, and thought I should, to
" borrow me to read to them; their mo-
*' thers sometimes with them ; and both
** mothers and daughters used to be pleased
" with the observations they put me upon
" making.

" I was not more than thirteen, when
" three of these young women, unknown
" to each other, having an high opinion
*' of my taciturnity, revealed to me their
" love-secrets, in order to induce me
** to give them copies to write after, or
" correct, for answers to their lover's

" letters :

XI THE LIFE

** letters : nor did any one of them ever
** know that I was the secretary to the
" others. I have been directed to chide>
" and even repulse, when an offence was
** either taken or given, at the very time
" that the heart of the chider or repulser
" was open before me, overflowing with
** esteem and affection ; and the fair re-
** pulser, dreading to be taken at her word,
" directing this word, or that expression,
" to be softened or changed. One highly
" gratified with her lover's fervour, and
" vows of everlasting love, has said, when
*' I have asked her direction ; I cannot
" tell you what to write ; but, (her heart
*' on her lips) you cannot write too kindly ;
" all her fear was only, that she should
•* incur slight for her kindness."

Human nature is human nature in every
class J the hopes and the fears, the per-
plexities and the struggles, of these low-
bred girls in, probably, an obscure village,
supplied the future author with those ideas,

which.

OF MR. RICHARDSON. xli

which, by their gradual development, pro*
duced the characters of a Clarissa and a
Clementina J nor was he probably hap-
pier, or amused in a more lively manner,
when sitting in his grotto, with a circle of
the best informed women in England about
him, who, in after-times, courted his so-
ciety, than in reading to these girls in, it
may be, a little back-shop, or a mantua-
maker's parlour, with a brick-floor. In
the mean time, years went on, and the fa-
ther of Richardson, being disappointed in-
his views of bringing him up to a profes-
sion, it became incumbent on him to chuse
a humbler employment, and he fixed upon
that of a printer j chiefly, as he informs usj
because he thought it would gratify his thirst
for reading. He was bound apprentice to
M7\ John Wilde J of Stationer' s-hally in the
year 1706. He did not, however, find it
easy to gratify this thirst, though the
stream ran by his lips, " I served," (says
Ue) " a diligent seven years to its to a

" master

xlii THE LIFE

" master who grudged every hour to mc
" that tended not to his profit, even of
" those times of leisure and diversion,
" which the refractoriness of my fellow-
" servants obliged him to allow them, and
" were usually allowed by other masters
" to their apprentices. I stole from the
" hours of rest and relaxation, my read-
** ing times for improvement of my mind y
" and, being engaged in a correspondence
** with a gentleman, greatly my superior
" in degree, and of ample fortune, who,
" had he lived, intended high things for
•* me ; those were all the opportunities
" I had in my apprenticeship to carry it
** on. But this little incident I may men-
** tion ; I took care that even my candle
" was of my own purchasing, that I might
" not, in the most trifling instance, make
** my master a sufferer (and who used to
*' call me the pillar of his house) and not
** to disable myself by watching or sitting-
** up, to perform my duty to him in the

«' day-

OF MR. RIGHARDSON. xliii

" day-time." The correspondence with
the gentleman just mentioned, must have
been of great service to the young ap-
prentice, in gaining that fluency of pen
which he was remarkable for, though it
appears he was deprived by death of the
patronage he expected. " Multitudes of
" letters passed between this gentleman
** and me ; he wrote well, was a master
" of the epistolary style. Our subjects
'* were various : but his letters were mostly
** narrative, giving me an account of his
" proceedings, and what befel him in
" the different nations through which he
" travelled. I could from them, had I
" been at liberty, and had I at that time
" thought of writing as I have since done,
" have drawn great helps : but many years
** ago, all the letters that passed between
** us, by a particular desire of his (lest they
*' should, ever be published) were com-
*' mitted to the flames."

After the expiration of his appren-
ticeship.

xHy ' THE LIFE

ticeship, our author continued five of
six years working as a compositor and
corrector of the press to a printing-office,
and part of the time as an overseer 5 and,
at length thus working his way upwards
into day-light, he took up his freedom, and
set up for himself; at first in= a court in
Fleet-street,. from whence, as his business
grew more extensive,' he removed into Sa-
lisbury-court.

Richardson was not one of those who
make genius an- excuse for idleness. Hfe
had been diligent and conscientious as an
apprentice, he was assiduous and liberal
as a master. Besides the proper work of a
printer, he did a good deal of business for
the booksellers, in writing for them in-
dexes, prefaces, and, as he stiles them,
honest dedications. These humble em-
ployments tended to facilitate to him the
use and management of the pen. Mr;
Richardson's punctuality, and the honour
end generosity of his dealings,. soon -gained .

him.-

OF MR. RICHARDSON. xlv

4iim friends, and his business greatly flou-
j*ished. He printed, for a while, the True
Briton, a periodical paper, published in
1723, under the auspices of the Duke of
AV^harton, who, at that time, was endea-
vouring to foment a spirit of opposition in
4;he City ; and, to gain popularity, became
.a member of the AVax-chandler's Company.
Richardson, though his principles were
•very different, was intimate with him, as
was also, in early life. Dr. Young. Some
of the numbers of the True Briton were
prosecuted, but Air. R. escaped, as his
name did not appear. He was engaged
>:ome time in printing a newspaper, called
The Daily Journal^ and afterwards. The
Dailij Gazetteer. Through the interest of
the Speaker, Mr. Onslow, he had the print-
ing of the Journals of the House of Com-
mons, in twenty-six volumes, folio. Mr.
Onslow had a great regard for him, and
•often received him at his house in Ember-
•court. Polite regards are sometimes more

£asily

Xlvi THE LIFE

easily obtained than money from the court
end of the town. Mr. R. did not find this
branch of his business the one which
yielded him the quickest returns. He thus
writes to his friend Aaron Hill: " As to my
" silence, I have been at one time exceed-
** ingly busy in getting ready some vo-
" lumes of Journals, to entitle myself to
" a payment which yet I never had, no,
** not to the value of a shilling, though the
** debt is upwards of three thousand pounds,
** and though I have pressed for it, and
*' been excessively pressed for the want
« of it."

He was chosen master of his company,
an office, which, in the Stationer's Com-
pany, is not only honourable but lucrative,
in 1754; on which occasion one of his
friends tells him, that though he did not
doubt his going very well through every
other part of the duty, he feared his habi-
tual abstemiousness would allow him to
make but a tery poor figure at the city

feasts.

OF MR. RICHARDSON. xlvii

feasts. His indulgencies were not of the
sensual kind — he had, according to the sa-
lutary custom of the London citizens, a
country residence ; first at North-end, near
Hammersmith, and afterwards at Parsons's-
green, where he spent the time he could
spare from business, and seldom without
visitors. He loved to encourage diligence
and early rising amongst his journeymen,
and often hid a half-crown amongst the
letters, so that the first who came to work
in a morning might find it. At other
times 'he brought, for the same purpose,
fruit from his garden.

Mr. R. was twice married, his first wife
was Allington Wilde, his master's daugh-'
ter, she died in 1731. His second was the
sister of Mr. James Leake, bookseller, at
Bath, with whom he always maintain-
ed a very friendly intercourse : this lady
survived him. Of his family, history, and
the many wounds his affectionate nature
received in the loss of those dear to him,

be

Khiii THE LIFE

he thus speaks in a letter to Lady Brad-
shaw, who had been pleading against a
melancholy termination to Clarissa.

" Ah ! Madam ; and do you thus call
" upon me ! Forgive an interrupting sigh,
•" and allow me a short abruption.

" I told you. Madam, that I have been
" married twice; both tunes happily : you
" will guess so, as to my first, when I
" tell you that I cherish the memory of
" my lost wife to this hour : and as to
** the second, when I assure you that I
" can do so without derogating from the
" merits of, or being disallowed by my
" present ; who speaks of her on all oc-
" casiohs, as respectfully and affectionately
" as I do myself.

" By my first wife I had five sons and
" one daughter; some of them living, to
" be delightful prattlers, with all the ap-
*' pearances of sound health, lively in
" their features, and promising as to their
" minds ; and the death of one of them, I

doubt,

OF MR. RICHARDSON. xlix

'* doubt, accelerating from grief, that of
'* the otherwise laudably afflicted, mother.
** I have had, by my present wife, five
" girls and one boy; I have buried of
** these the promising boy, and one girl :
" four girls I have living, all at present
" very good ; their mother a true and in-
" structing mother to them.

" Thus have I lost six sons {all my sons)
** and two daughters, every one of which,
" to answer your question, I parted with
" with the utmost regret. Other heavy
" deprivations of friends, very near, and
" very dear, have I also suffered. I am
" very susceptible, I will venture to say,
** of impressions of this nature. A father*
" an honest, a worthy father, I lost by the
" accident of a broken thigh, snapped by
»* a sudden j irk, endeavouring to recover
" a slip passing tlirough his own yard.
" My father, whom I attended in every
** stage of his last illness, I long mourned
" for. Two brothers, very dear to me, I

VOL. I. c ** lost

1 THE LIFE

" lost abroad. A friend, more valuable
" than most brothers, was taken from
" me. No less than eleven affecting deaths
•* in two years ! My nerves were so affect-
•• ed with these repeated blows, that I have
** been forced, after trying the whole ma-
" teria medica, and consulting many physi-
** cians, as the only palliative (not a reme-
** dy to be expected) to go into a regimen ;
" and, for seven years pasc have I forborne
" wine and flesh and fish ; and, at this
** time, I and all my family are in
" mourning for a good sister, with whom
" neither I would have parted, could I
" have had my choice. From these af-
" fecting dispensations, will you not allow
" me. Madam, to remind an unthinking
" world, immersed in pleasures, what a
" life this is that they are so fond of, and
" to arm them against the affecting
" changes of it?'*

Severely tried as he was, he had yet
great comfort in his family j his daughters

grew

OF MR. RICHARDSON. li

grew up under his tuition, amiable and
worthy; they were carefully educated,
and engaged his fondest affections. It is
remarkable that his daughter Anne, whose
early ill-health had often excited his ap-
prehensions, was the last survivor of the
family. They were all much employed in
writing for him, and transcribing his let-
ters ; but, his chief amanuensis was his
daughter Martha.

In addition to his other business, Mr,
Richardson purchased, in 1760, a moiety of
the patent of law printer to his majesty,
which department of his business he car-
ried on in partnership with Miss Catherine
Lintot, From all these sources he was
enabled to make that comfortable provision
for a rising family, which patient industry,
judiciously directed, will, generally, in this
country, enable a man to procure.

But the genius of Richardson was not des-
tined to be for ever employed in ushering
into the world the productiQns of others.
c 2 Neither

Hi THE LIFE

Neither city feasts and honours, nor printing
law books and acts of parliament, nor the
cares of a family, and the management of so
large a concern of business, could quench
the spark that glowed within him, or
hinder the lovely ideas that played about
his fancy, from being cloathed in words,
and produced to captivate the public ear.
The printer in Salisbury-court was to create
a new species of writing ; his name was to
be familiar in the mouths of the great, the
witty, and the gay, and he was destined to
give one motive more to the rest of Europe,
to learn the language of his country. The
early fondness of Mr. Richardson for episto-
lary writing has already been mentioned, as
also that he employed his pen occasionally
for the booksellers. They desired him to
give them a volume of Familiar Letters,
upon a variety of supposed occasions. He
began, but, letter producing letter, like
John Bunyan, " as he pulled, it came j"
till, unexpected to himself, the result was

his

OF MR, RICHARDSON. lii

his History of Pamela. His account of it
is as follows : — " The writing it, then, was
" owing to the following occasion : — ^Two
** booksellers, my particular friends, en-
** treated me to write for them a little vo-
" lume of Letters, in a common style, on^
" such subjects as might be of use to
" those country readers, who were unable
" to indite for themselves. Will it be any
" harm, said I, in a piece you want to be
'* written so low, if we should instruct
** them how they should think and act in
** common cases, as well as indite ? They
** were the more urgent with me to begin
" the little volume for this hint.J^I set
" about it -y and, in the progress of it,
" writing two or three letters to instruct
" handsome girls, who were obliged to go
** out to service, as we phrase it, how to
" avoid the snares that might be laid
" against their virtue j the abcv8 siory
" recurred to my thought: And hence
** sprung Pamela. This volume of letters
c 3 "is

Jiv THE LIFE

'* is not worthy of your perusal. I laid
•* aside several letters after I had written
** them f6r this volume, as too high for the
'* vidw of my two friends."

This was written, (it was then only in
%P70 volumes) in three months. The idea
he set out with of writing letters for rather
the lower class, probably determined him
to the station of his heroine, and the sim-
plicity of her language.

The author's object in Pamela is two-
fold : to reclaim a libertine by the influence
of virtuous affection, and to conduct
virtue safe and triumphant through the se-
verest trials, to an honourable reward. For
this purpose Pamela, a young girl, born
of poor, but pious and worthy parents,
taken by a lady of fashion to wait upon her
person, and brought up by her with great
tenderness and attention to her improve-
ment, is, after the lady's death, at which
event the story opens, exposed to the soli-
citations of her youthful master, the only

8QR.

OF MR. RICHARDSON. Iv

son of her benefactress. The story is car-
ried on by letters, chiefly between Pamela
and her father and mother. Her youth
and innocence render her, for some time,
unsuspecting of the passion she has in-
spired ; and, when she can no longer mis-
understand the purposes of her master, she
prepares to leave his house, but he detains
her under various pretences, and attempts
liberties with her person, which she resists
with firmness, as well as his pecuniary
offers J though not disinclined to his per-
son, and though she has no resource, on the
supposition of leaving him, but to return
to hard country labour. Her behaviour is
all the while full of humility and respect to
her master, in every instance consistent
with the defence of her honour. Her mas-
ter, who, though young, is a practised li-
bertine, finding her protected by the
watchful advice of her parents, and by the
care of a virtuous house-keeper, who had
belonged to his mother, determines to con-
c 4 vey

Ivi THE LIFE

vey her to a place where she shall be en-
tirely in his power. Under pretence,
therefore, of sending her home to her pa-
rents, he has her conveyed to another of
his seats, where she is absolutely confined,
under the guardianship of an abandoned
woman, whose office it has been to minis-
ter to his pleasures. The poor Pamela
forms many schemes to get away, and en-
deavours, by means of a young clergyman,
to engage some of the families of the neigh-
bourhood in her favour, but without effect.
She then endeavours to escape alone, and
actually gets through a barred window
into the garden, from whence she hopes to
escape into the fields, though ignorant of
any ne who will receive her 5 but she falls,
and bruises herself in attempting to get
over the high brick wall. Her sulferings
in this attempt are affectingly described.
Finding all her schemes abortive, she is
greatly tempted to free herself from the
danger of dishonour, by throwing herself

into

OF MR. RICHARDSON. Ivii

into the pond, but considerations of piety
at length prevail, and she determines to
trust to Providence. Her master at length,
after many ineffectual attempts to vanquish
her resistance, begins to relent, professes
honourable love to her ; and, after a severe
struggle between his passion and his pride
of birth and fortune, offers her his hand in
marriage. Pamela acknowledges her love
for him, and accepts (almost upon her
knees it must be allowed) his proposal.
Difficulties remain to be got over with Lady
Davers, a proud and termagant woman of
quality, sister to Mr. B. but the sweetness
and prudence of Pamela overcome her dis-
like, and the whole concludes with the per-
fect happiness of the wedded pair.

Such is the outline of this first work of
our author, which was published in 1740.
(^ It was received with a burst of applause
from all ranks of people. The novelty of
the plan, the strokes of nature and pathos
with which the work abounds, the simpH-
c 5 city

Iviii THE LIFE

city of the language, the sentiments of
piety and virtue that are brought forward,
took at once the taste of the public. Num-
berless were the compliments Mr. Richard-
son received upon it, as soon as he was
known to be the author, for in the publi-
cation he only assumed the character of
editor, and that not by name. He had
earnestly wished, he saidyto be concealed;
probably he did, till its reception was
known. All that read were his readers^
Even at Ranelagh, those who remember the

I publication say, that it was usual for ladies
to hold up the vohimes of Pamela to one
another, to shew they had got the book
that every one was talking of. The ten-
dency of this novel was held to be so ex-
cellent, that it was recommended by Dr.
•Slocock, even from the pulpit. The friends

I of the author were lavish, not to say ex-
travagant, in their compliments, and he
received spontaneous eulogiums from many
of the first authors of the age. Mr. Leake

thus

OF MR. RICHARDSON. lix

thus writes of Mr. Allen and Mr. Pope: Mr.
Pope says, " it will do more good than many
" volumes of sermons ; I have heard them
" both very high in its praises, and they
** will not bear any faults to be mentioned
" in the story ; I believe they have read it
" twice a-piece at least; I believe Mr. Pope
" will call on you." Mr. Chetwynd sa3^s^
" that if all other books were to be burnt,'
" this book, next to the Bible, ought to
" be preserved.'* Mr. Lobb talks of
bringing-up his son to be virtuous, by giv-
ing him Pamela as soon as he could read,
a choice of book* for a youth which we,,
At present, should be very much sur-
prised at J and Mr. Lucas, the esteemed
author of the Search after Happiness,
thus writes: " I am inform 'd that the
•* author of Pamela, (the best book ever
** published, and calculated to do most
" good) is one Mr. Richardson, Printer.
** I think it a piece of common justice,
** to shew my regard to this common bc-
c ^ " nefactor

\

Ix • THE LIFE

" nefactor of mankind, by making him a
" tender of my best services. Accord-
" ingly, being about to publish a volume
** of sermons, I take the liberty of making
" him the offer of them." It was im-
mediately translated into French and
Dutch.

The fame of this once favourite work is
now somewhat tarnished by time, as well
as eclipsed by the author's subsequent pub-
lications j but the enthusiasm with which it
was received, shews incontrovertably, that
a nwel written on the side of virtue was
'considered as a new experiment.

Appreciating it at this distance of time,
we must acknowledge that the faults are
great, but the beauties are genuine. The
character of Pamela, so long as her sole
object was to resist her master's attempts,
is beautifully drawn, with many affecting
incidents, and little strokes of nature. Her
innocent prattle to Mrs. Jervis, the rustic
dress in which she equips herself, when de-
termined

OF MR. RICHARDSON". Ixi

termined to leave her place, her stealing
down to the kitchen to try if she could
scour the pewter, in order to accustom
herself to course household work — " I see
I could do it," says she, " it only blistered
my hand in two places " the sudden spring*
she gives on seeing her father, by which
she overturns the card-table, and the af-
fecting account of her sufferings on at-
tempting to make her escape, are all wor-
thy of a master-hand. There are not many
under-characters in this work ; the most
pleasing, and perhaps the best sustained,
of the whole, are those of Goodman An-
drews and his wife, Pamela's father and
mother. It would not be easy to find a
prettier picture of low life, and of true
English low life, in its most respectable
garb ', made respectable by strict honesty,
humility, patience of labour, and domestic
affection i the whole rendered saintly and
venerable by a touching air of piety and
resignation, which pervades all their senti-
ments.

Ixii THE LIFE

ments. The behaviour of the old man,
when he walks to Mr. B.'s to enquire after
his child 5 and his humble grief, is truly
pathetic. The language of the good cou-
ple is simple, without being vulgar. It is
not the simplicity of Arcadian shepherds :
It is such as people in low life, with the
delicacy of a virtuous mind, might fall into
without any other advantages than a bible
education. It is the simplicity of an Eng-
lish cottage. Mrs. Jervis, the virtuous
house-keeper, is well-intentioned, grateful,
but timid. The other, Mrs. Jewkes, is
drawn in coarse but natural colours.
The pride and passion of Lady Davers are
strongly drawn, some may think, perhaps
too strongly, for a lady of her fashion ; but
we every now and then see instances in
which nature will get the better of the de-
corums of life, and one of Richardson's
correspondents tells him he could find him
half a dozen Lady Davers's (her wit ex-
cepted) amongst his q^uality acquaintance..

The

OF MR. RICHARDSON. IxVn

The character of Mr. B. himself is drawn
with less address than that of any one in
the piece ; he is proud, stem, selfish, for-
bidding, (selfish, that is^ to say, in his love,
for he has generosity enough in money
matters) and his ideas of the authority of a
husband are so high, that it is not easy to
conceive of Pamela's being rewarded by
marrying him, unless her regard for ex-
ternal circumstances was greater than the
author would wish to have supposed. The
moral of this piece is more dubious than,
in his life time, the author's friends were
willing to allow. So long as Pamela is
solel}' occupied in schemes to escape from
her persecutor, her virtuous resistance ob-
tains our unqualified approbation -, but from
the moment she begins to entertain hopes
of marrying him, we admire her guarded
prudence, rather than her purity of mind.
She has an end in view, an interested end,
and we can only consider her as the
conscious possessor of a treasure, which

she

Ixiv THE LITE

she is wisely resolved not to part with but
for its just price. Her staying in his house
a moment after she found herself at liberty
to leave it, was totally unjustifiable ; her
repentant lover ought to have followed her
to her father's cottage, and to have married
her from thence. The familiar footing upon
which she condescends to live with the odious
Jewkes, shews also, that her fear of offend-
ing the man she hoped to make her hus-
band, had got the better of her delicacy
and just resentment, and the same fear
leads her to give up her correspondence
with honest Mr. Williams, who had gene-
rously sacrificed his interest with his patron
in order to effect her deliverance. In real
life we should, at this period, consider Pa-
mela as an interested girl ; but the author
says, she married Mr. B. because he had
won her affection, and we are bound, it
may be said, to believe an author's own
account of his characters.. ' But again, is it
quite natural that a girl, who had such a

genuine

OF MR. RICHARDSON\ Ixv

genuine love for virtue, should feel her
heart attracted to a man who was endea-
vouring to destroy that virtue ? Can a wo-
man value her honour infinitely above her
life, and hold in serious detestation every
word and look contrary to the nicest purity,
and yet be won by those very attempts
against her honour to which she expresses
so much repugnance ? Does not pious love
to assimilate with pious, and pure with
pure ? There is, indeed, a gentle seduction
of the affections, from which a virtuous
woman might find herself in danger, espe-
cially when there existed such a bar to a
legitimate union as great disparity of rank
and fortunes but this kind of seduction
was not what Mr. B. employed. He did
not possess, with Sedley,

■ ■ That prevailing gentle art,
Wiiich can, with a resistless force, impart
The loosest wishes to the chasest heart ;
■ Raise such a conflict, kindle such a fire
'Betw.een declining virtue and desire,
;That the poor vanquished maid dissolves away,
Iq dreams all uight, in sighs and tear^- all day.

Hi*

Ixvi * THE LIFE

His attempts were of the grossest nature,
and, previous to, and during those attempts,
he endeavoured to intimidate her by stern-
ness. He puts on the master too much to
vi^in upon her as the lover. Can affection
be kindled by outrage and insult ? Surely,
if her passions were capable of being awa-
kened in his favour, during such a perse-
cution, the circumstance would be capable
of an interpretation very little consistent
with that delicacy the author meant to give
her. The other alternative is, that she mar^
ried him for

*' The gilt coach, and dappled Flanders' mares.**

Indeed, the excessive humility and grati-
tude expressed by herself and her parents
on her exaltation, shews a regard to rank
and riches beyond the just measure of an
independent mind. The pious Goodman
Andrews should not have thought his vir-
tuous daughter so infinitely beneath ••her
licentious master, who, after all, married
her to gratify his own passions^

1*10

OF MR. RICHARDSON. Ixvii

The indelicate scenes in this novel have
been justly found fault with, and are, in-
deed, totally indefensible. Dr. Watts, to "^
whom he sent the volumes, instead of com-
pliments, writes him word, that he under- '
stands the ladies complain they cannot read
them without blushing.

Great curiosity was expressed by many,
to know whether the story was founded in
fact \ just as children ask eagerly, when ^j^
they hear a story that pleases them, " Is it |
*' true ?" The author received anonymous .j
letters from six ladies, who pressed him to
declare, upon his honour, which they were
sure he was too much of a gentleman to
violate, whether the story was true or false,
and they hoped Mrs. B. if there was such
a lady, would not be against satisfying a
request which redounded so much to her
honour ; they tell him also, that they have
taken an oath to keep the secret, if he will
entrust them with it ; and that they will
never cease writing till he has obliged

them.

Ixviii THE LIFE

them. He Jtells them, in his answer, that
it was never known, since the world began,
that a secret was kept which had been en-
trusted to six ladies, and pretends that he
was not at liberty to break the trust ; also,
that they are very unreasonable in expect-
ing him to give up the name of his heroine
to ladies who keep their own names a se-
cret.

The real Pamela was said by some to be
the wife of Sir Arthur Hazelrig, who had
then lately married his maid ; others affirm-
ed, with great confidence, that she was
daughter to the gamekeeper of the Earl of
Gainsborough, who had rewarded her vir-
tue by exalting her to the rank of Coun-
tess. Both these ladies were of exemplary
characters ; but the author's own account
of the matter is given in the following
words, in a letter to his friend and great
admirer Aaron HilL

.L "I>e«r

vSiA<^ ' OF MR. RICHARDSON. Ixix

V'

« Dear Sir,

" I will now write to your question—
** AVhether there was any original ground-
*• work of fact, for the general foundation
** of Pamela's story.

" About twenty-five years ago, a gen-
** tleman, with whom I was intimately ac-
** quainted (but who, alas! is now no
** more !) met with such a story as that of
** Pamela, in one of the summer tours
"** which he used to take for his pleasure,
•* attended with one servant only. At
" every inn he put up at, it was his way
* to inquire after curiosities in its neigh-
** bourhood, either ancient or modern ;
*' and particularly he asked who was the
** owner of a fine house, as it seemed to
** him, beautifully situated, which he had
** passed by (describing it) within a mile or
" two of the inn.

" It was a fine house, the landlord said.
" The owner was Mr. B. a gentleman of
** a large estate in more counties than

** one.

!xx THE LIFE

" one. That his and his lady's history
** engaged the attention of every body
** who came that way, and put a stop to
" all other enquiries, though the house
" and gardens were well worth seeing.
** The lady, he said, was one of the great-
** est beauties in England ; but the quali-
** ties of her mind had no equal : beneficent,
" prudent, and equally beloved and admired
" by high and low. That she had been taken
" at twelve years of age, for the sweet-
** ness of her manners and modesty, and
'* for an understanding above her years,
" by Mr. B — 's mother, a truly wortjhy
" lady, to wait on her person. Her pa-
•* rents, ruined by suretiships, were re-
" markably honest and pious, and had in-
** stilled into their daughter's mind the
** best principles. When their misfortunes
" happened first, they attempted a little
" school, in their village, where they were
** much beloved ; he teaching writing and
" the first rules of arithmetic to boys 5 his

wife

OF MR. RICHARDSON. Ixxi

" wife plain needle-works to girls, and to
** knit and spin ; but that it answered not :
" and, when the lady took their child, the
** industrious man earned his bread by
" day labour, and the lowest kinds of
** husbandry.

" That the girl, improving daily in
** beauty, modesty, and genteel and good
** behaviour, by the time she was fifteen,
" engaged the attention of her lady's son,
" a young gentleman of free principles,
" who, on her lady's death, attempted, by
** all manner of temprtations and devices,
" to seduce her. That she had recourse
** to as many innocent stratagems to escape
** the snares laid for her virtue j once,
'* however, in despair, having been near
" drowning ; that, at last, her noble re-
** sistance, watchfulness, and excellent
** qualities, subdued him, and he thought
" fit to make her his wife. That she be-
" haved herself with so mi^ch. dignity,
*^ sweetness, ajoyd humility, that she made

** herself

l^Cxii THE LIFE

" herself beloved of every body, and even
" by his relations, who, at first despised
" her; and now had the blessings both of
** rich and poor, and the love of her hus-
« band.

" The gentleman who told me this,
" added, that he had the curiosity to stay
** in the neighbourhood from Friday to
*' Sunday, that he might see this happy
** couple at church, from which they never
" absented themselves : that, in short, he
" did see them ; that her deportment was
** all sweetness, ease, and dignity mingled ;
" that he never saw a lovelier woman :
" that her husband was as fine a man, and
" seemed even proud of his choice: and
" that she attracted the respects of the
" persons of rank present, and had the
" blessings of the poor. — The relater of
" the story told me all this with trans-
" port.

" This, Sir, was the foundation of Pa-
** mela's story j but little did I think to

" make

OF IvHl. RICIIAtlDSON. Ixxiii

*' make a story of it for the press. That
" was owing to this occasion.
/ ** Mr. Rivington and Mr. Osborne,
" whose names are on the title-page, had
" long been urging me to give them a
^' little book (which, they said, they were
*' often asked after) of familiar letters on
" the useful concerns in common life;
" and, at last, I yielded to their importii-
*' nity, and began to recollect such sub-
" jects as I thought would be useful in
*^* such a design, and formed several letters
*' accordingly. And, among the rest, I
" thought of giving one or two as cautions
" to young folks circumstanced as Pamela
** was. Little did I think, at hrst, of
" making one, nuicli less two volumes of
" it. But, when I began to recollect what
"- had, so many years before, been told me
'* by my friend, I thought the story, if
" written in an easy and natural manner,
" suitably to the simplicity of it, might
/ " possibly introduce a new species #f
' VOL. I. d " writing.

JCXIV THE LIFK

" writing, that might possibly turn young
" people into a course of reading different
," from the pomp and parade of romance-
** writing, and dismissing the improbable
" and marvellous, with which novels gene-
" rally abound, might tend to promote
" tlie cause of religion and virtue. I
" therefore gave way to enlargement : and
" so Pamela became as you see her. But
" so little did I hope for the approbation
" of judges, that I had not the courage to
" send the two volumes to your ladies, until
" I found the books well received by the
" public.

" AVhile I was writing the two volumes,
" my worthy-hearted wife, and the young
" lady who is with us, m hen I had read
" them some part of the story, which I hud
" begun without their knowing it, used to
" come in to my little closet every night,
" with — '* Ha^ e you any more of Pamela,
" Mr. R. ? AVe are come to hear a little
*' more of Pamela,' &c. This encouraged

" me

OF MR. RICHARDSON. Ixxv

*' me to prosecute it, which I did so dili-
' gently, through all my other business,
that, by a memorandum on my copy, I
began it Nov. 10, 1739, and finished it
" Jan. 10, 1739-40. And I have often,
" censurable as I might be thought for
" my vanity for it, and lessening to the
** taste of my two female friends, had the
" story of Molicre's Old Woman in my
*f thoughts upon the occasion.

" If justly low were my thoughts of this
** little histor}', you will wonder how it
" came by sucli an asuming and very im-
*" pudent preface. It was thus: — The ap-
" probation of these two female friends,
" and of two more, who were so kind as
" to give me prefaces for it, but which
** were much too long and circumstantial,
** as I thought, made me resolve myself on
** writing a preface ; I therefore, spirited
** by the good opinion of these four, and
" knowing that the judgments of nine
*' parts in ten of readers were but in hang-
d 2 ing

txxvi THE LIFE

■" mg-sleeves, struck a bold stroke in the
*' preface you see, having the umbrage of
'* the editor's character * to screen myself
** behind. — And thus, Sir, ail is out. "

The success of the work ga\e occasion
to a spurious continuation of it, called
Pamela in High lAfe. The author had, in
reality, no reason to be disturbed at tliis ;
the continuation would have had the same
fate with that of iMarianne, afterwards pub-
lished, which no one ever confounded with
the Marianne of Marivaux. However, up-
on this, the autiior prepared to give a
second part. Pope and Warburton, who
heard he was about it, advised him to
make it a vehicle for satire upon tlie
fashions and follies of the great world, by
representing the'light in which they would
appear to the rustic Pamela, when she was
introduced to them. The plan might have

* Un<ier the character of Editor, he gave great
commendations to the letters, fur wliich 'he was blamed
by some of his friends.

suited

. OF MR.^WCI4ARDS0N. Ixxvil

.wited PojTc or Swift, but Richardson did not,
hy any means, possess those light touchesj
o£ delicate humour which were required in
ii ', and the knowledge of the great world
he had yet to acquire. These volumes, two,
in number, are, like most second parts,
greatly inferior to the first. They are su-
pcrtluous, for the plan was- already coni,-i
jiileted, and they are dull, for instead of
incident and passion, they are filled with
heavy sentiment, in diction far from ele-
gant. A great part of it aims to pallicatc,
by counter criticism, the faults which had
been found in the first part. It is less a
continuation than the author's defence of
himself. The only incident of consequence
is, the adventure at the masquerade, and
Mr. B.'s beginning intrigue with a lady
there, which gives Pamela an opportunity
to shine in so critical a circumstance as a
married jealousy J her behaviour under it
is very well drawn, with a proper mixture
of acute feeling, spirit, and gentleness, and
(13 is

Jxxviii THE LIFE

is supposed to have the effect of finally and

,J ccmpletely reclaiming her repentant hus-

^r\^ band. Goldoni has written two plays on

the story of Pamela; his Pamela Nubile

and Pamela Maritata.

Jt may be worth mentioning, that this
novel changed the pronunciation of the
name Pamela, which before was pro-
nounced Pamela, as appears from that
line of Pope —

"■ The gods to curse Pamela with her prayers*'.

Aaron Hill thus writes about it: "I
" have made" (viz. in some commendatory
verses he wrote upon the occasion) ** the
" e short in your Pamela j I observe it is
" so in her own pretty verses at parting.
" I am for deriving her name from her
** qualities; only that the Greek tiks and
'* ^ixof allude much too faintly to the all-
" reaching extent of her sweetness :" and
lie adds, " that Mr. Pope has taught half
" the women in England to pronounce
" it wrong."

It

OF MR. RICHARDSON. Ixxix

It is well known that Fielding, who
started in his career of fame soon after
Richardson, wrote his Joseph Andrews
in ridicule of Pamela. Joseph is sup-
posed to be the brother of Pamela, and
Mr. B. is 'Squire Booby. Richardson
was exceedingly hurt at thisj the more so,
asThey IiaHnbeen upon good terms, and
he was very intimate with Fielding's two
sisters. He never appears cordially to have
forgiven it, (perhaps it was not in human
nature that he should) and he always
speaks in his letters with a great deal of
asperity of Tom Jones, more indeed than
was quite graceful in a rival author. No
doubt he himself thought his indignation
was solely excited by the loose morality
of tho work and of its author, but he could
tolerate Cibbcr. Richardson and Fielding
possessed very dilTerent excellencies. —
Fielding had all the ease which Richard-
son wanted, a genuine flow of humour,
and a rich variety of comic character ; nor
was he wanting in strokes of an amiable
d 4 seusi-

sensibility, but he could not deseribie a
consistently virtuous character, ajid..ij>
deep pathos he -was far excelled by \\m
rival. When we see Fielding parodying
Pamela, and Richardson asserting, as he
does in bis letters, that the run of Tom
Jones is over, and that it would be soon
completely forgotten : Ave cannot but smile
on seeing the two authors placed on the
same shelf, and going quietly down to
posterity together. Richardson, encou-
raged by the applauses, and benefited by
the criticisnis he had received, soon pro-
ceeded to a new work.

But Pamela, captivating as was the pub-
lication, shewed only the dawn of our au~
thor's genius; and, if he sunk in the se-
cond part of it, it was only to rise with
new lustre in Clarissa, the first two volumes
of which were published eight years after
the preceding.

The production upon which the fame of
Richardson is principally founded, that

which

OF MR. RICHARDSON. Ixxxi

whioli will transmit his name to posterity,
as one of the first geniuses of the age in
which he lived, is undoubtedly his Clarissa.
Nothing can be more simple than the story,
— A young lady, pressed by her parents
to many a man every way disagreeable
to her, and placed under the most cruel
restraint, leaves her father's house, and
throws herself upon the protection of her
Jover, a man of sense and spirit, but a li-
bertine. AVhen he finds her in his power
he artfully declines marriage, and conveys
her to a house kept for the worst of pur-
poses. There, after many fruitless attempts
to ensnare her virtue, he at length violates
her person. She escapes from further out-
rage: he finds her out in her retreat j offers
her marriage, which she rejects. Her friends
are obdurate. She retires to solitary lodg-
ings ; grief and shame overwhelm her, and
she dies broken-hearted; her friends lament
their severity when too late. Her violator
is transiently stung with remorse, but not
d 5 reformed}

Ixxxii THE LIFE

reformed ; he leaves the kingdom in order
to dissipate his chagrin, and is killed in a
duel by a relation of the lady's.

On this slight foundation, and on a
story not very agreeable or promising in
its rude outline, has our author founded
a most pathetic tale, and raised a noble
temple to female virtue. The first volumes
are somewhat tedious, from the prolixity
incident to letter-writing, and require a
persevering reader to get through them:
but the circumstantial manner of writing
which Richardson practised, has the ad-
vantage of making the reader thoroughly
acquainted with those in whose fate he is
to be interested. In consequence of this,
our feelings are not transient, elicited here
and there by a pathetic stroke; but we
regard his characters as real personages,
whom we know and converse with, and
whose fate remains to be decided in the
course of events. The characters, much
more numerous than in Pamela, are all

distinctly

OF MR. RICHARDSON. Ixxxiii

distinctly drawn and well preserved, and
there is a proper contrast and variety in
the casting of the parts. The plot, as we
have seen, is simple, and no under-plots
interfere with the main design. No di-
gressions, no episodes. It is w^onderful
that without these helps of common wri-
ters, he could support a work of such
length. With Clarissa it begins, — with
Clarissa it ends. We do not come upon un-
expected adventures and wonderful recog-
nitions, by quick turns and surprises : we
see her fate frorn afar, as it were through
a long avenue, the gradual approach to
which, without ever losing sight of the
object, has more of siniplirity and gran-
deur than the most cunning labyrintii that
can be contrived by art. In the approach
to the modern country seat, we are made
to catch transiently a side-view of it
through an opening of the trees, or to
burst upon it from a sudden turning in
the road; but the old mansion stood full
d (3 ' in

Ixxxlv THE LIFE

in the eye of the traveller, as he drew
near it, contemplating its turrets, which
grew larger and more distinct every step
that he advanced; and leisurely filling his
eye and his imagination with still increas-
ing ideas of its magnificence. As the work
advances, the character rises ; the distress
is deepened; our hearts are torn with pity
and indignation; bursts of grief succeed
one another, till at length the mind is
composed and harmonized with emotions
of milder sorrow ; we are calmed into re*-
signation, elevated with pious hope, and dis-
missed glowing with the conscious triumphs
of virtue.

The first group which presents itself is
that of the Harlowe family. They are suf-
ficiently discriminated, yet preserve a fa-
mily likeness. The stern father, the pas-
sionate and darkrsouled brother, the en-
vious and ill-natured sister, the money-
loving uncles, the gentle, but weak-spirit-
€d mother, are all assimilated by that

stiffness.

OF MR. RrCHARDSON. Ixxxv

stiffness, love of parade, and solemnity^,
which is thrown over the whole, and by
the interested family views in which they
alJ concur. Miss Howe is a young lady
of great generosity and ardent feelings,
with a high spirit and some love of teaz-
ing, which she exercises on her mother, a
managing and notable widow lady, and
on her humble servant Mr. Hickman, a
man deserving of her esteem, but prim
and formal in his manner. Miss Howe is
a character of strong lights and shades,
but her warmest aftections are all along
directed to her friend, and the correspond-
ence between them is made the great ve-
hicle of Clarissa's narrative of events, as
that between Lovelace and his friend Bed-
ford is of his schemes and designs. The
character of Clarissa herself is very highly
wrought: she has all the grace, and digni-
ty, and delicacy, of a finished model of
female excellence. Her duty to her pa-
rents is implicit, except in the article of

sacrificing

Ixxxvi THE LIFE

sacrificing herself to a man utterly dis-
gustful to her; and she bears, with the
greatest meekness, the ill usage she re-
ceives from the other branches of the fa-
mily. Duty, indeed, is the great princi-
ple of her conduct. Her affections are
always compleatly under command; and
her going off with Lovelace appears a step
she w as betrayed, not persuaded, into. His
persuasions she had withstood, and it was
fear, not love, that at last precipitated her
into his protection. If, therefore, the au-
thor meant to represent her subsequent
misfortunes as a punishment, he has scarce-
ly made her faulty enough. That a young
lady has eloped from her father's house
with a libertine, sounds, indeed, like a
grave offence; but the fault, when it is
examined into, is softened, and shaded off
by such a variety of circumstances, that it
becomes almost evanescent. Who that
reads the treatment she experienced, docs
not wonder at her long-suffering. After

Clarissa

OF MR. RICHARDSON. Ixxxvil

Clarissa finds herself, against her will
and intention, in the power of her
lover, the story becomes, for a while,
a game at chess, in which both parties
exert great skill and presence of mind,
and quick observation of each others mo-
tions. Not a moment of weakness does
Clarissa betray, and she only loses the
game because she plays fairly, and with
integrity, while he is guilty of the basest
frauds.

During this part of the story, the ge-
nerality of readers are perhaps inclined to
wish, that Lovelace should give up his

wicked intentions, reform, and make Cla-
«

rissa happy in the marriage state. This
was the conclusion which Lad}' Bradshaw
so vehemently and passionately urged the
author to adopt. But when the unfeeling
cliaracter of Lovelace proceeds to deeper
and darker wickedness, when his unre-
lenting cruelty meditates, and actually
perpetrates, the last unmanly outrage upon

unpro-

h'xxvin THE LIFE

unprotected innocence and virtue j the
heart surely cannot have right feelings
that does not cordially detest so black a
villain, notwithstanding the agreeable qua-
lities which are thrown into his character,
and that woman must have little delicacy,
who does not feel that his crime has raised
an eternal wall of separation between him
and the victim of his treachery, whatever
affection she might have previously enter-
tained for him. Yet it is said by some,
that the author has made Lovelace too
agreeable, and his character has been
much t\\e object of criticism. But a lit-
tle reflection will shew us, that the au-
thor had a more difficult part to manage,
in drawing his character, than that of any
other in the work, and that he could not
well have made him different from what
he is. If he had drawn a mean-spirited
dark villain, without any specious quali-
ties, his Clarissa would have been degrad-
ed. Lovelace, as he is to win the afiections

of

OF MRv RICIfc\i«)SON. Ixxxi?*

of tlliC heroine, is necessarily, in some sort,
the hero of the piece, and no one in it
must be permitted to outshine him. The
author, therefore, gives him wit and spirit,
and courage, and generosity, and maidy
genteel address, and also transient gleams
of feeling, and transient, stings of remorse ^
so that we ar^e often led to hope he mayj
follow his better angel, and give up his
atrocious designs. This the author has
done, and less he could not do, for tho
man whom Clarissa was inclined to favour.
Besides, if it was part of his intention to
warn young women against placing their
affections upon libertines, it was certainly
only against the agreeable ones of that
class, that he had any occasion to warn
them. He tells us in one of his letters,
that finding he had made him too much a
favourite, he had thrown in some darker,
shades to obviate the objection j and surely
the shades are dark enough. In one par-
ticular, however, the author might per-
haps

XC THE LIFE

haps have improved the moral effect of the
workj he might have given more of hor-
ror to the last scene of Lovelace's life.
When Clarissa and he were finally sepa-
rated, there was no occasion to keep mea-
sures with him J and why should Belton
die a death of so much horror, and Lo\e-
lace of calm composure and self-posses-
sion. Lovelace dies in a duel, admirably
well described, in which he behaves w ith
the cool intrepidity of a gentleman and a
man of spirit. Colonel Morden could not
behave better. Some tender strokes arc
thrown in on his parting with Belford, and
on other occasions, tending to interest the
reader in his favour ; and his last words,
" Let this expiate," are manifestly intend-
ed to do away our resentment, and leave
a favourable impression on our minds with
regard to his future prospects. Something,
indeed, is mentioned of impatience, and a
desire of life; but Richardson could have
drawn a scene which would have made us

turn

OP MR. RICHARDSON. xci

turn with horror from the features of the
gay, the agreeable seducer, when changed
into the agonizing countenance of the
despairing self-accuser.

But, if the author might have improved,
in this respect, the character of Lovelace,
that of Clarissa comes up to all the ideas
we can form of female loveliness and dig-
nified suffering. The first scenes with her
hard-hearted fomily, shew the severe strug-
gles she had with herself, before she could
withdraw her obedience from her parents.
The measure of that obedience, in Richard-
son's mind, was very high -, and, therefore,
Clarissa seems all along, rather to lament the
cruelty, than to resent the injustice, of im-
posing a husband upon her whhout her
own consent. It is easy to see she would
have thought it her duty to comply, if he
had not been quite so disagreeable. The
mother is a very mean character ; she gives
a tacit permission to Clarissa, to correspond
with Lovelace, to prevent mischief, and

yet

?:pii Tint LIFE- : )

yet consents to be the tool of. the family iit
persecuting her innocent and generous
daughter ; — bnt, this was her duty to her
husband ! — Yet, distressing as Clarissa a
situation is in her father's house, the author
has had the address to make the readec
feel, the moment she has got out ©f it, that
he would give the world to have her safe
back again. Nothing takes place of that
pleasure and endearment which might na«
turally be expected on the meeting of two
lovers J Me feel that she has- been hunted
into the toils, and that every avenue is
closed against her escape. No young perr
son, on reading Clarissa, even at this pe-
riod of the story, can think of putting herr
self into the power of a lover, without aur
nexing to it the strongest sense of degrar
dation and anxiety. A great deal of con-
trivance is expended by the author, in the
various plots set on foot by Lovelace, to
keep his victim toterably easy in her ambi-
guous situation ^ and> though someof these

are

OF MR. RICHARDSON. Xciri

ere tedious, it was necessary, for Clarissa's
honour, to make the reader sensible that
she had an inextricable net wound around
her, and that it was not owing to her want
of prudence or vigilance, that she did not
escape. In the mean time the wit of
•JLovelace, and the sprightliness of Miss
Howe, prevent monotony. In one instance,
however, Clarissa certainly sins against the
delicacy of her character, that is, in allow-
ing herself to be made a show of to the
loose companions of Lovelace : — But, how
does her character rise, when we come
to the more distressful scenes ; the ^ iew of
her horror, when, deluded by the pre-
tended relations, she re-enters the fatal
house, her temporary insanity after the
outrage, in which she so affectingly holds up
to Lovelace the licence he had procured,
and her dignified behaviour when she first
sees her ravislier, after the perpetratioji of
.his crime. Wiiat hner subject could be

presented

XCIV THE LIFE

presented to the painter, than that in
which Clarissa grasps the pen-knife in her
hand, her eyes lifted up to heaven, the
whites of them only visible, ready to plunge
it in her breast, to preserve herself from
further outrage ; Lovelace, aghast with
terror, and speechless, thrown back to the
further end of the room ? Or, the prison
.scene, where she is represented kneeling
amidst the gloom and horror of the dismal
abode ; illuminating, as it were, the dark
chamber, her face reclined on her crossed
arms, her white garments floating round
her in the negligence of ^^ oe ; Belford con-
templating her with respectful commisera-
tion ; or, the scene of calmer, but heart-
piercing sorrow, in the interview Colonel
Morden has with her in her dying mo-
ments: She is represented fallen into a
slumber, in her elbow-chair, leaning on the
widow Lovickj whose left arm is around
her neck ; one faded cheek resting on the
• good

OF MR. RICHARDSON. XCV

good woman's bosom, the kindly warmth
of which had overspread it with a faintish
flush, the other pale and hollow, as if al-
ready iced over by death ; her hands, the
bliieness of the veins contrasting their
whiteness, hanging lifelessly before her,
the widow's tears dropping unfelt upon her
face — Colonel Morden, with his arms
folded, gazing on her in silence, her coffin
just appearing behind a screen. AVhat
admiration, what reverence does the author
inspire us with for the innocent sufterer,
the suftcrings too of such a peculiar na-
ture.

There is something in virgin purity, to
which the imagination willingly pays ho-
mage. In all ages, something saintly has
been attached to the idea of unblemished
chastity. Hence the dignity of the lady in
Comus ; hence the interest we take in
those whose holy vows have shrowded them
from even the wanton glanccij of an as-

sailer ;

ififevi "^ the: tlFE'^ ^^

sailer ; hence the supposed virtue ctf
prayers

From fastkig maids whose minds are dedicate,
■ ■■ To nothing earthly.

Beauty is a flower which was meant in
due time to be gathered, but it attracts the
fondest admiration whilst still on the stalk,
before it has felt the touch of any rude
•hand. "'-'

Sic Virgo, dum intacla maneti dum cara suiscst.

It was reserved for Richardson to over-
come all circumstances of dishonour and
disgrace, and to throw a splendour round
the violated virgin, more radiant than !§he
possessed in her first bloom. He has
made the flower, which grew

Sweet to sense and lovely to the eye.

throw out a richer fragrance offer *' the
" cruel spoiler has cropped the fair rose,
" and rifled its sweetness ^ He has drawn

the

OF Mft. RICHARDSON. XCVii'

the triumph of mental chastity; he has
drawn it uncontaminated, untarnished, and
incapable of mingling with pollution. —
The scenes which follow the death of
the heroine, exhibit grief in an affect-
ing variety of forms, as it is modified by
the characters of different survivors. They
run into considerable length, but we have
been so deeply interested, that we feel
it a relief to have our grief drawn off, as
it wertJ, by a variety of sluices, and we are
glad not to be dismissed till we have shed
tears, even to satiety. We enjoy, besides,
the punishment of the Harlowes, in the
contemplation of their merited anguish.
Sentiments of piety pervade the whole
work ; but the death-bed of Clarissa, her
Christian forgiveness, and her meek resig-
nation, are particularly edifying. Richard-
son loved to draw deatli-beds ; He seems
to have imbibed, from his friend Dr. Young,
an opinion of tlieir being a touch-stone of
jnerit or demerit. There are three de-
scribed in this work, besides that of Love-.
Vol. I. e lacci

XCVIU THE life'

lace ; that, it has already been mentioned,
would have had a more moral effect, if it
had been fuller of horror. Lovelace is
made to delare, that he cannot be totally
unhappy, whatever be his own lot in a fu-
ture state, if he is allowed to contemplate
the happiness of Clarissa : He exclaims.

Can I be at worst? avert that worst,
O thou Supreme, who only canst avert it !
So much a wretch, so very far abandoned.
But that I must, even in the horrid'st glooni.
Reap intervenient joy; at least, some respite
From pain and anguish in her bliss.

This is a sentiment much too generous
for a Lovelace. — ^The author has shewn him-
self embarrassed with regard to the duel,
by his principles, which forbade duelling.
Yet, it was necessary to dispatch Lovelace ;
for what family could sit down with such
an injury unpunished? or which of his
readers could be satisfied to see the perpe-
trator of so much mischief escape ven-
geance. Colonel Morden was a man of

the

OF MR. RICHARDSON. xcU

the world, acted upon the maxims of it,
and, therefore, it seemed hardly necessary
to make him express regret at having pre-
cipitated Lovelace into a future state ;
Richardiion was not then drawing his per-
fect character, and did not seem called
upon to blame a duel, which, in our hearts
we cannot, from Colonel Morden, but ap-
prove of.

That Clarissa is- a highly moral work,
has been always allowed ; but what is the
moral ? Is it that a young lady who places
her affections upon a libertine, will be de-
ceived and ruined. Though the author,
no doubt, intended this as one of the con-
clusions to be drawn, such a maxim has
not dignity or force enough in it, to be the
chief moral of this interesting tale. And,
it has been already meiitioned, that Cla-
rissa can hardly stand as an example of
such a choice, as she never fairly made the
choice. On the contrary, she is always
ready, both before her elopement and after
e 2 it.

C THE LIFE

it, to resign the moderate, the almost insen-
sible predilection she feels for Lovelace, to
the will of her parents; if she might only
be permitted to refuse the object of her
aversion. Is she, then, exhibited as a rare
pattern of chastity ? Surely this is an idea
very degrading to the sex. Lovelace, in-
deed, who has a very bad opinion of
women, and thinks that hardly any woman
can resist ^im, talks of trying her virtue,
and speaks as if he expected her to fail in
the trial. But, surely, the virtue of Cla-
rissa could never have been in the smallest
danger. The virtue of Pamela was tried,
because the pecuniary offers were a temp-
tation which many, in her station of life,
would have yielded to ; and, because their
different situations in tife opposed a bar to
their legitimate union, which she might a\ ell
believe would be insuperable. The virtue of
Werter's Charlotte was tried, and the virtue
of the wife of Zeleuco was tried, l^ecause
the previous marriage of one of tlie par-
ties

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CI

ties made a virtuous union impossible.—
But Clarissa! a young lady of birth and for-
tune, marriage completely m her lover's
power — she could have felt nothing but in-
dignation at the first icTea which entered
her mind, that he meant to degrade her
into a mistress. Was it likely that she,
who had sliewn that her affections were so
much under her command, while the object
of his addresses appeared to be honour-
able marriage, should not guard against
every freedom with the most cautious vigi-
lance, as soon as she experienced a beha-
viour in him, which must at once destroy
her esteem for him, and be offensive to her
JAist pride, as well as to her modesty ? It is
absurd, therefore, in Lovelace to speak of
trying her chastity ; and the author is not
free from blame in favouring the idea that
such resistance had any thing in it uncom-
mon, or peculiarly meritorious. But the
real moral of Clarissa is, that virtue is tri-
umphant in every situation ; that in cir-
e 3 cunistances

CM THE LIFE

cumstances the most painful and degrad-
ing, in a prison, in a brothel, in grief, in
distraction, in despair, it is still lovely,
still commanding, still the object of our
veneration, of our fondest affections j that
if it is seated on the ground it can still
say with Constance,
'* Here is my throne, kings come and bow to it !'*

The Novelist that has produced this effect,
has performed his office well, and it is imma-
terial what partifrular maxim is selected un-
der the name of a moral, while such are the
reader's feelings. If our feelings are in fa-
vour of virtue, the novel is virtuous ; if of
vice, the novel is vicious. The greatness of
Clarissa is shewn by her separating herself
from her lover, as soon as she percei^^s his
dishonourable views ; in her chusing death
rather than a repetition of the outrage ; in
her rejection of those overtures of marriage,
which a common mind might have ac-
cepted of, as a refuge against worldly dis-
honour ; in her firm indignant carriage,

mixed

OF MR. HTCHARDSON. till

mixed with calm patience and christian
resignation, and in the greatness of mind
with which she views and enjoys the ap-
proaches of death, and her meek forgive-
ness of her unfeeling relations. In one
particular tlie author has been blamed, and
perhaps justly, for encouraging supersti*
tion, in representing Clarissa so greatly
terrified at the curse laid upon her by
her unnatural father. He may be faulty
as- a moralist, but it has a good dra-
matic effect: and, I question if Richard-
son went much beyond his own ideas of
the efficacy of a parent's curse on this
occasion. The too high colouring of some
of the scenes has been objected to, as tend-
ing to inflame passions which it was the
author's professed aim to regulate. He
was led to it, in some measure, by the na-
ture of his story, but he seems to have be-
gun writing with a coarseness of ideas in
this respect, which he got rid of by de-
grees. His Clarissa is far less objection-
able than his Pamela ; his Grandison not
e 4 at

CIV THE LIFE

at all so. The death of Sinclair is painted
with great strength, but excites - painful
disgust as well as horror ; yet, being in-
tended to excite a salutary disgust to the
haunts of vice and infamy ; perhaps, in
that light may be borne with. It* opera-
tion is that of a strong medicine, meant to
create a nausea. The death of Belton is an
admirable piece of painting, and not ex-
celled by any thing in the admired scene
of Cardinal Beaufort.

It is not perfectly delicate that Clarissa
should have so many interviews with Love-
lace after the catastrophe. Clarissa, in-
deed, could not help it, but the author
could. He should only have exhibited
them together in those few striking scenes
in which our feelings are wound up to the
highest pitch. No long parleys, nothing
that can be called trivial should pass between
them then. If the reader, on opening ca-
sually the book, can doubt of any scene be-
tween them, whether it passes before or
after the outrage, that scene is one too much.

Th^^

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CV

The character of Lovelace, though la-
boured with great art, is, perhaps, after all,
more of a fancy piece than a real portrait
of an English libertine. Where is the li-
bertine who would attempt in England the
seduction of young women, guarded by
birtli and respectable situations in life, and
friends jealous of their honour, and an edu-
cation which would set them far out of the
reach of any disgraceful overtures. A love
of intrigue, rather tl>an a love of pleasure,
characterizes Lovelace ; he is a cool syste-
matic seducer, and the glory of con-
quest is what he principally aims at. Had
such a character been placed in France,
and his gallantries directed to married
women, it would have been more natural,
and his epistolary memoirs rendered more
probable j but, in England, Lovelace would
have been run through the body, long be-
fore he had seen the face of Clarissa, or
Colonel Morden.

There is an improbability which the
e 6 author

CVi THE LIFE

author could not well avoid, as it resulted
from his plan of carrying on the narrative
by letters, and that is, the tame acquiescence
of Belford in a villainy vs^hich he all along so
strongly disapproves. It is true, as a man
of honour, he might think himself obliged
not to betray his friend's secrets, but his
disapprobation would certainly have pre-
vented his friend from communicating those
secrets. Belford is, in fact, reformed, from
the time we first hear of him ; and, there-
fore, those intimate communications could
iiot any longer have subsisted. But Bel-
ibrd is a being, created in order to carry
on the story, and must not be made
too strictly the object of criticism. A
novel writer must violate probability some-
where, and a reader ought to make all
handsome and generous allowances for it.
We should open a book as we enter into a
company, well persuaded that we must not
expect perfection. In Belford, too, we have
a reformed libertine, one whom the reader

regards

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CVU

regards with esteem and affection. Ri-
chardson mentions in one of his letters,
that Mr. More, author of the Foundling, had
an intention of bringing the story of Cla-
rissa upon the stage, and that Garrick told
him he should with great pleasure be the
Lovelace of it. The powers of More were
no means equal to such an undertaking ;
but, if they had been greater, the gaiety
and spirit of Lovelace, in the hands of
Garrick, would' have been too strong for
the morality of the piece. We know how
great a favourite he was in Ranger.

The publication of Pamela occasioned
the sensation of surprize and pleasure,
which a new author, a new style, a ne\r
mode of writing, is calculated to inspire ;
that of Clarissa raised its author at oncd t6
the first rank among novelists ; it is even
more admired by foreigners than by the
English themselves. Rousseau, whose
Heloise alone, perhaps, can divide the palm
with Clarissa, asserts in a letter to d'^VIeni-
e 6 bert.

CVIU THE LIFE

bert, that nothing was ever written equal
to, or approaching it, in any language.
Diderot speaks of Richardson with high
applause. Dr. Johnson, in his Life of
Rowe, expresses himself in the following
forcible language :

** The character of Lothario seems to
** have been expanded by Richardson into
" that of Lovelace j but he has excelled his
** original in the moral effect of the fiction.
" Lothario, with gaiety which cannot be
" hated, and bravery which cannot be
" despised, retains too much of the spec-
" tator's kindness. It was in the power of
** Richardson alone, to teach us at once
** esteem and detestation ; to make virtuous
** resentment overpower all the benevo-
** lence which wit, and elegance, and cou-
" rage, naturally excite ^ and to lose at
«' last the hero in the villain."

French travellers often shew their ad-
miration of this work, by enquiry after
little local circumstances mentioned in it.

The

OF MR. RICHARDSON. cix

The writer of these observations well re-
members a Frenchman who paid a visit to
Hampstead, for the sole purpose of finding
out the house in the Jlask-zvalk where Cla-
rissa lodged, and was surprised at the ig-
norance or indifference of the inhabitants
on that subject. Thejlask-xvalk was to him
as much classic ground as the rocks of
Meillerie to the admirers of Rousseau; and,
probably, if an English traveller were to
make similar enquiries in Switzerland,
he would find that the rocks of Meillerie,
and the chakts of the Valais, suggested no
ideas to the inhabitants, but such as were
connected with their dairies and their
farms. A constant residence soon destroys
all sensibility to objects of local enthu-
siasm.

The interest which Clarissa excited,
ivas increased by the suspense in which
its readers were so long held. In ge-
neral, the suspense of a reader la.sts no
longer than the time which is necessary

for

ex THE LIFE

for him to read the book ; and, in the case
of a book which is much talked of, very
few readers enjoy the full pleasure of the
story, as they can scarcely help learning,
from some quarter or other, how it is to
end. But, in this instance, the interval of
several months, which was allowed to pass
between the publication of the first four
volumes, and the remaining four, wound
up its readers to the highest pitch of en-
thusiasm ; and, it is really impossible to
conceive greater earnestness in a matter of
real life and death, than some of his cor-
respondents expressed in favour of the
heroine. One who signs Philaretes, thus
expresses himself: — " Since I have heard
" that you design the end shall be un-
" happy, I am determined to read no
" more ; I should read the account of her
" death with as much anguish of mind as
" I should feel at the loss of my dearest
" friend." Some, entreated, others threat-
ened. The veteran Gibber was quite out-
rageous

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CxI

rageous at the idea of an unhappy termi-
nation, and the ladies pleaded — but in vain.
To have made a different ending, the au-
thor well knew would have spoiled his
Work ; yet, he could not but have been se-
cretly flattered with seeing the strong im-
pression he had made. That a work is
canvassed, is criticised, ought to present no
disagreeable idea to an author. He alone
has to complain of the public, of whose book
it says nothing. To the author's supreme
talent of moving the passions, every one
bore witness. Miss Highmore expresses
herself in a pretty and touching manner
on this subject := — ** What must have been
" your feelings, at the time you wrote what
" nobody can read without streaming eyes
" and heart-breaking sorrow ? It has had
** the same effect on my fatlier and mother
^* as on myself We could none of us
" read aloud the affecting scenes we met
** yfkhi but each read to ourselves, and fii
" separate apartments wept." MissHigh-
**■ * more

CXU THE LIFE

more was not mistaken in her idea of
the feelings the author must have had in
writing his work. . He bore testimony
to the maxim si vis me jiere dolaidum est
primum ipsi tibi, for, he says, in one
of his letters, that Clarissa has cost him
as many tears as any of his readers.
A number of correspondencies were the
consequence of his celebrity ; but, certainly
the most singular compliment he ever re-
ceived, though probably not the most ac-
ceptable, was from a lady who had herself
written a novel, and signs Cleomira ; she
says, " I am more and more charmed with
" your Clarissa ; it is, indeed, a noble cha-
" racter -, but, I fear, no where to be. met
" with except in your letters. What a
" pity it is you are not a woman, and blest
" with means of shining as she did ; for, a
** person capable of drawing such a cha-
" racter, would certainly be able to act
" in the same manner, if in a like situa-
« tion."

The

OF MR. RICHARDSON. cxiii

The Abbe Prevost gave a version of
Clarissa into French, but rather an abridg-
ment than a translation. It was after-
wards rendered more faithfully by Le
Tournour. Prevost says, and truly, that
Clarissa required some softening to adapt
it to the more delicate taste of the French.
It was also translated into Dutch by Mr.
Stinstra, and into German under the
auspices of the celebrated Dr. Haller.

Our author was now at the zenith of his
fame, but his fancy was not exhausted, nor
his powers of writing diminished j and,
after an interval of between four and five
years, he again appeared befoire the public.

After Mr. Kichardson had published two
works, in each of which the principal cha-
racter is a female, he determined to give
the world an example of a perfect man.
His laudable design was to unite every
thing that is graceful and engaging in the
man of spirit and the fine gentleman, with
every moral virtue, and with the observance

of

Cxiv THE LIFE

of the strict rules of Christianity — an ar-
duous undertaking !

He was partly stimulated to this design
by the attacks of his female disciples, who,
in answer to the reproaches he made them
of liking Lovelace too well, observed to
him, that he had given them nobody else
to like : — the virtuous Hickman was too
tame and too formal to do justice to his
good principles ; and, in short, that he
had not presented them with one male
character, on which the imagination
might rest with complacence. If he did not
wish they should regard men of pleasure
with too favourable an eye, it was his duty
to provide some' one whom they might like
upon principle. Upon this idea he deter-
mined to give them A Good Man, the title
by which he always speaks of the work
while he is writing it, though he after-
wards changed it to that of Sir Charles
Grandison.

Sir Charges is a man of birth and for-

tune»

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXY

tune, endowed with every personal advan-
tage, and master of every fashionable ac-
complishment. He is placed in a variety
of situations, calculated to draw forth the
virtues and energies of his character, as a
son, a brother, a guardian, a friend, and a
lover; and his conduct is every where ex-
emplary. He is a man of address, of
knowledge of the M'orld, and^ makes him-
self to be respected in different countries,
and by all sorts of people, bad as well as
good. He is generous without profusion j
religious without superstition ; complai-
sant without weakness, firm in his pur-
poses, rapid in the execution of them ;
jealous of his honour, yet always open to
a generous reconciliation, feeling (at least
as the author would have us believe) the
passions of human nature, yet always pos-
sessing a perfect command over them.

The conduct of this piece differs from
that of Pamela and Clarissa in this respect;
that it does not depend upon one great

event*

CXVi THE LIFE

event, but is intended to open and display
this character in a variety of lights. The
unity of the work, therefore, consists in
the reference which every person, and every
incident, bears to him who is the hero of
it. Of him the author never loses sight
after his first appearance, which he makes
as soon as the reader lias been prepared
by the play of some inferior characters,
(who, to use a military phrase, keep the
ground for him) in a brilliant action, the
rescuing the lady, he is finally to marry,
from the hands of a lawless ravisher.

It was necessary for the execution of the
plan, and it is so contrived, in fact, that
this work should be diversified with a
greater variety of characters than his for-
mer ones. It has, particularly, many more
of the pleasing cast. The author shews in
it, that he had improved in the knowledge
of life and the genteel world v and there
are none of those warm descriptions in it
which were justly blamed in its two elder

sisters.

OF MR. niCHARDSON. CXVii

sisters. He has an enlevemejity a incident
he seems to have been fond of, since it
occurs in all the three works ; but the
object is only marriage, and it is managed
with perfect decorum, at the same time
that it presents a truly aft'ecting scene.
The early part of the novel presents a rich
display of incidents and personages. The
history of Sjr Thomas and Lady Grandison
is admirably executed, and highly moral.
The behaviour of Sir Charles to his father's
mistress, to his sisters, to his uncle Lord
W., to the Danbys, is all excellent, and
opens his character to the greatest advan-
tage. But the chief intrigue of the piece
arises from the double love of Sir Charles
to Miss Byron and Clementina. A double
love, say the critics in that passion, is no
love at all ; and thty will insist upon it, that
Sir Charles is all along actuated by com-
passion solely for both the ladies.

The character of Miss Byron is meant
by the author as a model of true female

excellence;

CXVili THE LTFE

excellence; but it is judiciously kept down,
not only with relation to Sir Charles, but
to the high-wrought portrait of the Italian
lady. Miss Byron is gentle, timid, and
somewhat passive ; her character has no
very prominent feature, except her love for
Sir Charles. As she was destined to reward
the hero, the author has shewn great ad-
dress in previously interesting his readers
in her favour, before we become acquainted
with Clementina; so that, notwithstanding
our admiration for the latter, and the strong
feelings she has called out, we all along
consider the Italian family, as intruders,
and are glad, upon the whole, when Sir
Charles is disengaged from them. We
adore Clementina, but we come home to
Miss Byron.

Richardson had been accused of giving
a coldness to his female characters in the
article of love. The accusation was ill-
founded ; for the circumstances of the
story in his two former pieces forbade the

display

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXix

display of a very tender sensibility ; but
he has made ample amends for the imputed
omission in his Grandison, where he has
entered into the passion with all the mi-
nuteness, and delicacy, and warmth, that
could be desired, and shewn the female
heart to be open to him in all its folds and
recesses. In his Olivia, his Harriet, his
Emily, his Clementina, he has well ex-
emplified the sentiment of the poet —

Love, various minds does variously inspire ;

In gentle bosoms kindles gentle fire.

Like that of incense on the altar laid ;

But raging flames tempestuous souls invade,

A fire which every windy passion blows,

Wiili pride it mounts, and with revenge it glows.

But, as the character of Sir Charles is
the most instructive, that of Clcmontina is
the highest cifort of genius in this piece.
In her, he has drawn a young creature in»
volved in a passion expressed with the
utmost innocence and delicacy, yet so
strong as to overturn her reason; and af-
terwards,

CXX THE LIFE

terwards, on the recovery of her reason,
after a severe struggle, voluntarily sacri-
ficing that very passion at the shrine of re-
ligious principle. Clementina is indeed
a heroine, and her conduct is truly noble,
because, with her articles of faith, the ob-
stacle was, in reality, insurmountable to a
well principled mind. Her faith might be
erroneous J but her conduct, grounded on
that faith, was just and rational. This
sentiment is insisted on, because some
good protestants have called Clementina a
poor narrow-minded bigot. A bigot she
certainly was ; but it had been strange if
she had not believed the religion in which
she had been carefully educated, and she
only acted consistently with that belief.
It were ^superfluous to any one who has
perused this work, to remark the masterly
manner in which the madness of Clemen-
tina is painted. Dr. Warton speaks thus
of it :
** I know not whether even the madness

« of

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXxi

** of Lear is wrought up and expressed
" by so many little strokes of nature and
" passion. It is absolute pedantry to pre-
" fer and compare the madness of Orestes,
'* in Euripides, to this of Clementina.'*
There is such a tenderness and innocence
in her wanderings, such affecting starts of
passion, such a significant woe in her looks
and attitudes, such a sanctity of mind,
with so much passion, that he who is not
moved with it, must resign the pretension
of being accessible to fictitious sorrow.

It is the fault of Richardson that he
never knew when to have done with a
character : that of Clementina would have
been dismissed with dignity after her re-
fusal of Sir Charles ; instead of which, he
resumes her story in the last volumes,
brings her to England, a step little con-
flistent with the delicacy of her character,
nor necessary to any event ; and, finally,
leaves the reader to conclude that she will
be brought to accept the hand of the
Count de Belvedere. How easily and na-

VOL. I. f turally

CXXii THE LIFE

turally might he have disposed of her in
a convent, there to complete the sacrifice
die had made of her love to her religion.
He probably would have done so, if a de-
sire of making his piece instructive had
not, in this instance, warped his judgment,
and restrained his genius. He was in the
habit of inveighing to his young friends
against romantic ideas of love, and parti-
cularly the notion that a first passion could
not be conquered, and he feared it would
have a bad effect if he represented the
contrary in his works.*

But though, in real life, a passion, how-
ever strong, will generally give way to time,
at least so far as to permit the disappointed
party to fill her proper station in social
life, and fulfil the relative duties of it with
calm complacence, if not with delight, we
cannot easily figure to ourselves that Cle-
mentina, with such a high-toned mind,

* I want to have young people think there is no
(iacli mighty business as they are apt to suppose, in
conquering a first love. — Letter to Miss Mulso,

and

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXxiii

and a passion so exalted, a passion that
had shaken the very seat of reason in her
soul, could, or with so shattered an intel-
lect ought, to turn her thoughts to a second
lover. Novels will always be different
from real life, and therefore always, per-
haps, in some degree, dangerous to the
young mind ; but they must be consistent
with themselves ; and if the author chose
to describe a passion which unhinged the
reason of one lady, and was sinking the
other to the grave, a catastrophe which we
are led to suppose would have been the
effect of Miss Byron's final disappoint-
ment, he should not then have been scrupu-
jous of allowing it to have its full effect.

Great debates took place in the author's
female senate concerning the point we
have been discussing. Some voted for kil-
ling Clementina, and very few were satis^
fied with the termination, as it stands;
which, however, is only distantly implied^
as, at the conclusion of Le Cid of Cor-
«eille, we are led to suppose that Chimene
f2 will.

cxxiv THE LIFE

will, in due time, give her hand to Don
llodrigue.

The correspondence, in these volumes,
^ carried on, for the most part, between
Miss Byron and her friends and Lady G.
Sir Charles's sister, on the one side, and
Sir Charles and Dr. Bartlett, (a respectable
clergyman) on the other. Lady G.'s cha-
racter ifi sprightly and pettilant, and her
letters have a good deal of wit, though
sometimes it degenerates into flippancy.
She resembles Miss Howe, but with less
cf fire and ardour, and more of levity,
^e behaves to her husband ^>till more pro-
Yokingly than that lady to Mr. Hickman,
Notwithstanding, however, the general re-
semblance just suggested, and a few otliers
that might be pointed out, there is no man,
perhaps, who has written so much, and
who has less repeated himself, than Rich-
ardson. If we may judge by the variety
of characters in this, his last publication,
tJiie fertility of his fancy was hy no means

exliausted.

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXXV

exhausted. Of all the under characters,
none is more delightful than Emily Jer-
vois, the young ward of Sir Charles, in the
beautiful and touching simplicity wifh
which he has invested her. Her uncon-
scious love for her guardian, arising so
naturally, as she advances towards woman-
hood, from her grateful affection and un-
bounded esteem for him, her ingenuous
shame at the bad conduct of her dissolute
mother, and her generosity to that mother
on the first symptoms of reformation, to-
gether with the naivett which is so happily
hit off both in her ideas and her language,
render her uncommonly interesting. Mrs.
Shirley is a graceful portrait of mild and
venerable age. Lady Beauchamp's cha-
racter gives Sir Charles an opportunity to
shew the address and dexterous manage-
ment of a man of the world; Olivia, his
virtuous forbearance ; the proud Porretta
family, his manly spirit, tempered with
presence of mind and a guarded prudence j
f3 the

CXXVl THE LIFE

the behaviour of Mr. Lovvther, and th«
French surgeons, shew a knowledge of
professional character; and various parts
of the work attest the author's improvement
in general information, and more enlarged
views of life.

There is not, in any of Richardson's works,
©ne of those detached episodes, thrown in
like make-weights, to increase the bulk of
the volume, which are so common in other
works : such is the story of The Man of the
Hilly in Tom Jones. If his works are Islt
boured into length, at least his prolixity is
all bestowed upon the subject, and increases
the effect of the story. Flashes of humour,
and transient touches of sensibility, shew,
indeed, genius ; but patient and persever-
ing labour alone can fmish a plan, and
make every part bear properly upon the
main subject.

Sir Charles Grandison, however, lies
open, as what work does not ? to criticism.
Besides the double love, which has been
mentioned, there was another point which

perplexed

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXXVii

perplexed the author much : Sir Charles,
as a Christian, was not to light a duel, yet
he was to be recognised as the finished
gentleman, and could not be allowed to
want that most essential part of the cha-
racter, the deportment of a man of honour,
courage, and spirit. And, in order to ex-
hibit his spirit and courage, it was neces-
sary to bring them into action by adven-
tures and rencounters^ His first appear-
ance is in the rescue of Miss Byron, a
meritorious action, but one which must
necessarily expose him to a challenge-
How must the author untie this knot ? He
makes him so very good a swordsman,
that he is always capable of disarming his
adversary without endangering either of
their lives. But are a man's principles to
depend on the science of his fencing-ma»- -
ter ? Every one cannot have the skill of
Sir Charles ; every one cannot be the best
swordsman ; and the man whose study it
is to avoid fighting, is not quite so likely
f 4 as

UXXVMI THE LIFE

as another to be the best. Dr. Young, in-
deed, complimented the author upon his
success in this nice point, in a flourishing
epigram, which is thus expressed :

What hast thou done ? I'm ravished at the scene ;
A sword undrawn, makes mighty Caesars mean.

But, in fact, it was not undrawn. In the
affair with Sir Hargrave, he may be said to
have really fought a duel ; for, though he
refuses the challenge in words, he virtually
accepts it, by going into the garden with
him, knowing his purpose. In like manner
he with Greville retires to a private spot, and
there, on his adversary's drawing, which
he might be sure he would do, draws, dis-
arms, and gives him his life. But Greville
might not have given him his, nor could
every one turn a duel into such harmless
play. Can, then, a better expedient be
suggested? If not, must we not fairly
confess that, in certain cases, the code of
the gospel and the code of worldly honour

are

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXXiX

are irreconcileable, and that a man has
Only to make his choice which he will
give up.

Another fault is, a certain stiffness which,
it can hardly be denied, is spread over
this admirable character. This results
partly from the author's stile, which, where
it aims to be elegant, wants ease ; partly
from the manner in which the hero is
pron^t as the French say, by all the other
characters, and from the abundance of
compliments which are paid on all sides ;
for certainly Sir Charles is de la vitille
cour. In part, too, it arises from the
very circumstance of his being so per-
fect and so successful. Perfection of
character, joined to distress, will interest ;
but prosperous perfection does not greatly
engage our sympathy. We are apt t<^
Conceive of Sir Charles as having, in reality,
no passions ; and we do not greatly pity
him for the loss of Clementina, when a
most amiable lady, Avho had the other half
' fo of

CXXX THE LIFE.

of his heart, was waiting his acceptance on
the other side of the water. We are not
quite satisfied with the dutiful resignation
with which he gives up corresponding with
two amfable and beloved sisters, in com-
pliance with the injunctions of a tyrannical
father. We are the less surprised, how-
ever, as we recognize in it the high notions
entertained by the author of parental au.-
thority ; but we can give no answer to the
question. How came so dutiful a son to
enter into a treaty of marriage without
consulting his father ? except, what per-
haps is sufficient, that it would have em-
barrassed the story.

There is one important particular in
which this highly-wrought character does
not present an example for imitation, and
that is his going so far into a matrimonial
treaty with a bigotted catholic > with a
woman, whose very love for him must ex-
pose him to continual distressing importu-
nities to change his religion. Italian ser-
vants.

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXXXl

vants, an Italian confessor, a stipulated
residence half liic^ year out of his native
country, and, above all, the giving up half
his children (it might happen to be all) to
the errors of a faith which he believed to
be erroneous — these are among the sacri-
fices which a conscientious man will scru-
ple, and a wise man will refuse to make.
Horrible must be a union, where the most
tender affection can only serve to lacerate
the heart, as must be the case, when the
object of it is supposed to be under the
wrath of God, and doomed to everlasting
perdition. This must be the consequence
of marrying a bigot to any mode of faith,
where the other party is of a different one.
Add to this, that the very proposal, made
so often by the proud Porretta family to
Sir Charles, to change his religion for a
wife, and bind himself to live half the year
out of his native county, was a high insult
to him, considered only as an English gen-
tleman. The author, however, valued him-
self upon his management of this nice
f 6 nogo-

CXXXii THE LIFE "

negociation; and, in a letter to one of his
French translators, dexterously brings it
forward, as a proof of his candour andP
liberality towards the catholic religion*.

The author of Sir Charles often men-
tions in his letters, that he was impor-.
tuned by many of his friends, to give
them another volume, and the Gottenburg
translators sent for the rest of the work,
supposing it incomplete : he ought to have
received it as a proof that it was too long,
and not too short. He had already con-
tinued it a whole volume beyond the pro-
per termination, the marriage of his hero,
and having done so, he might, without
more impropriety, have gone on to the
next point of view, and the next, till he
had given the history of two or three ge-
nerations. Clarissa, perhaps, runs out into

* It is said, that an Italian translation of the bible
appeared some years since at Naples, in the preface
to which the translator warned his readers against
English publications; but excepted one, the Clarissa
of Richardson*

too

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXXXiii

too great a length, but bold were the
hand that should attempt to shorten it.
Sir Charles, on the contrary, would be
improved by merely striking out the last
volume, and, indeed, a good part of the
sixth, where descriptions of dress, and
parade, and furniture, after the interest
is completely over, like the gaudy colour-
ing of a western sky, gives symptoms of
a setting sun. But it is ungrateful to
dwell on the faults of genius.

Besides his three great works, Richard-
son gave to the world a volume of Fami-
liar letters; A paper in tJw Rambler i An
edition of Msop's Fables, with Reflections ;
and he was concerned in a few booksellers
publications. The Familiar Letters is the
book he laid by to write Pamela, and
which he finished as soon as he had done
with that work. He did not give his name
to it. It is seldom found any where but
in the servant's drawer, where it is a fa-
vourite book, but when so found, it has
not unfrequently detained the eye of the

mistress.

CXXXIV THE LIFE

mistress, wondering all the while by what
secret charm she was induced to turn over
a book, apparently too low for her peru-
sal; and that charm was — Richardson.
This book shews him intent, as he always
was, to inculcate the duties of life, and it
shews how accurately he had attended to
the various circumstances and relations
of it. The Rambler he wrote was the
ninety-fifth number : it describes the pro-
gress of a virtuous courtship, and pleased
the public so much, that it is said to be
the only paper which experienced a great
demand, while the work was publishing in
numbers. Richardson v/as a sincere friend
of Dr. Johnson's, and interested himself
much for the success of the Rambler,
•which, before the papers were collected
in volumes, went off but heavily. He also
published a large single sheet of the Du-
ties of Wives to Husbands, and a Selec-
tion of Maxims and Moral Sentiments, ex-
tracted from his three novels, for he al-
ways valued himself upon the morality of

his

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXXXV

his pieces, much more than upon his inven*
tion, and had partly persuaded himself, and
partly been flattered by others, into the
idea, that he was the great reformer of the
age. An excellent moral writer he cer-
tainly was> because his pathetic powers
interested the feelings in the cause of
virtue; but as he did not possess that
kind of style, either of terseness or dig-
nity, which is necessary to give brilliancy
to moral maxiii\s and observations taken
separately, it was a vain expectation that
his should attract attention, when they
were abstracted from all that had ren-
dered them impressive. Yet he certainly
did seem to expect, that this little volume
would be used by his admirers as a kind
of manual of morality.

The style of • Richardson, which it re-
mains to take notice of, was not in pro-
portion to his other excellencies of com-
position, lie wrote with facility; expres-
sions, as well as thoughts, flowing readily
to his pen ; but we do not find in his writ-
ings,

exXXVi THE LfFE

ings, either the ease and elegance of good
company, or the polished period of a
finished author. They are not only over-
loaded with a redundance of complimen-
tary expression, wMch gives a stiffness to
the dialogue, particularly in his Grandi-
son, where he has most attempted to give
a picture of genteel life, but they are
blemished with little flippancies of expres-
sion, new coined words, and sentences in-
volved and ill-constructed. One of his
correspondents, a Mr. Read, after giving
him high and just praise, thus expresses
himself: " But is there not here and there
** a nursery phrase, an ill-invented un-
** couth compound ; a parenthesis, which
*^ interrupts, not assists, the sense? If I
" am wrong, impute it to the rudeness
" of a college-man, who has had too little
" commerce with the world, to be a judge
** of its language." If this was considered
to be the case when Richardson wrote, it
is a still greater impediment to his fame at

present.

OF MR. RICHARI>SOxV. CXXXVll

present, when we are become more fasti-
dious with regard to style, in proportion
as good writing is become more common j
that degree, I mean, of good writing, which
a habit of the pen will always give. The
style of Richardson, however, has the pro-
perty of setting before the reader, in the
most lively manner, every circumstance of
what he means to describe. He has the
accuracy and fmish of a Dutch painter,
with the fine ideas of an Italian one. Hfe
is content to produce elFects by the patient
labour of minuteness. Had he turned his
thoughts to an observation of rural nature,
instead of human manners, he would have
been as accurate a describer as Cowper :
how circumstantial is the following de-
scription of a bird new caught ! " Hast
** thou not observed how, at first, refusing
** all sustenance, it beats and bruises it-
" self against its wires, till it makes its gay
** plumage tly about , and overspread its wcll-
" secured cage. Now it gets out its head,

«* sticking

cxxxrni THE LIFE

** sticking only at its beautiful shoulders^
" then, with difficulty, drawing back its
•* head, it gasps for breath, and erectly
*' perched, with meditating eyes, first sur*-
" veys, and theia attempts, its wired ca^
" nopy. As it gets breath, with renewed
" rage, it beats and bruises again its pret-
" ty head and sides, bites the wires, and
" pecks at the fingers of its delighted
" tamer J till, at last, finding its efforts
" ineffectual, quite tired and breathless,
•* it lays itself down, and pants at the
" bottoin of the cage, seeming to bemoan
" its cruel fate, and forfeited liberty. And,
" after a few days^ its struggles to escape
" still diminishing, as it finds it to no pur-
" pose to attempt it, its new habitation
" becomes familiar, and it hops about from
" perch to perch, and every day. sings a
" song to amuse itself, and reward its
" keeper."

An idea prevailed at the time, and has
gained credit with many, that RichardsoH

was.

or MR. RICHARDSON. CXXXhs

was assisted in his works, particularly his
Grandison, by some of his lady corres-
pondents. It is true that he often compli-
mented them, by asking their advice and
assistance, and was so far at least in earnest
in the request, that, being very sensible of
his deficiencies in his knowledge of fashion-
able life, he hoped to be benefited by their
hints and criticisms. How should he draw
a fine gentleman, he often asks, except they
would condescend to tell him what sort of
a man he must be to please. Lady G.'s let-
ters, in particular, were said to be written
by Lady Bradshaigh ; but the author's own
words, in a letter to that lady, are a
sufficient confutation of the report, at
the same time that they, mention a trifling
insertion from another lady ; but, it should
be observed, a mere insertion, and not
at all connected with the story of the
novel. " Your ladyship has been forced
" to aver, you say, to some of your ac-
" quaintance, that you had no hand in

" the

U

€xl THE LIVE

" the history of Sir Charles. Miss Mulso
" has suffered from the same imputation:
" so has that very worthy man Mr. Ed-
" wards, the author of the Canons of
" Criticism. I once wished, that each of
** the ladies who honoured me with their
** correspondence, would give me a let-
" ter. But they would not favour me so
" far. Yet one lady, on recollection,
" shewed me some pretty observations on
" the education of women, and their at-
** tainments. I begged a copy, telling
" the use I intended to make of it. It
" appears as good Mrs. Shirley's, in the
" debate on the inferiority and superiority
" of the two sexes, at the latter end of
*' vol. V. octavo, vi. duodecimo -, you will
" be pleased with this anecdote."

The works of Richardson bear all the
internal marks of having been written by
one person. The same sentiments, the
aame phraseology, the same plan sedu-
lously followed from beginning to end,

proclaim

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CxU

proclaim the hand of a single author. It is
true, indeed, that when his female friends
pressed him to give tliem another volume
of Sir Charles, he told them, that in that
case they must each contribute. Whether
he had reidly any serious design in what
he said, cannot now be known, but Lady
Bradshaigh seems to have been the only
one who complied. She wrote one letter,
in the character of Lady G. It is exe-
ci||ed with a degree of liveliness and spi-
rit, and not unsuitable to the character
she had engaged to support, but it is evi-
dent from Richardson's answer, that he
did not like it weJl enough to have made
use of it, had the intended volume taken
place. But where could Richardson have
found a pen able to supply his own, ex-
cept in some detached ornament or trifling
appendage? Mrs. Carter's beautiful Ode
to Wisdom, made its first appearance in
Clarissa, but indeed, without the author's
permission. T^iere is a fragment among

tlie

©

cxlii the' LIFE

the unprinted correspondence, by the fa-
mous Psalmanazer, written for the pur-
pose of being inserted in Pamela, in the
second part. It is an account of Pamela's
charities to a poor family : but it is coarsely
written ; attempting to move the heart by
a mere representation of squalid misery,
(a representation easy to execute) without
a spark of the grace and delicacy which
is necessary to touch the fmer feelings:
it was very properly laid aside. The frag-
ment, entitled, the History of Mrs. Beau-
mont, printed at the end of volume the fifth
of this publication, was possibly meant for
this additional volume; or, it may be,
thrown out of the former ones, as what
might be spared without injuring tli« gene-
ral effect, for Richardson shortened conside-
rably all his works, voluminous as they are.
Clarissa was reduced by two whole volumes
after the first draught of it. He had never
occasion to solicit his invention, his only
care was to rein it in : a g^rong characte-
ristic

OP MH. RIGHARDSON. cxliii

ristic of true genius. Clarissa underwent
the criticism of CoJley Gibber, Dr. Young,
and Aaron Hill. The latter undertook to
go through it, and write the whole again
more briefly : he wrote over again the first
seven letters, but he soon found he should
take a great deal of pains only to spoil it,
and the author found it still sooner than
he did.

Dr. Young, sensible of the arduous task
his friend would have, to support the re-
putation he had gained by this work, had
advised him to repose upon his laurels:
but, when his Grandison was published,
he retracted,- in the following couplet :

I DOW applaud, what I presumM to blanie,
.^/Ur Clarissa you shall rise in fame.

That tie rose in fame by it, is very true ;
not, however, in the general opinion, by
the last surpassing the former, but by the
accession it brought to what he had al-
ready performed. Ho himself used to say,

that

CXliv TIIE LIFE

that he looked upon himself as the fatlier
of three daughters, all of whom he loved
with so much tenderness, that he enjoyed
the praises of all equally, and it was in-
different to him, whether the elder or the
younger were thought the handsomest. A
lady, indeed, told him, that they put her in
mind of a story she had heard from her
nurse, of a man who had three daughters,
the first was the handsomest that ever was,
the second was handsomer than she, and
the third was the handsomest of all.

His Grandison was published in 17^53.
While it was in the press, an affair hap-
pened which gave him great di^sgust and
vexation, and considerably injured his
well-earned property. This was the piracy
of the Dublin booksellers. The printing
Irish editions from published books, how-
ever it might prejudice an author, was not
forbid by any law, though it was illegal
to vend them in England. But, at least,
the author's edition had so much the start

of

OF MR. RICHARDSON. cxlv

of any other, as made it worth-while for a
Dublin bookseller to .purchase his concur-
rence. But these men bribed the servants
of Richardson to steal the sheets while they
were under the press. They broke open
the place where they were kept, as he says,
under lock and key ; sent over what was
prepared for publication, which was about
half the work, and came out with a cheap
dition of several of the volumes, before
the author's English one ; and almost all
the Dublin booksellers concurred in this
atrocious act of robbery. Faulkner, who
was the author's agent for his own edition,
seems to have acted like the dog in tiie
story, who, being set to defend a basket of
meat, his master's property, which was at-
tacked by a number of other dogs, kept
them off for some time with great vigilance,
but finding that one snatched a piece, and
another snatched a piece, abandoned the de-
fence ; and, since he could not keep oflP
the depredators, resolved to come in for
VOL. 1. g his

cxlvi THE LIFE

his share. Richardson sent his own edi-
tion to be sold there at a reduced price,
but they were resolved to undersell him,
and for what he did sell he could not get
the money. His friends in Dublin ex-
pressed great indignation at the behaviour
of their countrymen, and endeavoured to
serve him in the matter. Many letters
passed, but to little purpose. This affair
seems to have vexed Richardson to the heart.
His reputation was at the highest, the sale
of his works sure, and he reasonably ex-
pected to reap the profit of of it. Not-
withstanding, however, those disappoint-
ments which people in business are liable
to meet with, Mr. Richardson's assiduity
and success was gradually encreasing his
fortune. In the year 17^5 he was engaged
in building, both in town and in the coun-
try. In .the country he removed from
North End to Parsons Green, where he
fitted up a house. In town, he took a

range

OF MR. RICHARDSON. cxlvii

range of old houses, eight in number,
which he pulled down, and built an ex-
tensive and commodious range of ware-
houses and printing-offices. It was still in
Salisbury-court, in the north-west corner,
and it is at present concealed by other
houses from common observation. The
dwelling-house, it seems, was neither so
large nor so airy as the one he quitted 5 and,
therefore, the reader will not be so ready,
probably, as Mr. Richardson seems to have
been, in accusing his wife of perverseness,
in not liking the new habitation so well as
the old. " Every body (he says) is more
" pleased with what I have done, than my
" wife." Two years after, he married his
daughter Mary (the only one married in
his life-time) to Mr. Ditcher, a respectable
surgeon at Bath. He now allowed him-
self some relaxation from business; and
only attended from time to time, his print-
ing-offices in London. He often regretted,
g 2 tliat

cxlviii THE LIFE

that he had only females to whom to trans-
fer his business ; however, he had taken in
to assist him a nephew, who relieved him
from the more burdensome cares of it, and
who eventually succeeded him. He now
had leisure, had he had health, to enjoy his
reputation, his prosperous circumstances,
his children, and his freinds; but, alas!
leisure purchased by severe application,
often comes too late to be enjoyed ; and,
in a worldly, as well as in a religious sense.

When we find

The key of life, it opens to the grave.

His nervous disorders increased upon
him, and his valuable life was a,t length
terminated by a stroke of an apoplexy, on
the 4th of July, 1761, at the age of seventy-
two. He was buried, by his own direc-
tion, near his first wife, in the middle aisle,
near the pulpit of St. Bride's church.

The moral character of Mr. Richardson
may be partly gathered from the preceding

sketch

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CxllX

sketch of his life. It was most respectal)le
and worthy of his genius. He was sober
and temperate, regular and assiduous in bu-
siness, of high integrity, and undoubted
honour. It is no small praise, that in his
unfriended youth, and in the midst of those
miscellaneous connections which a man
who acts in the world unavoidably forms,
(and of intercourse with the gay and the
dissolute, the Gibbers and "WTiartons of the
time, he had his share) that, so circum-
stanced, he should have firmness of mind
to resist the temptations which offer them-
selves in a licentious metropolis, and should
be able to say thus of himself, " I nev*. r
" was in a bad house, nor, to my knowledge,
" in company with a licentious woman in my
" life." This assertion was drawn from him
by his friend Mr. Stinstra, who had insi-
nuated, that in order to draw a Lovelace,
it was necessary he should have been some-
thing of a libertine at one period or other
of his life. His admirers, however, are
g 3 coil-

cl THE LIFE

constrained to acknowledge, that his ima-
gination was not quite so pure as his con-
duct. He seems, by some means or other,
to have acquired a most formidable idea of
the snares to which young women are ex-
posed, and of their incapacity (in general)
to resist them. He seemed to think women
had a great deal to hide, and though his chief
intimacies were with ladies, he sometimes
betrays a mean opinion of the sex in ge-
neral. Perhaps we might find the origin
of some of these ideas, if we were in pos-
session of the. love letters he wrote for his
female companions, in the early period of
his life, with their dangers and escapes ;
but, it is certain his writings rather tend
to inspire a certain bashful consciousness,
and shrinking reserve, than the noble sim-
plicity of truth and nature, in the inter-
course between the sexes. Richardson was
a careful, kind father, and a good husband
in essentials ; but, it must be confessed,
there appears to have been a certain for-
mality

OF HR. RICHARDSON. cli

mality and stiffness of manner, but ill cal-
culated to invite his children to that fami-
liarity and confidence, which is so lovely
when it does take place, but which fre-
quently fails to do so, even where there is
real affection, between such relations. Of
this he was himself sufficiently sensible,
and often laments it. " My girls," says
he,, " are shy little fools." But manner does
not depend on the wilK The manner of a
bashful,, reserved man, is seldom encou-
raging to others ; especially if he stands in
a superior relation to them. Besides, he
not only had high notions of filial as well
as conjugal obedience, but expected all
those reverential demonstrations of it in
the outward behaviour, which are now,
whether wisely or not I will not pretend
to determine, so generally laid aside. Lady
Bradshaigh writes him a very sensible letter
on this subject. She finds fault with the
stile of his daughter's letters, as too stiff,
with the Honoured Sir, and the ever duiiful,
constantly occurring, which, she tells him,
g 4 Moa

tlii THE LIFE

was not likely to produce the familiarity
he wished to invite; and objects, that in
his writings, filial awe is too much incul-
cated. In his answer he acknowledges the
too great distance of his own children ;
but as to the general maxim observes, ** I
" had rather (as too much reverence is not
«* the vice of the age) lay down rules that
" should stiffen into apparent duty, than
" make the pert rogues too familiar with
" characters so reverend ;" and adds, " I
" could wish, from the respectful manner
•' (avoiding formality and stiffness as much
" as possible) in letters to a parent, let my
" eye fall on what part of the letter it
" would, to be able to distinguish it from
" one directed to a playmate." To young
children Richardson was familiarly kind,
and they were very fond of him ; he gene-
rally carried sugar-plumbs in his pocket
to make his court to them. It must also
be observed, that one lady who knew him
personally, imputes the formality of the fa-
mily

OF MR. RICHARDSON. cliii

mily rather to Mrs. Richardson than to
Iiim. She was, by all accounts, a formal
woman, but with a very kind heart. " My
" worthy-hearted wife," her husband ge-
nerally calls her, and, no doubt, always
thought her, though he often affects to
speak of her in a different style, and with
a degree of petulance between jest and ear-
nest, not unlike the captiousness of hi«
own uncle Selby ; and grievously does he
complain of being governed by his meek
wife. " What meek woman," says he,
" ever gave up a point that she had fixed
" her heart upon ? O the sweet Parthians !"
And, in another letter, " My wife,, a very
" good woman, in the main, as I have often
" said, governs me tims ; She lets me bear
" my testimony against what 1 dislike. I
" do it, now-and-theu, as I think reason
" calls, with some vehemence : she hears
" me out. A day or two after, (if it be a
" point she has her heart in, or her will,
" which to a woman is the same thing) with-
S ^ " out

cliv TITE LIFE

" out varying much either lights or shades,
" she brings the matter once more on the
** tapis. I have exhausted all my reason-
*' ings, cannot bear to repeat what I had
** said before, and she carries her point; and,
*' what is the worst of it, judging by her
" success, thinks me convinced, and that she
" was right at first, and I was wrong ; and
" so prepares to carry the next." In this
kind of half captious pleasantry, his con-
versation, as well as his letters, abounded.
He was a benevolent and kind-hearted,
but I do not feel sure that he was a good-
humoured, man. For liberality, genero-
sity, and charity, Richardson claims un-
qualified praise. His generosity knew no
bounds, but the necessary attention to the
welfare of a growing family. Various in-
cidents in the numerous volumes of his
letters, both those which appear, and the
far greater part which do not appear, shew
how much he was in the habit of obliging.
He assisted Aaron Hill with money ; he

had

OF MR. RICHARDSON. clv

had the honour to bail Dr. Johnson. He
writes to a neighboiir, who had suffered
from a fire, and with whom he does not ap-
pear to have been in habits of intimacy,
offering the use <>f all his first floor for a
week, fortnight, month, or as long as he
should be unprovided ; and the attendance
of his servants for himself and family, and
an occasional bed at his country resi-
dence, and all this he presses upon him
with the most generous earnestness. In
all these kindnesses his wife concurred
with affectionate readiness. Miss Collier,
it is evident, was in the habit of re-
ceiving pecuniary assistance from him.
The unhappy Mrs. Pilkington found a
friend in him. When Lady Bradshaigh men-
tioned the case of the poor penitent girl,
for whom she wanted a situation': " Let
** her come to us," he said, ** she shall do
** just what she can, and stay till she is
** otherwise provided for." He was a great
promoter, if not the first mover, of the
Magdalen charity. In short, his purse
g 6 was

clvi THE LIFE

was ever open to any proper call upon it,
not to mention the many opportunities a
man in business has, of doing essential fa-
vours without any actual donation. Be-
sides all this, he had a brother's family
thrown, in a great measure, upon his hands.
He thus writes of the event in 1750: " It
" is a brother's death I mourn for 3 an
*' honest, a good-natured, but a careless
" man ; of late years careless, so that his
" affairs were embarrassed, and he has left
" six children, five of them small and help-
" less." In the affairs of a family diffe-
rence, in which he was the mediator, his
advice seems to have been prudent, con-
ciliating, and judicious. His advice and
opinion was greatly valued by all his
friends, both literary and others, and his
trouble, as a printer, was enhanced by the
criticisms and remarks they engaged him
to make, on the pieces they entrusted
him with.

In the qualities of courtesy and hospi«
tality, Richardson was excelled by no man.

" I think

OF MR. RICHARDSON. clvii

" I think I see you," says one of his corre-
spondents, " sitting atyourcloorlikeanold
** patriarch, and inviting all vvlio pass by to
" come in." Whether sick or well j whether
they could entertain him with vivacity and
chearfulness, or wanted themselves the
soothing and attentions of himself and fa-
mily, they were always welcome. Two of
his friends were nursed at his house in their
last illness. In all the intercourses of ci-
vility he loved to be the obliger, espe-
cially if his friends were of rank and for-
tune superior to his own. His letters,
particularly to Lady Bradshaigh, are full of
contests about little presents, which he
loved better to give than to receive. In
this there was, no doubt, a jealous fear of
being treated otherwise than as an equal,
and somewhat of a painful consciousness
of inferiority of station prompting that
fear ; for he possessed the dignity of an
independent mind. When Lady Echlin
expressed Ixer wishes that he might be ac-
quainted

civiii THE LIFE

quainted witli her daughter, Mrs. Palmer,
a lady of fashion ; " the advances, then,"
said he, " must come from her. She was
" the superior in rank, but he knew ladies
" of the west-end of the town did not wish
" to pass Temple-bar ;" and, sometimes,
perhaps, this consciousness made him a
little captious with regard to the atten-
tions he expected from ladies of fashion ;
who, coming to town for a short period,
could not devote so much time to him,
as, perhaps, the warm affection expressed
in their correspondence, might have led
him to expect.

It will not be supposed that a man who
knew so well how to paint the passion of
love, should be inaccessible to its influence.
His matrimonial connections were, most
probably, those of convenience and calm
affection ; but he intimates that he once
loved with ardour. The passage referred
to is in a letter to Lady Bradshaigh, who
had been desiring him to write, for his

next

OF MR. RICHARDSON. clqj'

next publication, the history of his own
life.

" The fortune of the man you hint at, was
** very low : his mind, however, was never
** mean. A bashfulness, next to sheep-
" ishness, kept him down : but he always
•' courted independence ; and, being con-
" tented with a little, preserved a title to
" it. He found friends, who thought they
•* saw something of merit in him, through
** the cloud that his sheepishness threw
** over him, and, knowing how low his
" fortune was, laid themselves out to raise
«* him ; and most of them by proposals
" of marriage, which, however, had al-
" ways something impracticable in them.
** A pretty ideot was once proposed, with
" very high terms, his circumstances con-
** sidercd : her worthy uncle thought this
** man would behave compassionately to
•* her. — A violent Roman Catholic lady
** was another, of a fine fortune, a zeal-
" ous professor ; whose terms were (all

« her

clx THE LIFE

her fortune in her own power — a very
apron-string tenure!) two years proba-
tion, and her confessor's report in favour
of his being a true proselyte at the end
of them *. — ^Another, a gay, high-spi-
rited, volatile lady, whose next friend
offered to be his friend, in fear of her
becoming the prey (at the public places
she constantly frequented) of some vile
fortune-hunter. Another there was
whom his soul loved ; but with a reve-
rence— Hush ! — Pen, lie thee down ! —
" A timely check j where, else, might I
have ended? — This lady — how hard to
forbear the affecting subject ! — But I
will forbear. This man presumed not —
Again going on ! — not a word more this
night."

This lady, from hints given in other
places, and from the information of Mrs,
Duncombe, appears to have been the same
whose history he has delicately and ob-
scurely shadowed out in that of Mrs. Beau-
* Might not this give the first hint of his Clementina ?

monti

OF MR. RICHARDSON. clxi

mont ; and never, she adds, did he appear
so animated as when he was insensibly led
into a narration of any circumstances in
the liistory or description of that most re-
vered lady.

The author of Clarissa was always fond
of female society. He lived in a kind of
flower-garden of ladies : they were his in-
spirers, his critics, his applauders. Con-
nections of business apart, they were his
chief correspondents. He had generally
a number of young ladies at his house,
whom he used to engage in conversation
on some subject of sentiment, and provoke,
by artful opposition, to display the treasures
of intellect they possessed. Miss Mulso,
afterwards Mrs. Chapone ; Miss Highmore,
now Mrs. Duncombe; Miss Talbot, niece to
Seeker, and author of some much esteemed
devotional pieces; Mi.ssPrescott, afterwards
Mrs. Mulso J Miss Fieldings; amlMissCol-
liers, resided occasionally with him. He
was accustomed to give the young ladies
ke esteemed the endearing api)cllution of

his

clxii THE LIFE

his daughters. He used to write in a little
summer-house, or grotto *, as it was called,
within his garden, before the family were
up J and, when they met at breakfast, he
communicated the progress of his story,
which, by that means, had every day a
fresh and lively interest. Then began the
criticisms, the pleadings, for Harriet By-
ron or Clementina ; every turn and every
incident was eagerly canvassed, and the
author enjoyed the benefit of knowing be-
fore-hand how his situations would strike.
Their own little partialities and entangle-
ments, too, were developed, ^id became
the subject of grave advice, or lively rail-
lery. Mrs. Buncombe thus mentions the
agreeable scene, in a letter to Mrs. Mulso.
" I shall often, in idea, enjoy again the
** hours that we have so agreeably spent in
** the delightful retirement of North End :

" For while this pleasing subject I pursue,
" The grot, the garden, rush upon my view ; ,

* The same of which an engraving is given in the
yrork.

" There, ,

OF MR. RICHARDSON. cxliii

** There, in blest union, round the friendly gate,
*' Instruction, Peace, and chearful Freedom wait ;
" And there, a choir of list'ning nymphs appears
" Oppress'd with wonder, or dissolved in tears ;
" But on her tender fears when Harriet dwells,
" And love's soft symptoms innocently tells,
" They al],with conscious smiles, those symptomsview,
" And by those conscious smiles confess them true.'*

Mr. Richardson was a friend to mental
improvement in women, though under all
those restrictions which modesty and de-
corum have imposed upon the sex. In-
deed, his sentiments seem to have been
more favourable to female literature, be-
fore than after his intercourse with the
fashionable world j for Clarissa has been
taught Latin, but Miss Byron is made to
say, that she does not even know which
are meant by the learned languages, and
to declare, that a woman who knows them
is an owl among the birds. The prejudice
against any appearance of extraordinary
cultivation in women, was, at that period,
very strong. It will scarcely be believed,

by

clxiv THE LIFE

by this generation, that Mrs. Delany, the
accomplished Mrs. Delany, objects to the
words intellect and ethksj in one of the
conversation pieces, in Grandison, as too
scholastic to proceed from the mouth of a
female. "NVliat would some of these critics
have said, could they have heard young
ladies talking of gases, and nitrous oxyd,
and stimuli, and excitability, and all the
terms of modern science. The restraint
of former times was painful and humiliat-
ing j what can be more humiliating than
the necessity of aftecting ignorance ? and
yet, perhaps, it is not undesirable that
female genius should have something to
overcome ; so much, as to render it pro-
bable, before a woman steps out of the
common walks of life, that her acquire-
ments are solid, and her love for literature
decided and irresistible. These obstacles
did not prevent the Epictetus of Mrs. Car-
ter, nor the volumes of Mrs, Chapone,
from being written and given to the
world.

OF MR, RICHARDSON. clxv

The moral qualities of Richardson were
crowned with a serious and warm regard
for religion ; it is conspicuous in all his
works i and we shall, probably, not find
any writings, of the class of novels, in
which virtue and piety are so strongly and
uniformly recommended, without any party
spirit, or view to recommend a particular
system, and it would be doing injustice to
he taste of the worhl not to say that they
were highly valued on that account. The
house of Richardson was a school of vir-
tuous sentiment and good |^orals. The
following letter, from Mr. Reich, of Leip-
sic, shews the pleasing impression a visit
to him made on the lively feelings of a
foreigner.

" You know. Sir, I set out for England
" purely with a view of cultivating a per-
" sonal acquaintance with so great a man
" as Mr. Samuel Richardson, who had so
" long endeared himself to me by his
" works, and who, afterwards, by the corrcs-

" pondencc

clxvi THE LIFE

pondence established between tis, grant-
ed me his friendship. I arrived at Lon-
don the eighth of August, and had not
much difficulty in finding Mr. Richard-
son in this great city. He gave me a
reception worthy of the author of Pa-
mela, Clarissa, and Grandison -, that is,
with the same heart which appears
throughout his works. His person, his
family, and even his domestics, all an-
swer this character. He carried me into
hisjibrary, and his printing-house, (for
he is a printer), in both which I never
saw things so well disposed. Sunday
following, I was with him at his coun-
try-house, (Selby-house) where his] fa-
mily was, with some ladies, acquaint-
ances of his four daughters, who, with
his lady, compose his family. It was
there I saw beauties without affecta-
tion; wit without vanity; and thought
myself transported to an inchanted land.
After chocolate, Mr. Hichardson brought

" us

OF MR. RICHARDSON. clxvii

US into the garden, adjoining to the
house. He invited me to partake of its
fruits, of which the trees afforded the
finest of their kind; and, perceiving
that I hesitated, gathered some himself,
which he presented to me. Every thing
I saw, every thing I tasted, recalled to
me the idea of the golden age. Here
are to be seen no counterfeits, such as
are the offspring of vanity, and the de-
light of fools. A noble simplicity reigns
throughout, and elevates the soul. The
harmony of this charming family fur-
nished me with many reflections on
the common ill-judged methods of edu-
cation, whence springs the source either
of our happiness or misery. Tlie ladies
affected not that stiff preciseness peculiar
to coquettes. Trained up by a parent
who instructs them, still more by his
example than by his works, they strive
to imitate him ; and, if you feel a ten-
derness for objects so lovely, you will

surely

clxviii " THE LIFE

" surely be sensible of a still greater re-
" spect for them.

" In the middle of the garden, over
" against the house, we came to a kind
" of grotto, where we rested ourselves. It
" was on this seat, Mr. Le Fevre, (Mr.
" Richardson's friend) told me, that Pa-
" mela, Clarissa, and Grandison, received
" their birth; I kissed the ink-horn on the
" side of it. We afterwards proceeded to
" table, (dinner,) where an opportunity
" was offered me of reading the letters
" written to me by Malle. Sack, from
" Berlin, concerning my voyage, and Mr.
" Richardson. One might in them dis-
" cern that wit which is the peculiar cha-
" racteristic of that lady; and, every one
" listened with the closest attention to
" whatever truth obliged me to say
" concerning her. Whereupon Mr. Ri-
" chardson observed to me, that the la-
" dies in company were all his adopted
" daughters: that he should be very proud

" to

OF MR. RICHARDSON. cbcifc

**^ to give to them, as well as to his own,
" so charming a sister; and desired to
" signify as much to her, and to send her
" his picture, which he gave me for that
" purpose. The rest of our discourse
" turned on the merits of Mr. Gellert,
" and of some other Germans of distinc-
*' tion. I told him, we had the same
" reason to glory in our relationship, as
" countrymen of these worthy gentlemen^
" as the English had in regard, ti^.Uimv
" Mr. Richardson's usual n>odesty dic-
" tated his answ£»j\ Towards evening h&
'* brought me to London, where he mad»
^* me promise to come and see l^aa Q&
" often .a« I could. On the Suaday fol-

V lowing 1 1 was with him again at hi«
*f pleasant country seat. We found there
t a large ^con)pany, all people of merit;

V Mr. Miller, author of the Gaidencr's
'* Dictionary, {which has been translated
*' at Nurnburg, with such success), and
*" Mr. Ilighmore, the famoius puinler,
. VQI.. T. h »' were

clxx THE LIFE

" were there. This last, two days after-
" wards, conferred on me a genteel piece
" of civility, which I shall never forget :
" he must, indeed, be the accomplished
** gentleman he appears to be, by oblig-
** ing with so good a grace. I was ex-
" tremely concerned on not seeing his
** only daughter, v/ho was in the coun-
'* try. I have read some of her letters,
" which excite in me the highest esteem
" both for her understanding and her
** heart. In the evening I took my leave
'* of the family, and returned with Mr.
" Richardson. I saw him several times
" since, during the eight days I staid in
** England; but it was necessary, at last,
•* to quit that divine man. I gave him
" the letter entitled No. I. he embraced
" me, and a mutual tenderness deprived
" us of speech. He accompanied me
** with his eyes as far as he could: I
** shed tears."

There is one fault of which it will not

be

OF MR. RICHARDSON. clxxi

be easy to clear our author. It is said
that he was vain; he was fed with praise,
and, with regard to that diet, it may be
truly affirmed, that

increase of appetite doth ktoi

By what it feeds on.

In the circle of his admirers, his own
works occupied, naturally, a large share
of conversation; and he had not the will,
nor perhaps the variety of knowledge ne-
cessary to turn it on other topics. The
same subject forms the prominent feature
in his correspondencies, -r- Impartiality,
perhaps, requires a biographer to notice
the opinion of such a man as Johnson,
delivered llirough the medium of Mr.
Boswell's memory, as follows, giving an
account of a conversation at Mr. Nairne'd,
where Dr. Johnson drew the character of
Richardson. " I only remember that he
" expressed a high value for his talents and
" virtues: But that his perpetual study
h 2 ** wa<»

olxxii THE LIFE

'* was to ward off petty inconveniences,"
" and to procure petty pleasures; that his
" love of continual superiority was such,
" that he took care always to be sur-
" rounded by women, who listened to
" him implicitly, and did not venture to
" contradict his opinions ; and that his
" desire of distinction was so great, that
" he used to give large vails to Speaker
" Onslow's servants, that they might treat
** him with respect."

It may be observed upon this, that the
ladies he associated with were well able
to appreciate his works. They were both
his critics and his models, and from their
sprightly conversation, and the disquisi-
tions on love and sentiment, which took
place, he gathered what was more to his
purpose than graver topics would have
produced. He was not writing a dic-
tionary, like Johnson, or a history, like
Gibbon. He was a novel writer; his bu-
siness was not only with the human heart,
but with the female heart.

No

OF MR. RICIURDSON. clxxifi

No man sought criticism with more di-
ligence, or received it with more candour,
than Richardson ; he asks it even from
some who had little title to give it. The
fault of his mind was, rather that he was
too much occupied with himself, than that
he had too high an opinion of his talents.
Praise, however, he certainly loved, and
all that remains to be said on this head is,
that when a man of genius is humane, bene-
volent, temperate, and pious, we may allow
in him a little shade of vanity, as a tribute
to human weakness. As to the vails, it
was a disgraceful circumstance, not to Ri-
chardson, but to the customs of our coun-
try, and to Mr. Onslow, if he could not
make his servants pay respect to his guests
without it. But it were as candid to ac-
count for Richardson's giving more than
others, from his known generosity as from
his desire of distinction. I cannot pass by
in silence, though it is unpleasant to ad-
vert to, the contemptuous manner in which
h 3 Lady

clxxiv THE LIFE

Lady Wortley Montagu has mentioned our
author, in terms as little suited to the de-
corum of her own rank and character, as
to the merit and respectable situation in
life of the person she speaks of. " The
" doors of the great," she says, " were never
** opened to him." If the doors of the
gteat were never opened to a genius whom
<fvery Englishman ought to have been
proud of, if they were either tasteless of
his merit, or so selfishly appreciated it as
to be content to be entertained and in-
structed by his writings in their closet,
and to sufier the man to want that notice
and regard which is the proper and de-
served reward of distinguished talent, —
upon them let the disgrace rest, and not
upon Richardson. And, I believe it is true,
that in England genius and learning ob-
tain less personal notice than in most other
parts of Europe, and that men are classed
here more by similiarity of fortune than
by any other circumstance. Still, how-
ever.

OF MR. RICHARDSON. cIxXV

ever, they do attract notice j and the
reader must be aiiipiy convinced, by the
list of Richardson's friends and correspon-
dents, that Lady Wortley's assertions are as
untrue as illiberal. It is strange that she,
whose talents, not her rank, have trans-
mitted her name to posterity, should not
have experienced a more kindly fellow-
feeling towards talent : but the public
will Judge which was most estimable, she
whose conduct banished her from those
with whom her birth entitled her to asso-
ciate, or he who, by his merit, raised him-
self above the class whence he drew hit
humble origin.

I omitted to mention, in its proper place,
that Richardson had a pressing invitation
from the Moravians to go to Germany.
He was written to, for tluit purpose, by the
secretary of Count Zinzcndorf, their head,
and solely, it should seem, from their high
opinion of the moral tendency of his
writings*

h 4 Richardson

tlxxvi THE LIVE

Richardson was, in person, below the
middle stature, and inclined to corpu-
lency j of a round, rather than oval, face,
with a fair ruddy complexion. His fea-
tures, says one, who speaks from recollec-
tion, bore the stamp of good nature, and
were characteristic of his placid and ami-
able disposition. He was slow in speech,
and, to strangers at least, spoke with re-
serve and deliberation j but, in his man-
ners, was affable, courteous, and engag-
ing, and when surrounded with the so-
cial circle he loved to draw around him,
his eye sparkled with pleasure, and often
expressed that particular spirit of arch'
ness which we see in some of his cha-
ra<"ters, and which gave, at times, a vi-
vacity to his conversation, not expected
from his general taciturnity and quiet
manners. He has left us a characteristic
portrait of himself, in a letter to Lady
JBradshaigh, written when he was in his
sixtieth year, before they had seen one

another.

or MR. RICHARDSON. clxxvii

another. She was to find him out by it
(as she actually did,) as he walked in the
Park. " Short, rather plump, about fivo
" feet five inches, fair wig, one hand ge-
" nerallv in his bosom, the other a cane
" in it, which he leans upon under the
" skirts of his coat, that it may impercep-
" tibly serve him as a support, when at-
" tacked by sudden tremors or dizziness,
" of a light brown complexion, teeth not
**'yet failing him." What follows is very
descriptive of the struggle in his charac-
ter between innate bashfulness and a
turn for observation. '* Looking directly
" forcright, as passengers would imagine,
" but observing all that stirs on either
" hand of him, without moving his short
" neck; a regular even pace, stealing away
" ground rather than seeming to rid it y a
" grey eye, too often overclouded by mis-
" tiiiess from the head, by chance lively,
" very lively if he sees any he loves j if he
*• approaches a lady, his eye is never fixed
h 5 «« iirst

Clxxviii THE LIFE

" first on her face, but on her feet, and
" rears it up by degrees, seeming to set
*' her down as so or so."

The health of Richardson was griev-
ously affected by those disorders which
pass under the denomination of nervous,
and are the usual consequence of bad air,
confniement, sedentary employment, and
the wear and tear of the mental faculties,
Jt is astonishing how a man who had to
raise his fortune by the slow process of
his own industry, to take care of an ex-
tensive business, to educate his own fa-
mily, and to be a father to many of his
relations, could find time in the breaks
and pauses of his other avocations, for
works so considerable in size as well as in
merit, " nineteen close printed volumes,"
SiS he often mentions, when insisting upon
it, in answer to the instances of his cor-
respondents, that he would write more,
that he had already written more than
enough. "Where there exists strong ge-
nius,
3

OF MR. RICHARDSON. clxxix

nius, the bent of the mind is imperious,
and will be obeyed : but the body too
often sinks under it. " I had originally,"
{says he) " a good constitution; I hurt it
" by no intemperance, but that of appli-
" cation."

Richardson scarcely writes a letter with-
out mentioning those nervous or paralytic
tremors, which indeed are very observ-
able in those letters written with his own
hand, and which obliged him often to
employ the hand of another. Yet his
writing, to the last, was small, even, and
very legible. Though a strong advocate
for public worship, he had discontinued,
for many years, going to church, on ac-
count, as he tells Lady B. of his not
being able to beiir a crowd. It is pro-
bable, however, that he also wanted the
relaxation of a Sunday spent in the coun-
try. He took tar-water, then very much
in vogue, and lived for seven years u})oh
a vegetable dietj but his best remedy was
h 6 probably

clxxx THE LIFE

probably his country house, and the
amusement of Tunbridge, which he was
accustomed to frequent in the season.
He never could ride, being, as he de-
clares, quite a cockney, but used a cfiam-
ber horse, one of which he kept at each
of his houses. His nervous maladies not-
withstanding increased, and for years be-
fore his death he xjould not lift the quan-
tity of a small glass of wine to his mouth,
though put into a tumbler, without as-
sistance. He loved to complain, but wha
j^hat suffers from disorders that affect the
very springs of life and happiness, does
not? Who does not wish for the friendly
soothings of sympathy, under maladies
from which more material relief is not
to be expected ? That sympathy was feel-
ingly expressed by Mrs. Chapone, in her
Ode to Health, in the following apos-
trophe :

Ilast

OF MR. RICHARDSON. elxxxi

Hast thou not left a Richardson unblest?

II<j woos thee st.-' in vain, relentless maid.

Tho' skillM in sweetest accents to persuade.
And wake soft Pity in the ravage breast j

Him Virtue loves, and bctghtest Fame is his:

Smile thou tooj Goddess, and complete his bliss.

In the latter part of his life, he was
rarely seen among his workmen, some-
times not twice in a year, and, even when
he was in town, gave his direetions by
little notes. His principal workman was
hard of hearing ; and Richardson felt a
nervous irritation, which made it not easy
for him to bear any thing of hurry or per-
sonal altercation..

His will shews the same equitable,
friendly, and beneficent disposition, which
was apparent in his life j legacies to a tribe
of relations, to whom, it appears, he had
given little pensions during his life ; one
third \y{ his fortune to his wife, and the
rest to be divided equally among his daugh-
ters J recommending, however, his daugh-
ter

clxxxii THE LTFE

ter Anne to her mother's peculiar care,
from the weak state of her health and spi-
rits. Yet this object of his tender anxiety
was the survivor of the whole family. She
is said to have possessed " an excellent
" and cultivated understanding, true piety,
" sensibility, resignation, and strength of
" mind."

His daughter Martha was married, in
1762, to Edward Bridgen, Esq. and Sarah
to Mr. Crowther, surgeon, of Boswell-
court. Mrs. Richardson survived her hus
band twelve years.

It is with particular pleasure I subjoin
to this account of Richardson, the animated
and lively description of his character,
which has been obligingly communicated
to me in a letter from a lady, whose per-
sonal knowledge of him gives to her ac-
count both authenticity and interest.

" I am willing to give you every aid in
" my power, and contribute my mite of
" praise to my venerated friend.

" My

OF MR. RICHARDSON. clxxxiii

" My first recollection of him is in his
** house ill the centre of Salisbury-square,
" or Salisbury-court, as it was then called ;
** and of being admitted, as a playful
" child, into his study, where I have often
" seen Dr. Young, and others ; and where
" I was generally caressed, and rewarded
" with biscuits or bonbons of some kind
" or other, and sometimes with books, for
" which he, and some more of my friends,
" kindly encouraged a taste, even at that
" early age, which has adhered to me all
** my life long, .and continues to be
" the solace of many a painful hour. I
** recollect that he used to drop in at my
•^ father's, for we lived nearly opposite,
" late in the evening, to supper ; when, as
** he would say, he had worked as long
" as his eyes and nerves would let him,
" and was come to relax, with a little
•* friendly and domestic chat. I even then
** used to creep to his knee, and hang
** upon his words, for my whole family

•* doatcd

clxxxiv THE LIFE

" doated on him ; and once,. I recollect,,
" thaty. at one of these evening visits, pro-
" bably about the year 1753, I was stand-
" ing by his knee, when my mother's maid
" came to summon me to bed; upon
" which, being unwilling to part from
** him, and manifesting some reluctance,
" he begged I might be permitted to stay
" a little longer -, . and, on my mother's
" objecting that the servant would be
" wanted to wait at supper, for, in those
" days of friendly intercourse and j-eal
" hospitality, a decent maid-servant was
" the only attendant at his oitm, and many
" creditable tables, where, nevertheless,
" much company was received, Mr. Rich-
" ardson said, * I am sure Miss P. is now
" so much a woman, that she does not-
" want any one to attend her to bed, but
" will conduct herself with so much pro-
" priety, and put out her own candle so-
" carefully, that she may henceforward be
" indulged with remaining with us till-

" supper

op MR. KICHARDSON. elxxXV

supper is served.' This hint, and tlie
coniidence it implied, had such a good
eiFect upon me, that, I believe, I never
required the attendance of a servant
afterwards, while my mother lived j and,
by such sort of ingenious and gentle
devices, did he use to encourage and
draw in young people to do what was
right. — I also well remember the happy
days I passed at his house at North
End J sometimes with my mother, but
often, for weeks, without her, domesti-
cated as one of his own children. He
used to pass the greatest part of the
week in town ; but, when he came down,
he used to like to have his family flock
around him, when we all first asked*
and received his blessing, together with
some small boon from his paternal kind-
ness and attention ; for, he seldom met
us empty-handed, and was by nature
most generous and liberal.
** The piety, order, decorum, and strict

" regu-

clxxxvi THE LI>^*

" regularity, that prevailed in his family,
** were of infinite use to train the mind
" to good habit»j and to depend upon
** its own resources. It has been one of
'^ the means which, under the blessing of
" God, has enabled me to dispense with
" the enjoyment of what the world calls
" pleasures, such as are found in crowds j
" and actually to relish and prefer the
'* calm delights of retirement and books.
" As soon as Mrs. Richardson arose, the
'* beautiful Psalms in Smith's Devotions
'* were read responsively in the nursery,
** by herself, and daughters, standing in
" a circle : only the two eldest were al-
" lowed to breakfast with her, and what-
" ever company happened to be in the
" house, for they were seldom without.
" After breakfast we younger ones read
" to her in turns the Psalms, and lessons
*' for the day. We were then permitted
" to pursue our childish sports, or to
" walk in the garden, whick-I was allowed

« to.

OF MR. RICHARDSON, clxxxvli

to do at pleasure ; for, when my mother
hesitated upon granting that privilege,
for fear I should help myself to the
fruit, Mrs. Richardson said, * No ! I have
so much confidence in her, that, if she
is put upon honour, I am certain that
she will not touch so much as a goose-
berry.* A confidence, I dare safely aver,
that I never forfeited, and which has
given me the power of walking in any
garden ever since, without the smallest
desire to touch any fruit, and taught me
a lesson upon the restraint of appetite,
which has been useful to me all my life.
We all dined at one table, and gene-
rally drank tea and spent the evening in
Mrs. Richardson's parlour, where the
practice was for one of the young ladies
to read, while the rest sat with mute at-
tention, round a large table, and em-
ployed themselves in some kind of
needle-work. Mr. Richardson generally
retired to his study, unless there was
particular company.

" These

cb

XXXV 111 THE LIFE

" These are childish and trifling an«c-
dotes, and savour, perhaps you may
think, too much of egotism. They cer-
tainly can be of no further use to you,
than as they mark the extreme benevo-
lence, condescension, and kindness, of
this exalted genius, tovi^ards young peo-
ple ', for, in general society, I know he
has been accused of being of few vi^ords,
and of a particularly reserved turn. He
vi^as, hovi^ever, all his life-time, the pa-
tron and protector of the female sex.
Miss M. (afterwards Lady G.) passed
many years in his family. She was the
bosom friend, and contemporary of my
mother ; and was so much considered as
enfant de famille in Mr. Richardson's
house, that her portrait is introduced
into a family-piece.

" He had many protegees : — A Miss Ro-
sine, from Portugal, was consigned to
his care ; but of her, being then at school;
I never saw much. Most of the ladies

" tli^fe

OF MR. HICIIARDSON. clxxxi.K

*' that resided much at his house, acquired
*' a certain degree of fastidiousness and
" delicate refinement, which, though amia-
" ble in itself, rather disqualified them
** from appearing in general society, to
" tJie advantage that might have been ex-
" pected, and rendered an intercourse with
" the world uneasy to themselves, giving a
** peculiar air of shiness and reserve to
" their whole address, of which habits his
" own daughters partook, in a degree that
" has been thought by some, a little to ob-
** scure those really valuable qualifications
" and talents they undoubtedly possessed.
" Yet, this was supposed to be owing more
" to Mrs. Richardson than to him ; who,
** though a truly good woman, had high
" and Harlowean notions of parental au»
" thority, and kept the ladies in such order,
'• and at such a distance, that he often la-
" mented, as I have been told by my mo«
" ther, that they were not more open and
" conversable with him.

** Beside*

CXC THE LIFE

" Besides those I hare already named,
" I well remember a Mrs. Donellan, a ve-
" nerable old lady, with sharp-piercing
" eyes ; Miss Mulso, &c. &c. Seeker,
** Archbishop of Canterbury ; Sir Thomas
" Robinson (Lord Grantham), &c. &c.
** who were frequent visitors at his house
" in town and country. The ladies I have
" named, were often staying at North
" End, at the period of his highest glory
" and reputation ; and, in their company
" and conversation, his genius was ma-
" tured. His benevolence was unbounded,
** as his manner of diffusing it was delicate
" and refined."

The correspondence of Richardson be-
gins a short time before his first publica-
tions, and extends through the remainder
of his life. Before the appearance of Pa-
Kiela, he does not seem to have transcribed

his

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXCi

his own letters. After his celebrity was
acquired, tliey probably assumed an im-
portance in his eyes, which they did not
possess before. In the decline of life, let-
ter-writing was his favourite employment ;
It is one which men are apt to have either
a fondness for, or an aversion to. He
wrote more than he read. ** I cannot tell
** why," he says, ** but my nervous dis-
" orders will permit me to write with
" more impunity than to read ;" and he
often laments, that, through want of time,
and ill-health, he was not better acquainted
with books. He visually wrote upon a
little board, which he held in his hand.

The correspondents of Richardson were
either those connected with him by busi-
ness, by personal friendship, or those at-
tracted by his fame as an author. A largq
proportion of them are ladies. It has beeiv
observed how fond he was of female so-
ciety. In this he resembled another amia-
ble genius^ the author of the Task -, both

felt

V

Cxcii THE LIFE

felt the depressing influence of a bashful
sensibility, and both felt their hearts opened
by the caressing manners and delicate at-
tentions of female friendship. There was,
indeed, this great difference : Cowper's
reserve was constitutional. Richardson's,
probably, was owing to the want of an
early familiarity with genteel life.

The earliest correspondent upon this
list is Aaron Hill, a man of some real
genius, a warm heart, and a generous dis-
position. He wrote several plays, was at
one time manager of the theatre, several
poems, one in praise of Czar Peter, called
the Northern Star, yet is better known
to most readers of the present day, by the
lines Pope bestowed upon him in the
Dunc;iad, than by his own works. Con-
scious of originality of thought, wliich he
really had, he affected to despite the
public taste ; and fondly prophesied, that
posterity would read liis works when
*opc's were fallen into oblivion* He did

not

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXClU

not SO far trust to Posterity, however, as
not to retaliate on his satirist in some
finislied lincs^ whicli may bear a compa-
rison with Pope's on Addison.

Hill was a schemer, an unsuccessful one
all his life. During the greatest part of
this correspondence, he lived retired at
Plaistow, an aguish situation, from which
the health of himself and his family seem to
liave suffered much. In this retirement
he wrote several poems; the following
lines, in which he speaks of himself, arc
very touching:

Cover'd in Fortune's shade, I rest reclin'd.
My griefs all silent, and my joys resign'd ;
With patient eye life's coming gloom survey.
Nor shake th' outhasting sands, nor bid them stay ;
Yet, while from life my setting prospects fly.
Fain would my mind's weak oflspring shun to die ;
Fain would their hope some light thro* time explore.
The name's kind passport, when the man's no more.

His style, in his letters, is turgid and

cloudy, but every now and then illuminated

VOL. I. i with

CxcW THE LIFE

with a ray of genius ; as, when speaking
of his hectic complaints, he says, (alluding
to the march of the Israelites) " they are
" a cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by
" night.*' Hill wanted judgment and
temper. He speaks with unmeasured con-
tempt of those he dislikes, and is equally
lavish in panegyric. Richardson has writ-
ten on the back of some of his letters —
" Too high praise." Their friendsliip
appears to have been warm and uninter-
rupted.

. Of the author of the NiGHT Thoughts
it is unnecessary to give any information.
He was in the decline of his genius when
he was most connected with Richardson,
and seems to have been often benefited by
the judgment of the latter in his publica-
tions ; yet his letters are agreeable ; they
shew the turn for antitliesis, and bold
swelling expression, which always distin-
guished him, and a strong sense of religion,
tinctured with gloom.

With

• OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXCV

With Mr. Edwards, of Turrick in
Buckinghamshire, author of the Canons of
Criticism, and Sonnets, Richardson main-
tained a cordial, affectionate, and long-conti-
nued friendship. His letters are not brilliant;
but he Seems to have been a very good,
pious, and kind-hearted man. I fear, in-
deed, his charity did not include Bishop
Warburton.

Richardson was intimate with the two
Miss Colliers, and with Miss Fieldings,
sisters to the novel-writer. Miss S. Field-
ing wrote the Governess, David Simple,
and some other pieces, all well received
by the public. Miss Jane Collier, in con-
junction with Miss Patty Fielding, wrote
the Cry, a novel that* had some run. She
died poor, and her sister retired to the Isle
of M'ight, then cheap and little frequented ;
and her resignation was mixed with the
pang inflicted by solitariness and neglect.
Richardson's letters to her are soothing,
and yet insinuate wholesome advice.

i2 To

CXCVl THE LIFE

To speak of L^titia PiLKiNGTON is
to speak of a tale of other times ; yet the
tale may be useful, to shew how low a
woman may fall who has parted with her
virtue. That the companion of Swift and
Delany, adorned with wit and beauty,
«hould be reduced to lie upon straw in a
night-cellar, and weep over her daughter's
misconduct, without having, as she pathe-
tically expresses it, " the right to find
** fault with her that another mother would
" have had, presents a striking lesson.
Her letters are too complimentary, but
have an easy flow of expression, and shew,
if she was sincere, that she was susceptible
of the gratitude to which Richardson's
kindness gave him so just a claim.

ClBBER*s intimacy with Richardson was
after the most dissipated part of his life
was ov^r; but the sprightly veteran shews,
in every line, the man of wit, and the man
of the world.

Mrs.

OF MR. RICHAIIDSON. CXCVll

Mrs. Sheridan was an estimable wo-
man : good sense, and calm good humour,
are said to have characterised her: She wrote
Sidney Bidulph, of which Dr. Johnson said
to her — " I know not, Madam, whether you
" have a right, on moral principles, to
** make your readers suffer so much." She
also wrote the comedy of the Discoveryy
and other pieces. She died at Blois, whither
Mr. Sheridan had retired on account of his
affairs. He had been driven from the
Dublin theatre (of which he was manager,
and which he had brought to a state of
order and decorum, from great licentious-
ness) by an opposition, and, for five
years, he supported himself in London by
his literary exertions.

Miss MuLSO was a favourite correspon*
dent of Richardson ; he loved to draw out
her reasoning powers, then beginning to
unfold themselves. He engaged her in a
controversy on the measure of filial obe-
i 3 dience ;

cxcviii THE LIFE

dience ; but her part of it, with the rest of
lier letters, was withdrawn from the collec-
tion after Richardson's death.

"With the worthy families of HfGHMORE
and Buncombe, afterwards united by the
marriage of Miss Highmore to Mr. Dun-
combe, Junior, author of the Feminead,
Richardson was much connected. Mr.
Highmore was a painter of eminence, —
at a time, indeed, when the arts were
at a very low ebb in England, the reigns
of George the First and Second. He
painted most of Richardson's characterSo
Clarissa, in a Vandyke dress; the Har-
lowe family, Clementina, and twelve prints
of the history of Pamela, were engraved
from his pencil.

Miss Sutton was the daughter of the
Countess of Sunderland, by Robert Sut-
ton, Esq.

Mrs. DONNELAN, a maiden lady, and
Mrs. Delany, were among the most judi-
cious

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CXCJX

cious of Richardson's correspondents; they
criticised his works with a friendly free-
dom. Mrs. Dews was sister to Mrs. De-
lany.

Miss Westcombe's letters shew great
sweetness, modesty, and the highest reve-
rence for her adopted father.

Mr. Skelton was a singular character j
most singular, perhaps, in his uncommon
benevolence. Placed in the wildest part
of Ireland, amongst a people who diflered
more from the brutes around them in the
evils to which human wants exposed them,
than in any improvements or advantage?
witli which human intellect had supplied
them, he devoted his life, (the life of a scho-
lar) and, in a year of scarcity, sacrificed hi?
books, (the treasure of a scholar) for their
relief. He was of an athletic make, and had
often occasion to exercise his personal cou-
rage,as well as his pastoral care, amongst hi?
flock. He used to go out attended by a
i 4 great

CC THE LIFE

great dog, and a stout labourer, armed, as
"well as himself, with a huge club, when he
made his pastoral visits in the neighbour-
hood. His connection with Mr. Richard-
son bore upon two points ; his good offices
exerted towards* his friend in the affair of
the piracy, and in getting in his Irish
debts (no easy matter to perform) and on
the publications he sent to Mr. Richard-
son's press. He was esteemed a writer of
strength and acumen in the controversial
line. His letters are frank and hearty;
they shew him occasionally subject to the
pettishness of low spirits, and it is pleasing
to observe with what tenderness, for-
bearance, and calm reasoning, his friend
smooths away the roughness of his dispo-
sition. There is a life of Skelton published
in Ireland, which is worth reading, as it
gives many particulars of an original and
eccentric character. He was, at length,
transplanted to Dublin; but too late to
change his manners from the rustic to the
urbane.

/ .Mark

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CCl

Mark Hildesley, bishop of Sodor and
Man, was, before his promotion to that
see, vicar of Ilitchen, in Hertfordshire,
and rector of liolwell, in the county of
Bedford. He distinguished himself by a
most diligent attendance on the duties of
his parish, preaching, catechising, and dis-
tributing good books. In his bishopric
he succeeded Dr. Wilson, who had begun
a translation of the bible into the Manks
language, which Hildesley completed.

The foreign correspondences of Rich-
ardson turn chiefly on the translations of
his works j not many, therefore, have been
given; but those of Mrs. Klopstock,
must interest every reader. She is buried
near Hamburgh, and an epitaph, in verse,
of twenty lines, composed by her husband,
is inscribed on her tomb. Mr. Klopstock
never married again till, in his old age, a
few years before his death, he had the ce-
remony performed between himself and a
kinswoman, who lived with him, in order
i5 to

ecu THE LIFE

to entitle her, as his widow, to the pen-
sions he enjoyed from different courts. It
is presumed the reader of taste will not
wish that Mrs. Klopstock's letters had
been put into better English.

Mr. Stinstra, the Dutch minister, who
translated Clarissa, is the same who wrote
a tract against Count Zinzendorff, and his
followers, with extracts from their hymns,
and other writings, in which their enthu-
siasm and indecency is fully exposed. It
was translated into English, by Rimius.
Stinstra, as a divine, seems to make some
scruple of translating a novel ; but he
satisfied himself by the moral tendency of
Richardson's. — Gellert, the author of
the Fables; and Clairaut, a celebrated
mathematician, were also among Richard-
son's translators.

But the largest contributor to this cor-
respondence was Lady Bradshaigh, of
whose family and connections some account
may be acceptable.

She married (after a persevering court-
ship.

OF MR. RICHARDSON. cciii

ship, on liis part, of ten years, as she her-
self informs us) Sir Roger Bradshaigh, of
Haigh, near AV^igan, in Lancashire, at which
place they lived in what was called the true
English sLile of country gentry, before the
villa of the manufacturer had eclipsed, by
its ephemeral splendour, the paternal scat
of the hereditary landholder.

Haigh is a large old-built mansion j the
grounds and gardens are laid out in tliat
style which modern refnicment has dis-
carded for one which is generally admitted
to be more agreeable to true taste, though,
perhaps it may not be calculated togive more
pleasure. Sir Roger's estate was in the midst
of the mines of that most elegant species of
coal called the cannel, or candle coal, which,
it is well known, takes a high and beautiful
polish. Of this material I^dy Bradshaigh
built a summer-house. From its colour,
like black marble, and its combustible na-
ture, it may be considered as a kind of
contrast to the brilliant ice-palace of the
Empress of Russia.

Lady

CCir THE LIFE

Lady Bradshaigh bore the character of a
most worthy^ pious, and charitable woman.
Sir Roger and herself were a very happy
couple, as, indeed, sufficiently appears
from the letters. She was active and ma-
naging, and her large houshold was so
regulated as to be a pattern of order and
decorum. They had no children. Lady
Bradshaigh lived many years at Haigh, as
a widow, keeping up the same stile of
chearful hospitality as in her husband's
life-time. She died at an advanced age,
above eighty, with all the sentiments of a
piety which had been habitually wrought
into the constitution of her mind.

Lady Bradshoigh's mental qualifications
seem to have been a good deal of sound
native sense, and strong feeling, with a lively
impressible imagination. She wrote with
ease, and was fond of writing. She had a
chearful and generous disposition, as well
as great natural vivacity, and in her letters
exhibits a flow of expression, which, if the
critic will "not admit to be wit, must at

least

OF MR. RICHARDSON. CCV

least be allowed to rise to an agreeable
sprightliness.

Ladies, at that period, were far from
enjoying those advantages of education
which olfer themselves to the present rising
generation ; at a distance from the metro«-
polis, especially, a reading female was a sort
of phenomenon, and the county in which
Lady Bradshaigh lived was, by no means,
the first to free itself from these symptoms
of rusticity. Accordingly, we observe-in-
the -correspondence, that Lady Bradshaigh
was much disturbed by the fear of be-
ing known by her neighbours to cor-
respond with an author, and to escape
the imputation, very ingeniously, after
Richardson had sent her his portrait,
changed his name into Z)/('A'enson, that
the questions asked her about iier dis-
tant friend, might not betray her secret.
She, indeed, was by no means a literary
woman, and Richardson combats the nar-
rowness of her notions on the subject of

female

CCVi THE LIFE

female learning; yet she read a great
variety of English books, and her re-
marks upon them are', in general, judi-
cious. In the subjects of controversy
between herself and her correspondent,
«he would often er have the better of the
argument, if Richardson had not laid hold
on strong and unguarded expressions to
teaze and perplex her, and many topics
he insists on evidently for tlie sake of
argument. An excellent heart is shewn
by this lady throughout the whole; she
seems to have been rather a hearty friend
and a clever active woman, than a po-
lished one. She had the highest vene-
ration for Richardson, and for his pro-
ductions. The eager and passionate in-
terest she took in the story of Clarissa,
though carried to almost a whimsical
excess, does honour to the powers of
the author, and the feelings of the lady.
She seems to have considered Clarissa
and Lovelace as real beings, whose

fate

OF MR. RICHATIDSON. CCVH

fate the writer held in his hands. —
*' Pray, Sir, make her happy, you can so
** easily do it! Pray reform him! Will
" you not save a soul, Sir?" The circum-
stances in which the correspondence be-
gun and was carried on, under a feigned
name, for above a year, bear a roman-
tic cast, and the gradual steps of the
discovery cannot fail of amusing the
reader. No lover ever expected his mis-
tress with greater ardour tlian the grave
Richardson seems to have felt for his //i-
cognita, when he paced so fruitlessly up
and down the Mall, gazing with expec-
tation at every lady he met. Indeed, they
were very near teasing one another into
serious ill-humour on the occasion. —
Tiiougli Lady Bradshaigh did not give the
kind of assistance many imagined to Ri-
chardson, he often made use of her re-
marks and criticisms. To mention a trivial
instance, he altered the month of Julv, in
which he had originally made Miss Byron

come

ecviii the ltf£

come up to Lcwidoii, to January,"on her
representation that July was not the sea«-
son which would be chosen for a j'^oung
lady to see the town. Her letters extend
from the year 1750 to the death of Ri-
chardson, a period of eleven years. They,
together with Richardson's answers, would
alone make several volumes, I believe as
many as the whole of this publication, a
proof, by the way, that the bookseller
and the editor have had some mercy on
the public.

Lady ECHLIN was the sister of Lady
Bradshaigh, and wife to Sir Robert Echlin,
nephew, by marriage, to Mr. Tickell, the
friend of Addison. With the Tickells,
with Lady Lambard, and other wortliy
people, she was very respestably con-
nected, as also witli the good Bishop
Hildesley, whose preferment to the IsLe
of Man she compares to the banishment
of St. John to the Island of Patmos. Her
country seat, at Villa Rusa, was on the

seu"-

OF MR, RICHAROSOJi. CClX

sea-coast, directly opposite to his residence.
iAdy Echlin had not the parts and vi-
vacity of her sister; she seems to have
been rather a good and pious, than a
brilliant woman: but piety and goodness
it is always pleasing to contemplate. She
appears, indeed, from her favourable men-
tion of the Countess of Huntingdon, and
other circumstances, to have been of that
class who make piety not only the re-
gulator of their conduct, but the business
ef their lives. One might suppose novels
wod J form a small part of the reading
of such a woman, but the novels of Ri-
chardson were received by his admirers
as manuals of instruction, and Lady
Echlin, in particular, considered the mo-
rality of them, not only as the iudispen-
sible, but as the only material point. She
too was seized with the desire of alter-
ing Clarissa, and making up the story to
her own miad, which she accordingly ex-
ecuted, and after some hesitation and re-
luctance communicated to Richardson.-—
. . She

CGX THE LIFE

She had reformed Lovelace by means of
a Dr. Christian, and made him die after
a lingering illness, occasioned by remorse,
though the last or.trage is not supposed to
be committed. Though Richardson, after
he had read her alterations, let her off
very gently, one cannot but suspect he
must secretly smile at the presumption
which had induced so inferior a hand to
lay colours upon his canvas. Lady Echlin
lived chiefly in England, after she be-
came a widow.

Nothing tends so strongly to place us
in the midst of the generations that are
past, as a perusal of their correspondence.
To have their very letters, their very hand-
writing before our eyes, gives a more inti-
mate feeling of their existence, than any
other memorial of them. To see the heart
that is now chilled with age, or cold in the
dust, pouring forth its first youthful feel-
ings ; to see the hopes and fears, the friend-
ships and animosities, the pains and cares
of life, as it passes on, inspires the soul

with

OV MR. RICHARDSON. CCXl

with a tender melancholy. We see some,
now established in fame, who at first ad-
vanced timid and doubting of their own
powers; others sunk into oblivion, who
had the highest confidence in them ; we
see secret kindnesses brought to light;
and where there has been atVectation of
any kind, we see it did not avail, but
that the man is known, and the real
motives of his actions, throuf^h all the
glosses he puts on. We compare the
tar-wat^r of one age with the medicated airs
of another, and the waters of Tunbridge
with the sea-bathing places, and we find
both equally inefficacious against the
long-rooted malady, and touched with a
deep feeling of the vanity of life, we cry
out with Thomson —

Wlierc now are fled
Those busy bustling days — those gay-spent nights —
Those veering thoughts— those longings after fame ?
All now are vauish'd ! virtue sole sutvives.
Jmmortalj never-failing friend of maOf
His guide to happiness on high.

It

OCXii THE LIFE

It may not be unacceptable to i\\e
reader, to conclude this account of Ri-
chardson with the following lines, written
as an epitaph for him, by Mrs. Carter.

If ever warm benevolence was dear.
If ever wisdom gain'd esteem sincere^
Or genuine fancy deep attention won.
Approach with awe the dust — of Richardson.

What tho* his muse, thro' distant regions known.
Might scorn the ti'ibute of this humble stone ;
Yet pleasing to his gentle shade, must prove
The meanest pledge of Friendship, and of Love;
For oft will these, from ven,al throngs exil'd ;
And oft will Innocence, of aspect mild.
And white-robM Charity, with streaming eyes.
Frequent the cloister where their patron lies.

This, reader, learn ; and learn from one whose woe
Bids her wild verse in artless accents flow ;
For, could she frame her numbers to commend
The husband, father, citizen, and friend ;
How would her muse display, in equal strain.
The critic's judgment, and the writer's vein !—
Ah, no ! expect not from the chissel'd stone
The praises, graven on. our hearts alone.
There shall his fame a lasting shrine acquire j
And ever shall his moving page inspire
Pure truth, fixt honour, virtue's pleasing lore;
While taste and science crown this favour'd shore.

CORRESPONDENCE

CORRESPONDENCE

BETWEEN

Mr. RICHARDSON

AND

AARON HILT..

TO MK. RICHARDSON.

June 1, 1730.
Jl THANK you, dear Sir, for the very
agreeable news that you begin to perceive
yourself better, under effect of your trou-
blesome regimen. Such a blessing is
health, that we purchase it cheaply, at ex-
pence of mere time and more torture,
than, I hope, it is likely to cost you. The
relation you send me, of your doctor's
disinterestedness and generosity of beha-
viour, makes it reasonable to expect due
VQ.U I. B success

2 CORRESPONDENCE

success from his skill. For, whence ought
we to look for capacity to be publicly use-
ful, if not from minds that can give up
their selfish attachments, and take others
into their thoughts and their leisure?

It pleases me, but does not surprise me
at all, that your sentiments concerning
Milton's prose writings, agree with those
I threw out, under influence of that back-
handed inspiration, which his malevolent
genius had filled me with, as I drew in the
bad air of his pages. I know your good
nature too well, to suspect it of esteem
for an object so remotely unlike and un-
equal. One might venture on a very new
use of two writers : I would pick out my
friends and my enemies, by setting them
to read Milton and Cowley. I might take
it for gi'anted, that I ought to be afraid of
his hearty who, in the fame and popularity
of the first, could lose sight of his malice
and wickedness. And it could be running
no hazard in friendship, to throw open

one's

WITH AARON HILL. 5

one's breast to another, who, in contempt
of the fashion we are fallen into, of decry-
ing the works of the second, could have
courage to declare himself charmed, by
both the muse and the T?iaTi, in that writer.
What you tell me concerning my desar,
gives me the pleasure you intended it
should; but I receive it from a diflerent
quarter. It was your purpose to balance
my chagrin at the inconsiderable effect of
that essay, by representing it as obtaining
some notice; whereas all the delight I en-
joy from this generous artifice, is in my
reflection on the view it arose from. For
ni}^ part, I am afraid to be popular. I see
so many who write to the living, and de-
serve not to live, that I content myself
with a resurrection when dead. I very
often remember, with pleasure, an old man
(I am sure near a hundred), whom I rode
by in a journey to Devonshire, and ob-
served in the midst of a field, that had
newly been plowed, very busy with a stick
B 2 and

4 corhespondence'

and a basket. When I came up to the
place he was at work in, I found he was
making holes in the ground, and in every
one of them planting an acorn. Friend,
eaid I, is it for profit, or pleasure, you la-
bour?— ^^For neither. Sir, replied the honest
old patriot ; but here will be a grove when 1
want no shelter.

Before I put an end4:o this letter, I must
say a word or two concerning your post-
script. You tell me you had given your-
self up, for some days, to a -state of indo-
lence, at North-End. I like leisure ex-
tremely; but have a sitspicion of that va-
pourish word, indolence ! Whatever you do,
encourage cheerful and lively ideas. If
you give your distemper a vacuum, it will
f\ll it with lassitude and anguish. I am.

Pear Sir,
your most affectionate and

most humble servant,
A. Hill,

TO

WITH AARON HILL, 5

TO MR. RieHARDSONi

Jidy 2, 1736.
DEAR SIR,

ijATE last night I found the books and
letter which had been left at my house by
your servant. I have too long been ac-
quainted with the extent of your spirit,
and the elegance of your manner, to won-
der at any thing that does new justice to
your character. Yet you must allow me
to remember, what your good nature is so
willing to forget, that I continue a great
deal longer than I ought, or intended, your
debtor, on a considerable account, foi
printing bills, advertisements, &c.

You must also permit me to reflect, that
you, who have so firm a possession of my
esteem, have the most natm*al title in the
world to my writings.

To which let me add, that though, with

view to do some service to an industrious

B 3 com-

O CORRESPONDENCE

company of actors, I suffered such a play
as Alzira to appear in an improper season 5
yet I cannot be ignorant how far that must
lessen, in all likelihood, the immediate de-
mand of the copy. Nor can it be reason*
able (indeed scarce honest), to be unmind-
ful, in cases of this nature, that booksel-
lers are less secure than they ought to be
made, for want ©f an act of parliament,
to appropriate and defend their just right
in the copies they purchase.

I must, therefore, entreat your leave, and
the three gentlemen's, to return the in-
closed note of Sir Francis Child's. I can-
not receive it, without acting against the
consent of my heart. Yet to ease, to the
utmost degree possible, all that amiable-
confusion which, but in your own genero-
sity, you could here find no reason for
feeling, I will receive, in its stead, ano-
ther, just half its amount ; upon condition
you give me your wordy to make no future
opposition to the pleasures I shall seek to

enjoy,.

WITH AARON HILL. 7

enjoy, from a proper disposal of whatever
may lie in the power of.

Dear Sir,

your most affectionate

and most obedient

humble servant,

A. Hill.

TO MR. RICHARDSON,

DEAR SIR.

Jl AM s-orry to see that my fears, at the
sight of your black wax, were too well
grounded. Yet was it no little mitigation
of my concern, that the blow was, near as
it is, still no nearer you. I allow all the
force of that tender affection you so beau-
tifully feel and express for a mother. We
B 4 have

S CORRESPONDENCE

have the double reasons of duty and grati*
tude, for the sorrow we pay to the loss of
a parent : but we correct and set bounds
to an affliction, so due and so naturally to
be looked for. It is the regular measure of
death, and he neither stretches his hand on
one side, nor step& suddenly out of his
road, when he reaches the fruit that is ri-
pest. But it is very much otherwise, in
the painful surprise of our anguish, when
a wife is torn away from our heart, or a
child froHL our hopes, in whose endearing
society we had commission from the pro-
mise of time, to expect a long and delight-
ful continuance. It is the disappointment,
in this case, that enrages the bitterness :
we repine not at the loss, as if unwillingly
resigning ourselves to the common calami-
ties of nature, but we are taken unprepared
to consent i and consider, as a too early
and unseasonable demand, such , exaction
of a debt, which, though we know to be
due, we had too rashly concluded would
aever be so suddenly called for.

I hope

WITH AARON HILL. . 9

I hope it will not be long before I can
?iave the pleasure of making you a visit, in
your retirement at North-End; when (I
think) I am sure I shall be able to shew
you an easy and pleasant short way to get
rid of that phthisical tendency. As for the
good air in the places you mention, those
bad qualities which such a concourse ex-
poses them to, is undoubtedly such a trou-
blesome balance, that good sense and good
taste would avoid it. — I am, dear Sip,

Your affectionate and

most obedient servant,

A. Hill.,

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

^pril 14; 1*737.
DEAR SIR,

I THANK you for your good-natured

hint about the fineness of the weather :

B 5 But

10 CORRESPONDENCE

But the cheerfulness in a friend's eye is
all the sunshine I require, to make a visit
tempting ; and (that way) it will be always
summer where you hold your residence.

I thank you for the pleasure I have re-
ceived from Leonidas, which excellent
poem I herewith return you. I am told
that the author is young; and I gather
comfort, in his right, for the rising gene-
ration. God would never have bestowed
such a genius upon this part of the world,
but with a view to the spirit he designs to
distinguish the next age by. In our present
condition, such a writer as Mr. D'Urfey
would have been better adapted than Mr.
Glover. May he be understood for his
own honour, and popular for that of the
nation! And may Mr. Richardson be as
happy as he is wished, by

His most affectionate, obliged,

and obifedient servant,

A. Hill.

TO

WITH AARON HILL. 11

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Oct. 1737
DEAR SIR,

About the beginning of this summer
I found myself under an unexpected obli-
gation to retire, for some time, abroad,
from an uneasy situation in my private af-
fairs i which I hope will be of no long con^
tinuance.

In the interim, I satisfy myself, as well as
I can, by reflecting, that no place on this
globe should be foreign ; except to one
whose humanity is domestic (in the narrow-
est sense of the word). Since, wherever man
can find man, he is at home : and our dis^
agreements in language, religion, and cus-
toms, are, if we consider them without
prejudice, as natural diflereiices as the
tempers and faces in families.

But, be that as it will, the leisure which
men are thrown into upon such disappoint-
ments as these, aflbrds them an equivalent
B 6 for

12 CORRESPONDENCE

for their mortification. And, to say trutfiv-
there are in books, and in reflection, such,
amusements, both lively and solid, that a
man, when he has nothing to do, seems
surrounded with most business.

For my own part, though I have no ex-
traordinary pretensions this way, I had
rather be active without consequence, than
idle without aim ; and you will go near to
see, this winter, three or four very diffe-
rent effects of my summer's retirement.
To begin, like the heralds, and let the
lowest in quality march foremost, I now
intreat your acceptance of a poetical pre-
sent, of the satirical kind, and therefore, I
am afriiid, in most danger to. be popular ;
unless the salt is scattered too wide to con-
tent that particularity of malice which
expects that persons, not things, should be
censured.

You will be startled a little at the title ;
but may always be sure you have nothing
to fear in my copies. This is merely an.

artifice.

WITH AARON HILL. 13

artifice, to secure a demand, for your- sake,
from an honest and innocent use of a very
dangerous and factious disposition. And
I am sorry to find it the means most efl'ec-
tual for animating the curiosity of the
public. I am always, &c.

Dear Sir,

your most affectionatcj,

and obedient, humble servant,

A, Hill.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

JtilySy 1738.
DEAR SIR,

JL OUR answers to the troublesome re^
quests I am continually making you, put
me in mind of those which God sends to
•ome orthodox doctor, when he prays but

for

14 CORRESPONDENCE

for daily bread, and receives with it a
bishopric. I will carefully and speedily
return you the folio with which you so
kindly surprised me. It promises me, as
I turn the leaves transiently over, a good
deal of pleasure^ in the perusal.

But no book can give me so much as
you have obliged me with in one single
paragraph: for I am positive, from what
you now tell me, that there is nothing
apoplectic in your distemper. And it is
with no small addition to my pleasure, that
I find your friend. Doctor Cheyne, declar-
ing himself of the same opinion. What:
he says of amusement and exercise would-
be, doubtless, a very great help ; but, since
it is not so consistent as were to be wished'
with the avocations of a business that de-
mands so much care and attention, the
next certain benefit must be from medi-
cine.

Give me leave to observe to you, that
whenever you make use of the chaise, the

road

WITH AARON HlLt. 15

road you should chuse ought to be upland,
to as high and as piercing an air as your
time can allow you to think of reaching.
To which let me add, that the swifter you
drive, the more benefit by far is to be
hoped from such airings, both from respi-
ration and exercise.

I come now to the thanks I owe you for
the gazetteer you were so kind to send me.
1 know it is a party paper, in that least
excusable sense of the word, a professed
and unconditional attachment not to things
but to persons. This is a terrible hardship
on genius ; unless the person was inflexibly
steady in pursuit of some strait course of
politics ; because the veerings which an
irresolute steerer is subject to, throw out,
with too sudden a jirk, the panegyrists of
his skill to sail evenly.

Yet I am very much pleased that the
good advice you have given seems to have
had its due weight in the variation of sub-
ject,whith that paper appears to be opening

itself

YQ CORRESPONDENCE

itself into. Not but that, with regard to
my own taste, I always read both ex-
tremes, in all controversy, with an equal
delight : for, as the graver completes not
its line but by what it borrows from each
side of the plate, so the images of opinion
and reason are the result from both sides of
a question. To say^ truth, I believe that,
even' m> that limited view (the defence of
the one person's measures they write for)
the gentlemen who manage that paper
would find their purpose better answered,
if they admitted the letters of opposite, or
seeming-opposite, thinkers. For, besides
that this would carry the face of a bold and
generous impartiality, it would quicken
their reader's curiosity, and multiply the
enquirers after the paper -, to add nothing
of its removing the present tiresome and
servile pursuit of those tracks which are
opened for them, by anti-ministerial, more
popular, outstarters. There is something
too narrow, in the very air, of perpetual

defence r

WITH AAROxV HILL. 17

defence and apology. Antl I have a thou-
sand times been astonished to find them
always in humble expectation of what sub-
ject shall be struck out for them by their
enemies, instead of plowing up new patJis
for themselves, in a field so extensive as
politicks ! Their patron would certainly
have a good deal mere reason to thank
them, if they considered his dignity as part
of his interest ; and in place of endeavour-
ing to prove him no criminal, took the
pains to find arguments which might call for
respect on his conduct. But, enough of this
subject. I will now and then send a paper
which shall flatter no side, misrepresent no
intention, nor disoblige any person ; and
yet may, possibly, even on politic subjects,
be acceptable enough in either of the two
which you, and Messrs. Peel, &c. are con-
cerned in the success of.

I will also overlook all my own papers
in the Prompter, and fit them for appear-
ing ia volumes. The time for which, the

mannec-

18 CORRESPONDENCE

manner in whith, and every right, choice,
and decision concerning them, I resign and
submit wholly to yourself, both now and
for ever hereafter.

And now, too late, I look back on the
length of my letter j and remember I am
leading you into a breach of the very ad-
vice I would give you^ not to pore oyer
tedious and roughwritten manuscripts. I
should be more ashamed of my own than I
am, but that I have the comfort (bad as it
is) to observe it more legible still than ho-
nest Dr. Cheyne*s.

I am, dear Sir,
Your most affectionate,

anjd obedient servant,,
A. Hill.

TO

WITH AARON HILL. 19

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

August 29, 17S8.
DEAR SIR,

^^HEN Whittington received an estate
in return for his cat, one would be apt to
believe that the name of his factor was
Richardson. While it is a fashion with the
generality of the world to forget real bene-
fits, it is your way to be grateful for ima-
ginary ones J nay, j'^ou reward me for giv-
ing you trouble. I could exhaust all that
plentiful store you have sent me, of the inr
struments of silent expression, without
being able, at last, to explain half the plea-
sure and wonder you give me. If heaven
were as fond of the balancing principle, as
some of its modern vicegerents, you must
seem to have been sent into the world, as
(what Mr. Cowley called his friend, Dr^
Scarborough) —

" A countcr-poisoa to the age."

IshaUi

20 CORRESPONDENCE

I shall never be able to thank you for 2S
single obligation {that's anotlier of your'
peculiarities). Why would you be so need-
lessly kind, to think of either volume of
Oldmixon, after what I purposely said in
my last, with a view to prevent it ?

I return now to my quackery (though* I
think I should speak of my practice with a
little more dignity, since you treat me like
a doctor of the college, and pay me for
prescriptions that have done you no ser-
vice). Pray, do you ever drink coffee ? —
I dare almost promise your head some re-
lief, and the sooner, if you drink it as hot
as you can -, covering the dish (on its out-
ward edge), with your hand, so as- tO' re-
ceive the full stream of the vapour at your
mouth, nose, and eyes, in the drinking.

The little sweating-tent I just touched
on in my last, has done wonders in Tur-
key and Persia. Nay, I lately observed,
that a practice very like it, has reached
still farther eastward ; and there, too, done

mira^

^V^TH AARON HILL. 21

miracles: an instance of which I must
send you, out of one of the volumes of
Churchill, which you were so good ^is to
oblige me with :

*^ Sweating cure for the bite cj a scorpioK,
bi/ a Cochin-Chinese Doctor.

" A scorpion bit a brother of ours (the
Jesuits) in the neck, (and in that kingdom
the bite of a scorpion is mortal). All his
throat swelled immediately, and we were
about giving him extreme unction. A sur-
geon being sent for, he set a pot of rice a
boiling, in nothing but fair water j then
<:lapping the pot to the brother's feet, co-
vered him and it close with clothes, that
the steam might not go out. And as soon
as the said steam and hot smoke of the
rice came up to the place where the bite
was, the brother felt the pain assuage, the
swelling in his throat fell, and he remained
as sound as if nothing had ailed him.**

Dear Sir, what comfort will not inference

give

•22 CORRESPONDENCE

give you, in a case of so much less dan-
ger and difficulty? Ail the blessings of
Nature are obviousi, and our physicians pur-
sue them through intricacies! — God bless
you, and bring them no nearer you than
to some of your presses.

I am, dear Sir,

your most obliged
and most affectionate Servant,
A. Hill.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Jpril\2y 1739.
DINCE I writ to you last, I have been de-
fying the sharpness of the season in Essex,
VI' here I shall hope the delight of often feel-
ing it milder and more pleasant this sum-
mer in your company ; and where I have
been planting near a hundred thousand
French vines, with resolution next year to
extend them over forty or fifty acres of

vineyard.

WITH AARON HILL. SS

vineyard. For knowing perfectly well,
that it is not our climate but our skill, which
is defective, both as to managing the vines
jn their growth, and their juice in its pre-
paration. I have judged it an honester
service to my country, to establish, if I
can, the success of so considerable a branch
of new product to her benefit, than to busy
my cares, and make war on my own quiet,
by a fruitless concern at aifairs, which,
whether rightly or wrongly administered,
neitlier I, nor all those abler malcontents
who are loudest in their contradictory pur-
poses, will ever live to see settled in a
channel, that can satisfy more than the
present. Discontent is the thorn that is as
natural as roses in the garden of liberty;
and whoever is for plucking it off, has forgot
the very nature of the tree, and will only
be scratching his fingers.

I am, now and for ever.
Dear Sir,
most affectionately and faithfully,

A. Hill.

TO

'qI gorrespondence

to mr. richardson.

May, 113%.
DEAR SIR,

Jl AM ashamed to be so late in my ac-
knowledgments for your obliging succes-
sion of favours — ^your Harris, your Survey
of Britain, and your three new volumes of
Salmon. But I dare confess, to a humanity
so well known as yours, that I have
felt a discomposure in my mind for some
weeks past, occasioned by the fate of an
unhappy fugitive from my family, whose
follies (while I thought him murdered) lay
quite buried in compassion ; and demand-
ed, and possessed, my utmost application
to discover and to prosecute the guilty.

But (to trust a secret where I saf<5ly may,
that was not proper for the public) the
guilt was all his own. His breach of oath,
discretion, duty, and all ties that should
have held him, by ^ low and miserable
marriage, made his life <it length so irk-
some

^ITII AARON HILL. 25

some to him, from tlie daily shocks he met
with among coarsenesses and provocations,
vviiich, as he wanted foresight to expect,
he wanted patience to support with tem-
per, that he rashly sltorteaed it, in a wild
start of rage, with the same hand that had
subjected him to suffer insults (even after
his wife's death), from an ill-bred and im-
placable spirit of her iamily, with whom
4ie weakly chose to continue a lodger, and
who was jealous, it seems, of his frequent-
ing the company of «ome woman she had
taken a dislike to.

He lived five or six days after this irre^
triev able eifect of his madness ; exacting
promises, in the most solemn manner he
could contrive, from «ome of his own &o
(juaintance and her's, who were present,
that they would conceal the true state of
the fact from his family, and give out the
accident to have happened as he told it
•himself to the physician and surgeofi*, and
^is it has, from their representation of it

VOL, I. C «gain.

2§ CORRESPONDENCE

again, been made public in some of the
newspapers.

Nor had I ever been acquainted with the
truth, but that one of the persons in com-
pany when it happened had beea many
years a servant in my family, and, hearing
that I was dissatisfied with the improbable
circumstances of the story, as they told it,
and fearing some suspicions might arise of
i'l consequence to himself, and one or two
more, who had no other part in the affair
than the misfortune of having been invited
to supper, and being witnesses of the trans-
port he was urged into, and its conse-
quence ; he then declared the plain fact,
OS I have described it to you, after the
unfortunate sufferer himself had been many
days dead, and had persisted to the last in
lh3 story as it was told in the papers,
th )u^h often and separately asked ques-
tions concerning it by his father, and by
my son, whom I commissioned to do him
all the good offices possible before he died
and after.

Poor

WITH AARON HILL. 27

Poor boy ! what a startling connection
did he find between the crime that undid
him and its punishment ! He is gone — a
too lively and terrible instance, that the
force of the imagination, without some
adequate temper in the judgment, is a ship
with all sail and no rudder. I beg your
pardon, dear Sir, for this long and too
melancholy story : but, though it Mas pru-
dent to conceal it from the general world,
I could not resist the propensity of my
friendship, and should have thought it an
injustice, when I spoke of it to you at all,
jfiot to do it with truth and with confidence.

Your's aifcctionately,

A. Hill.

C 2 TO

fiS CORRESPONDENCE

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Sept. 21, 1739.
DEAR SIR,

JtilAVING, with an inexpressible slow-
-ness and difficulty, struggled back into life
from the very brink of the grave, I cannot
better employ the first moments of reco-
very tlian in an enquiry after your health ;
which, under my own severest despair of
regaining, I was hourly and inly solicitous
after; and which I progressively wished
you, with a still greater ardour, as I more
and more felt the pain of its absence. I hope,
in God's goodness, you have escaped the re-
laxing effects of this moist and unseason-
able summer, in which I had promised
myself a hundred different enjoyments ;
and that many of them should have been
heightened by the delight of being felt in
your company. But, we are chained too
phort in the world which we crawl on, to

make

WITH AARON HILL. 29

make prospects of pleasure at distance any
rational part of our comfort. What we
can do with the diminutive present, we
may ; but the future eludes our faint grasp,
behind a tiiousand interposing calamities.

Within a few days after writing the last
letter I had the pleasure to send 3'ou, I
went into the country, with design to have
stayed but a fortnight; for direction of
some necessary cautions in preparing for
the due cultivation of that soil wherein, as
I think, I told you in a former, I have been
bold enough to plant such a number of
vines as will make me master of much the
largest vineyard in England. In the midst
of this agreeable work, whether by staying
too late, exposed to the cool dewy even-
ings, or whether from effect of a change
too precipitate into exercise and activity,
out of a life, I am afraid, a littlctoo lazy and
sedentary, I was surprised by an ague ; the
forerunner of an intricate succession of
obstinate and ever -varying symptoms,
C 3 which

30§

CORRESPONDENCE

which required the utmost extent of my
patience to support, and much more than
my skill to understand and provide against.
However, I thank God, I had courage to
repel the assaults of the doctor and apothe-
cary, and have escaped, without all those ad-
ditions to danger and pain, which the arts
of their torture could never have failed to
procure me.

I was speaking above of my vines ; and,
remembering your delight in a garden,
cannot help telling you, as something ex-
traordinary, that, among forty or fifty
thousand cuttings, which were planted out
as fast as cut, in March and last April, and
managed according to the direction of your
friend, Mr. Miller, I have few now less than
from five to six feet high -, and had actually
bunches of grapes upon several of them in
the summer, which grew within two to six
inches from the ground, as large and as
promising as any upon my old-bearing
plants in the garden. I believe Mr. Mil-
ler

WITH AARON HILL. 31

ler will look upon this as something un-
common ; as, possibly, he may on some
other informations, which I have thoughts,
through your hands, of conveying to him,
against he may be ready for publication of
the second volume of his useful and excel-
lent dictionary ; wherein, I hope, he will
be mindful to repair an accidental defect in
the first, having referred us to the article
of wines, for certain hints as to the manner
of making them j yet omitted to say any
thing at all under any such head, it being
wholly left out of his dictionary.

May the pain and vexation I have been
sulfering this summer, serve for you and
for me all our lives ! And may nothing
prevent you from being everyway as happy
as you always are in the wishes and hopes
of, Dear Sir,

Your ever affectionate,

and obedient, humble servant.

A. Hill.

c 4 TO

32 CORRESPONDENCE

TO MR. RICHARDSON.-

Oct. 16, n39.

A THOUSAND thanks to you, dear Sir»
for the kindness of your last night's en-
quiry ; and for these books, which I return
by the bearer ; and for the excellent basket
of grapes, which you had the goodness to
send me last week ; and for all and every
your endless succession of thoughts and
actions, for ever engaging !

I have been so pinched by the easterly
winds, that I was under a reluctant neces-
sity to let them begin vintage, in the x:oun-
try, without me ; but I am endeavouring to
flatter myself into a dependance on strength
enough to venture to look on, before they
can finish their labour. How crazily, my
dear Mr. Richardson ! are our active souls
lodged, in bodies too frail to preserve them
from impressions of pain, and yet strong
€O0ugh to confine them from changing

their-

WITH AARON HILL. 33^

their quarters ! Mine would quit its cap-
tivity with rapture ; but it is chained to its
too limited prison — doing penance, I am
afraid, (in your friend. Doctor Cheync's,
conception) to prepare itself for some more
extended capacity of acting hereafter.
Would to God it had power, in its pre-
sent situation, to transfer all the good which
it must not be allowed to enjoy ! I would
then tell you something more worthy your
knowing, than that I am, faithfully and
affectionately. Dear Sir,

Your most obliged humble servant.

A. Mill.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Dec. 19, 1739.
PEAR SIR,

jSeING come to town, in order to settle
accounts with just such a tedious and slow-
paced executor as I would wiah to youp
C 5 enemy's

34 CORRESPONDENCE

enemy's purposes (if there is such a wretch
in the world as an enemy to Mr. Richard-
son), one of the first things that I heard of
was the kind and obliging concern you
have shewn for my health in a succession
of unwearied enquiries, for which I never
can thank you sufficiently.

I think I may say, with some confidence,
that I have now almost perfectly recovered
that constitutional firnuiess of health, which
was, in a manner, the only full and unsha-
dowed enjoyment it has pleased God to
brighten my lot with ; and I tell it you
with pleasure, because I know it will give
you some to hear it 3 for you are one of
the noble minority, who can taste the feli-
city of others, as a generous increase of
your own!

Give me leave to hope your pardon for
the too great and unpurposed delay I have
made in returning you the interleafed vo-
lumes of Plain Dealers and Prompters.
The unpleasing situation of my affairs, and

a mind

WITH AARON HILL. 35

a mind endeavouring in vain to resist the
impressions attacking it, took away, not
the leisure so much as the temper that
would have been necessary ; but, now, I
design to set about it with the proper at-
tention.

While I am writing, there is brought me,
by one of the inhabitants of an out-quarter
of the city, the ridiculous proposal inclosed.
I was in hopes, that in a town where the
best things I am able to write are so little
regarded, the zvorst * might have been suf-
fered to sleep in their merited neglect and
obscurity. But I am apprehensive that
malice has more share than judgment in this
violation of the right of an author to his
own nonsense. The bookseller, I suppose,
has the same kind of reason in view which
the players once had when they were for
acting my LordGrinston's comedy, called,

* Present State of the Ottoman Empire.

c 6 Love

36 CORRESPONDENCE

Love in a hollow Tree *. To confess the
plain truth, I was so very a boy when I
suffered that light piece of work to be pub-
lished, that it is a sort of injustice to make
me accountable for it-. If you know any
body who has influence with the under-
taker, I should be very much pleased could
a stop be put to his purpose ; and I know,
if it lies in your way, you will be so good
to endeavour it.

This moment I am agreeably inter-
rupted by your servant's calling here with
a new proof of your goodness, which hast-
ens me (after having thanked you most
heartily) to seal up my letter a page or two
sooner than I else should have done it, that
he might carry it with him, from.

Dear Sir,

Yours, &c.

A. Hill.

* Published when Lord Grimstone was candidate at
an election, by the opposite party, in order to make
him ridiculous.

WITH AARON lUU.. 37

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Jan. 8, 1739-40.
DEAR SIR,

Jl jHOUGIT, throughout aH parts of the
year, I prolong and increase my good-
wishes for whatever can relate to your hap-
piness, and might address to you the vvord*^
of Mr. Milton, to one of the possessors of
paradise : —

With thee conversing, T forget all times.
All seasons, and their change

Yet I cannot find it in my heart to begin
this first letter I have the pleasure of writ-
ing to you, for the opening year, without
charging it with every possible prayer for
the long-lasting health and felicity of your-
self, and your other-self j and, in the sin-
cerest warm wishes of this kind, 1 am
joined by those of my family of cither sex :
all which is so heartily and affectionately

yours,.

38 CORRESPONDENCE

yours, that I can say nothing in the name
of any branch of it, on this head, which
is not seriv)usly made good by their real
conceptions. And of this, I wish your
very kind and repeated invitations to North
End may not draw upon you some trou-
blesome proofs in the spring. In the mean
time, while I am half frozen-up here in
Essex, when I but venture to breathe the
air of the garden, I never fail to remember
the delight which you take in the country,
and feel a fear or two for its effect to your
prejudice.

What shall I say to you, dear Sir, for
such a deal of unpurposed trouble as I
have led you into on account of that pue-
rile sally of mine. The Present State of the
Ottoman Empire } Had I ever heard, or
imagined, that it had already been scattered
abroad in that dirty low manner you men-
tion, the tenderness of apprehension which
I felt for this new purpose of Marshe's, had
been a needless, as well as fruitless, anxi-
ety.

WITH AARON HILL. 39

ety. All the mischief, it seems, has been
done, which I had in view to have hin-
dered. But I am infinitely obliged to you
for the measures you have had the good-
ness to take, which may probably intimi-
date the pirate.

And, as to the other, less juvenile, and
more pardonable, productions of my pen,
which I begin to be desirous of publishing
together, for no other reason but to pre-
vent the probability of its being done after
my death with less judgment, at least, with
less severity, by some collector of quantity,
not quality, I can think with no pleasure
of their property in any hand but your
own, and those of your chusing. This
property (I speak of what is not already
made yours) I am fully resolved to assign
you. And, sincerely, am apprehensive,
that, having always detested, as I shall
always continue to detest, the poor arts of
©ur poachers of popularity, the collection
will make its way too slowly for you to

find

4Cf CORRESPONDENCE

find your account in the sale of it ; and
therefore think, that I ought not only to
offer it to you as a present, which I heart-
ily wish might be worth your acceptance ;
but, in order to render it more certainly
such, to be myself at the charge of youF
printing and publishing it.

I cannot close my letter without a word
or two concerning your nei^es. Your tel-
ling me lately that those too sensible feelers
are the root of your malady, made the most
touching impression upon me in your be-
half, from what I just then underwent in
my own ; the too little guard I had held
over my passions, in resentment of the
baseness of a vile wretch, who has trifled
with me these four or five years past, in
matters of the utmost importance, having*
hazarded the throwing me back into the
danger, with regard to my health, from
which I so lately escaped with such difii-^
eulty. I hope, therefore, you have always
philosophy enough to balance your mind

in-

WITH AARON HILL. 41

m that happy serenity which repels all
attacks from the follies and vices of otliers.
It is a pity that things we can scorn
should have power to disturb our tranquil-
iity. May you for ever keep free from the
weakness, which shall never, (I think) for
the future, get ground upon.

Dear Sir,, . Your's,

A. Hill.

TO MR. ftlCHABDSON*

Sept.n, 1740.
DEAR SIR,.

JL HAVE been so long, and so shamefully
silent, where I have been called upon daily,
by the warmest affection, to break through
the unaccountable languor, and send you
my thanks for your many obliging enqui-
ries after my healthy that nothing ought to
procure me your pardon, but the almost

iiicou'

42 CORRESPONDENCE

inconceivable degree to which I have'
wanted it. I knew your good-nature so
well, that I ordered myself to be reported
(to the messengers you so kindly and fre- ,
quently sent) in a very different state from
that which was a long tin^e my true one.
And, even after I was really recovered, in
the usual signification of the word, my
mind underwent a new malady, and I
sickened into a restraint of my sentiments,
A restless feverish unaptness for repose
or reflection, carried me about (like the
children of Israel in their marches) with a
cloud hy day, and a Jire by night : and,
in short, all the plague of our climate took
an absolute and permitted possession of
my faculties.

If, in all this suffusion of thought, I re-
member any thing with an idea of pleasure,
it is, that I never forget i/ou a day j nor
remembered you without impressions- of
gladness. I am now, I thank God, greatly
changed for the better j and most heartily

hope

WITH AARON HILL. A3

hope I shall hear that you have continued
to enjoy that new prospect you were be-
ginning to form from the success of your
last application.

I have lately, with the greatest satisfac-
tion, read over your beautiful present of
Sir Thomas Roe's Negotiations in Turkey.
But, as full as I acknowledge that author
to be of a wisdom, discernment, and spirit,
so much wanting in the feebleness of our
modern state-maxims, I owe most of the
pleasure he gave me to the discovery I
made, with astonishment, as I turned over
the book, that your comprehensive and ex-
cellent index of heads had drawn every
thing out of the body !

You was very obliging to send me Mr.
Miller's new volume. I read all his pieces
with profit. I do not love our swallow-
like writers of gardening, who dip and
skim into every body's pool. Mr. Miller
dives under the surface, and brings up
what he finds at the bottom. One is pleased
with and instructed by his writings.

44 CORRESPONDENCE

Biit I observe, in some parts of his diV-
course on the new spirit for vineyards that
i?s rising in England, Mr. Miller seems to
think with discouragement concerning the
success of that prospect. I hope he will
soon have the pleasure to find that his
wishes are more in the right than his fears.
I think I can venture to promise my coun-
try, that her wines, in a few years, shall
hold at least equal rank with the French^
It is not the inconsiderable advantage they
have of us in regard to the difference of lati-
tude that throws us behind them j it is rather
the natural curtain that is drawn between
us and the sun, the island vapours and
clouds that hang over our fields and our
spirits ! This unripening influence of mois-
ture is the bar to our hopes without-doors j
and compels us (if we would have wines fit
for drinking) to correct in the cellar that
green, hard, and tartarous quality, to which
we owe the disgrace of our vintages.

But the diflicuity is, how shall this end

be

WITH AARON HILL. 45

be obtained ? They who mix foreign wines
with the English, if French^ marry beg-
gars together, and by their union increase
but their poverty : if Spanish, overlay our
thin product, and induce the specifical
flavour (though with the body a great deal
diminished) of the additional wine they
make choice of. All the while, this is no
English produce. If they use raisins, the
same disadvantage, as to flavour, prevails ;
besides the unavoidable consequence of a
heavy, flat, disgustive insipidness, which is
made still worse by those who, instead of
raisins, use sugar. And as for their endea-
vours who by mixture of spirits would hope
to add the strength they find wanting, they
are, more than all others, mistaken ; and,
instead of increasing the body, that is, the
consistence and weight of the wine, only
add a lean dryness, and thin sapid sharp-
ness, to the native austerity of the liquor.

I speak with assurance, concerning the
foregoing weak helps, having, for a long

course

46 CORRESPONDENCE

course of years, made and varied, to no
purpose, the experiments of them all ; till
I grew weary, at last, of the trials, and
threw them into the list of Solomon's va-
nities.

At length (that I might not have it to
say, I once travelled much to no purpose
at all) it came into my thoughts, that, in
Candia, and Rhodes, and two or three
other of the islands of Greece, I had seen
them boiling their newly-pressed must (be-
fore fermentation) into a very thick, syrup-
like consistence; which I take to be the
same thing the Spaniards call cute, and put
in practice in the parts about Alicant and
Malaga. Though I was very young at that
time, I remember I had the curiosity of
asking the cause of the process ; and was
answered, that the grapes in those coun-
tries always ripening to a viscid and clam-
my excess, the juice that they yielded came
too thick into the vat, and carried along
with it such a mucilaginous texture of

fibres.

WITH AARON HILL. 47

fibres, as not only prolonged fernientation
till it induced an acidity on the wine, but
also kept it in a ropy indisposition to set-
tle ; so that, to accelerate the fining of the
wine, they had fijund out this method of
boiling the must : whereby, the pulp be-
coming liquified, the strings were no lon-
ger suspended, but grew naked and thready,
and sunk easily down with the faeces.

You have met with a great many men
in your time, who were unexpectedly got
to the end of their lives, just as they were
beginning the plan of their purposes. You
see an image of it just now. I was come to
the end of my sheet, w hen I had scarce
reached the middle of my story.

But I was telling you a remedy for wines,
that are by nature too rich, and in a cli-
mate where grapes ripen too much. You
will wonder of what use such a practice
ran be, with regard to a country where the
wines are so poor, that the] grapes scarce
ever ripen at all. But it is so easy to graft

di lie rent

4S CORRESPONDENCli

different fruits on one stock, that a very
little reflection threw a benefit in my way
from this slight observation, that will, I
hope, prove no small one to my country.
I considered that jejune unripe juices want
two qualities of wine, that is, body and
softness. It was obvious that the first of
these two could not fail to be a consequence
of boiling down new must to u third, more
or less, of its original quantity; for nothing
evaporating before fermentation, but the
watery parts of a liquor, it follows, that if
two parts be wasted in boiling, the third
will be three times as thick as it would have
been in its natural condition. And, as to
the second thing wanting, the softness, i
expected, v/hat fell out in the experiment,
that the boiling would not only sweeten the
juice, but precipitate a great part of the
tartar, to tlie increase of both smoothness
and flavoar.

But here arose an unforeseen difficulty,
which^ at last, I had the good fortune to

ixet

WITH AARON HILL. 49

get over. The mu^t, so enriched from its
syruppy consistence of body, and an in-
disposition to ferment (an effect it derived
from the boiling), lay inactive and still in
the pipes, and found the autumn and vv^in-
ter of England too cold to allow it to work;
and, even when next summer came on, of-
ten passed the warm months in the same
calm condition, so that these were the two
extremes of the prospect ; either improving
the consistence of the must, it became in-
capable of working so much as it ought, or
leaving it in its natural greenness, it would
fret, with renewed fermentations upon every
mild change of the weather, till the poor
body it brought from the grape was de-
stroyed, and the wine became undrinkably
acid.

The medium I happened to find, was to
boil down one proper proportion into an
excessive thick cute, and therewith feed
the other, left to work according to its na-
tural tendency, so as to prolong and invi-

voL. I. D gorate

5d CORRESPONDENCE

gorate the fermentation till the oils were
Sufficiently rarefied, and the salts as com-
pletely expanded; and a body produced
of force to sustain all the tumult, and
sheath the two contraries, in a flavorous
and spirited smoothness.

See, dear Sir, the history of the wine
I have sent you a taste of. It waits on you,
perhaps, before it is so bright, as it would
have been the easiest thing in the world to
have made it. But, none of the wine-
cooper's arts having been permitted to de-
bauch its true English firmness of heart, I
was resolved to use none in the fining it
down, but have left it, in every particular,
to nature; so led, but not pushed, as you
have seen in the foregoing part of this let-
ter ; and, I am mistaken, if France can
produce such a Burgundy. I believe it
would be proper to put the bottles (for one
night a,t least), down into a cellar, before
you taste the wine j it having been bottled
"but yesterday from the cask, and probably
a little warmed by the cai'riage.

And

WITH AARON HILL. 51

And now, dear Sir, I will tell you why I
send you the wine, with so long a descrip-
tion of its manner of making. In the first,
I consulted your health j in the second,
your pleasure. What I mean by your plea-
sure, I will explain by and by ; giving your
health, as it deserves, the first place in my
meanings. It is not above a month or six
weeks since, when observing the quick
lively taste to be just what I wished it; and
that, notwitlistanding the brisk sprightly
flavour, the wine seemed to carry a full
and deep strength of body, I took a fancy
to compare (in an experiment from distil-
lation of two equal quantities), not foreign
Burgundy, for that, I made no doubt, was
much weaker, but the strongest French
claret I could get, in order to try it against
this product of England. The efiect was,
that from the claret I obtained a sixth part
of the quantity in spirit; from the English
Burgundy, a full fourth; which being more,
by one in five, than the oldest port wines
will produce, gave me an inclination to
D 2 drink

52 COHRESPONDENCB

drink it every day since that time : and my
recovery so immediately and surprisingly
followed, that I cannot help flattering my-
self, you will feel some good consequences
yourself, in regard to the disorder on your
spirits.

And now I am come to the last thing,
your pleasure. You may remember that
about the end of the summer before this,
you sent me Mr. Miller's folio volume,
wherein he had been very full on that head,
though it had not been printed in the oc-
tavo edition. He has there a paragraph,
that hints at feeding thin wines, when they
fret overmuch, with some of the same kind
of grapes the must had been made of; and
the idea yet arose in my mind, from his use
of the significant expression oi^ feeding, to
the new manner of using my cute, with a
success tiiat has answered my best expec-
tation. And I am sure it will give you
a pleasure to find yourself contributing, so
immediately, the occasion to which I owed
the improvement.

I looked

WITH AARON HILL. 53

I looked back in this place, and am
frighted to see myself at the bottom of the
eighth page of a letter ! I snatch oif my
my pen, with astonishment ! and hasten to
tell you that, whether too silent, as lately,
or too much the reverse, as at present,
I am always, your's, &c.

A. Hill.

J^ TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Dec. 17, 1740.
DEAR SIR,

JL OU have agreeably deceived me into a

surprise, which it will be as hard to express,

as the beauties of Pamela. Though I

opened this powerful little piece with more

expectation than from common designs of

like promise, because it came from your

hands for my daughters, yel who could

have dreamed he sho\dd find, under the

modest disguise of a novel, all the soul of

jreligion, good breeding, discretion, good-

D v^ nature,.

54 CORRESPONDENCE

nature, wit, fancy, fine thought, and mo-
rality? I have done nothing but read it to
<)thers, and hgar others again read it to me,
ever since it came into my hands; and I
find I am likely to do nothing else, for the
Lord knows how long yet to come; be-
cause, if I lay the book down, it comes af-
ter me. When it has dwelt all day long
upon the ear, it takes possession, all night,
of the fancy. It has witchcraft in every
page of it ; but it is the witchcraft of pas--
sion and meaning.

Yet, I confess, there is one in the world,
of whom I think with still greater respect
than of Pamela, and that is of the wonder-
ful author of Pamela. Pray who is he, dear
Sir ? and where and how has he been able
to hide, hitherto, such an encircling and
all-mastering spirit ?

I must venture to add, without mincing
the matter, what I really believe of this
book. It will live on, through posterity,
with such unbounded extent of good con--

quences.

WITH AARON HILL. HH

quences, that twenty ages to come may b^
the better and wiser for its influence.

If it is not a secret, oblige me so far as
to tell me the author's namcj for since I
feel him the friend of my soul, it would be
a kind of violation to pretend him a stran-
ger. I am not able to thank you enough
for this highly acceptable present ; and, as
for my daughters, they have taken into
their own hands the acknowledgments due

frpm their gratitude.

I am, &c.

A. HiT.T...

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Dec. 29, 1740. . , V /V
MY DEAR FRIEND, a yj(^

^^HOEVER considers your Pamela, ^-^
with a view to find matter for censure, is in /
the condition of a passionate lover, who
breaks in upon his mistress, without fear /

D 4

or

56 CORRESPONDENCE

or wit, with intent to accuse her and quar-
rel. He came to her with wrath in his pur-
pose ; but his heart subdues his malice, and
he goes away more enslaved for complain^
ing.

The designs you have taken for frontis-
pieces, seem to have been very judiciously
chosen -, upon pre-supposition that Mr.
Hogarth is able (and if any-body is, it is he),
to teach pictures to speak and to think.

We have a lively little boy in the familj'-,
about the age of your dear eldest charmer ;
but, alaa for him, poor child, quite un-
friended, and born to no prospect. He is
the son of an honest, poor soldier, by a
wife, grave, unmeaning, and innocent.
Yet the boy (see the power of connubial
simplicity 1) is so pretty, so gentle, and gay-
spirited, that we have made him, and de-
signed him, our own, ever since he could tot-
ter and aim at words. The wanton rogue is
half air ; and every motion he acts by, has
a spring like your Pamela's, when she threw

down

V

WITH AARON HILL. 57

down the card-table. All this quickness,
however, is tempered by a good-natured
modesty; so that the wildest of his flights
are thought rather diverting than trouble-
some. He is an hourly foundation for
laughter, from the top of the house to the
parlours ; and to borrow an attribute from
the Rev. Mr. Peters, plays a very goodfd-
dle in the family, I have told you the his-
tory of this tom-tit of a prater, because,
ever since my first reading of Pamela, he
puts in for a right to be one of her hearers j
and, having got half her sayings by heart, Q
talks in no other language but her's ; and '^'^j^
what really surprises, and has charmed me
into a certain foretaste of her influence, he
is, at once, become fond of his books,
which (before) he could never be brought
to attend to — that he may read Pamela, he
says, without stopping. The first discovery
we made of this power, over so unripe and
unfixed an attention, was one evening, wIku
I w<as reading her reflections at the pond to
D 5 some

^ CORRESPONDENCE

some company. The little rampant intru-
der, being kept out by the extent of the
circle, had crept nnder my chair, and
was sitting before me on the carpet, with
his head almost touching the book, and his
face bowing down towards the fire. He had
sat for some time in this posture, with a
stillness that made us conclude him asleep ;
when on a sudden we heard a succession of
heart-heaving sobs, which, while he strove
to conceal from our notice, his little sides
swelled as if they would burst, with the
throbbing restraint of his sorrow. I turned-
his innocent face to look towards me, but
liis eyes were quite lost in his tears; which
Tunning down from his cheeks in free cur-
Tcnts, had formed two sincere little foun-
tains on that part of the carpet he hung
over. All the ladies in company were ready
to devour him with kisses, and he has since
become doubly a favourite ; and is, perhaps,
the youngest of Pamela's converts.

Your's, &c. A. Hill.

TO

WITH AARON HILL. 59

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Dec. 1740.

V y HAT a genteel wellrturned epigram
have jou sent me, my (Jcar friend! But
from so kind and so partial a hand, that
whatever I may think, I will rather say
nothing than confess myself charmed; ex-
cept with that part of it which compares
the ridge of rocks in the Shannqn, dividing
and enfeebling its current, to the perplex-
ing intervention of riiime, interrupting and
weakening the sense of expression *. The
ingenious complaint is too just (as our verse

* When noble thoughts with language pure unite,-
To give. to kindred excellence its right;
Tho' unencumber*d with the clogs of rhyme.
Where tinkling sounds for want of meaning chime;
Which, like the rocks in Shannon's midway course.
Divide the sease and interrupt its force;
Well we may judge so strong and clear a rill,
Flows hitlier from the Muses* sacred HILL.-

D & is

00 CORRESPONDENCE

is most commonly managed) for what page
in what poet will not give in cle-ar evidence,
that rhyme is as sweet a misleader as love ?
And yet, pray please to ask your lady and

Miss M ' (whose judgments, I am

sure, you have undeniable cause to confide
in) whether it is not the fault or neglect of
men's reason, when they follow beauty di-
vided from merit ?

I have a commission to thank you, again
and ag'ain, for my daughters. What a
terrible condition would you be in, if you
were bound to read half what they say of
you ! It is a comfort (you will answer)
when a man has to do with such menacing
baggages, that women cannot send their
tongues in a letter ! Yet it stands decreed
that the very next day these bold threat-
eners set their faces for London : Salisbury-
square is to be the first place against which
they will form their approaches. Nay,
and that all may be out (as you say) they

have

WITH AARON HILL. 61

have pressed me along with them, as an
escort in the march ; but I shall discharge
this my trust, like a true modern guide ;
and give notice, when we dislodge, to tlie
enemy.

Here I thought to have closed ; but there
is a never-to-be-wearied male tongue within
hearing that makes twice as much noise
(would you think it ?) as two dozen of good
girls all united ! And he (the six-year-old
urchin you wot of) will not suffer me to be
quiet a moment, till I promise him to let
you know what an effect your kind notice
had on him. And indeed, to say truth, I
would give a great deal for a power ta
impress your own generous heart but with
just half the joy wherewith you have quite
deluged over that of our volatile little bird
of a boy, upon his sight of your so-prettily
adapted kind present of books, and hearing
some of those tender and compassionate
expressions wherein your goodness eonde^
ficended to speak of him. Never talk of a

picture.

.62 CORRESPONDENCE

picture. — ^M^hat a faint gleam has painting
against the bold glow of Nature ! Would
I could describe to you the transported
rogue in his ecstacy ! Every \vord would
communicate a passion, and, by a kind of
contagious felicity, spread his rapture from
your ear to your fancy.

My daughters and I were sitting with a
table between us, and against a leaf of it,
-that fronted the fire, stood, bending, the
iittle scribbler, w ith his back to the chim-
ney, scrawling letters and syllables (as un-
restrained and as wild as his own active
innocence) upon pieces of paper, which I
allow him to collect, ^nd fill up his own
way, that the pleasure which he takes in
aspiring to meanings may attract him, by
insensible stages, to mean something, at
last, in good ep,rnest. It was easy to judge,
upon opening (the books, to whose hand
your indulgent and considerate elegance
had consigned them. However, I laid
them b.otii ,do>vn, aiid ^ai4. nothing; but

pro-

WITH AARON HILL. 63

proceeded to open one letter, after having
given my daughters the other. The busy
pirate, mean while, who had thrown aside
his pen upon a glimpse of the pictures, fell
to lifting the leaves, one by one, and was
peeping between them with the archness
and fear of a monkey ; and I left him (as
he thought) unobserved to the enjoyment
of his cautious discoveries, till I came to
that paragraph in your letter where you
call him the dear amiable boy^ which I pur-
posely read out aloud. At those words,
up flSlied all the fire of his eyes, with a
mixture of alarm and attention; and just
then one of my daughters happening to
say — " Now am I sure that this good-na-
tured and generous Mr. Richardson has
sent those two books for little Harry."
" See there,*' added the other, " what it is
^to be praised for a boy that is wise, and
loves reading." All the triumphs of fortu-
nate love, war, and glory, would be cold if
compared to his ecstacy ! Out burst a hun-
dred

64 CORRESPONDENCE

dred O Lords ! in a torrent of voice ren-
dered hoarse and half choaked by his pas-
sions. He clasped his trembling fingers
together ; and his hands were strained hard,
and held writhing. His elbows were ex-
tended to the height of his shoulders, and
his eyes, all inflamed with delight, turned
incessantly round from one side, and one
friend, to the other, scattering his triumph-
ant ideas among us. His fairy-face (ears
and all) was flushed as red as his lips; and
his flying feet told his joy to the floor, in
a wild and stamping impatience of gra-
titude. At last he shot himself, in acknow-
ledgment, upon me, with a force like a
bullet; and fastening his arms round my
neck, fell to kissing me for a minute or
two together, with so hard and so clinging
an eagerness, that it was impossible, with-
out hurting the little honest assaulter, to
disposses him of his hold, or his rapture.
Nobody could see such a scene without
being touched with uncommon delight at

this

WITH AARON HILL. 65

this strong sensibility in a child's appre-
hension ! What, though his words wanted
art to explain his conceptions? Nature
spoke them (most expressively) in the pangs
which adorned him !

So arose the first swell of this animal
tempest; nor have the waves yet subsided,
nor are they likely to subside, I assure you.
He reads, laughs, and dances all day : and
at night carries his two books to bed
with him; and, as I began, about a fort-
night ago, to encourage him to look some
poor letters together, and scrawl out his
notions upon small slips of paper (bidding
him look into written sheets which I lend
him, or into printed books, for the words
he would scribble, and if he finds them
not there, ask of any body in the house
how to spell them), he brings me every
morning some new piece of nonsense, from
the mint of his own wanton fancy; and
now, what a tedious long story of childisli
insignificance were here; but that I know

you

66 CORRESPONDENCE

you feel a pleasure in observing with how
early a tendency nature forms our first
passions to virtue ! How unhappy is it, that
the human degeneracy to evil should be a
consequence but of increase in our know-
ledge ! But for shame, let me now make an
end, lest you should think there is no
measure of conscience in.

Dear Sir, &c.

A. Hill.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

April \Z, 1741.
DEAR SIR,

Jl SHOULD not be able to forgive myself
for not writing to you so long, but that I
can honestly plead in atonement, that I
have never passed an hour without the
pleasure of thinking of you. My daugh-
ters are newly returned from a long couo-

try

WITH AARON HILL. 67

try ramble, whither they went with a kind
of regret, as it postponed a delight which
dwelt (and still dwells), in the uppermost
view of their hope. And, indeed, the de-
lay is, at present, rather my fault than
theirs j or, to speak it more properly, it is
the misfortune of us all j as arising from a
good deal of vexatious concern I have been
under, at some juvenile weaknesses in the

conduct of , whom, I begin to

be afraid, I shall find quite incapable of
the solid or serious turn of mind — 'Whether
in learning or business.

Well ! these are troubles we are heirs to
by nature, and we must receive them as
part of our patrimony. Neither ought I,
I think, to complain of my lot, while I
have two, out of four, who are just what I
wish them. •

The two good girls above meant, are
come home, quite filled and transported
with the triumphs of Pamela; and, I think,
in my conscience, they could not feel so

much

68 CORRESPONDENCE

inuch pleasure from a sense of their ownv
if they made any worth their desiring.

How does my dear Mr. Richardson doy
and all his dear family ? And how runs the
growing renown of his name, in a great,
wicked town, which his genius does honour
to ? — I am so hid among green leaves and
blossoms, that I read or see nothing that
busies the public, except now and then a
few newspapers ; but even from those I
have the joy to discern the justice that is
done to your Pamela ; and the oblique re-
putation weaker writers endeavour to draw,
from a distorted misuse of her name, for a
passport to malice and faction.

You will fmd, by what I now send yow,
how sincerely I told you, that it hardly was
possible to do what you have urged so re-
peatedly, so far as to change any thing
but a word, here and there, in your beau-
tiful work (for a work one, may call this fme
piece, with propriety, that is built for
ages !) — Yet, as you so kindly and warmly

insisted

WITH AARON HILL, 69

insisted on the attempt, I, who love to con-
sider your wishes as laws to my own- incli-
nation, took a late resolution to try how
far it was practicable, if a man could go
over your Pamela with the eye and the
heart of a cynic, at one reading, and, in
the next, with the vigilance of friendship —
to pick out any thing that might not suffer
by altering.

Upon the word of a friend and a gentle-
man, I found it not possible to go farther,
without defacing and unpardoriably injur-
ing beauties, which neither I, nor any man
in the world, but their author, could sup-
ply, with others as sweet and as natural !
—If you conceive such an inspection of
the rest worth your wishing, I will go
through them all, with the same care and
caution.

I am, &c.

A. Hill.

TO

70 CORRESPONDENCE

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

DEAR SIR,

jdpril 21, 1741.

!Rl11Y daughters being with me when I
had the pleasure of receiving your letter,
wherein you express a desire that some of
^^our praises might be retrenched, I read
it out to them aloud, and proceeded to re-
mark on it as follows:

There are three sorts of men, said I,
who can never have concurring opinions.
The envious hates all praise, except that
which is claimed by himself. The weak
has a sneaking and cowardly doubt of his
friend; because, wanting spirit to judge
for himself, he hangs his ear upon other
men's censures. But the candid examiner,
neither partial to friendship, nor biassed
by fools or their fashions, gives way to no-
thing but virtue and truth; and will* be
•equally warm and sincere in a reproach he

finds

WITH AARON HILL. 71

finds due to a friend, or in a praise that is
the right of an enemy. It is easy, con-
tinued I, to determine, that out of these
three there are two, who deserve no regard
from a writer of genius. And yet, what a
pity it is, to see him resigning his judg-
ment with a fruitless, however beautiful,
hope, to reconcile inconsistent extremes,
and unite all mankind in one sentiment!

Little Harry Campbell, whom you so
kindly condescend to remember, had
been listening all this while upon the floor,
under the umbrage of a pair of out-strut-
ting hoops; and sate so snugly concealed
in his covert, that I had forgot we had the
monkey so near us; till peeping out from
his petticoat canopy, with his face twisted
upward to find me, " Sir," said he, with an
air of attentive importance, " that's just
like one of my fables; there's no pleasing
every body. I will shew you the man, and
his little boy, and the ass ; and pray let me
write to my good Mr. Richardson about it,

for

72 CORRESPONDENCE

for it is in the book he was so kind as to
send little Harry."

I heard and have complied with the or-
der of the volatile busy-body; because, out
of the mouths of babes and sucklings — ^you
know the conclusion, and I leave it to your
reflection.

However, I have gone carefully over the
sheet, and return it you, with a retrench-
ment of every praise I found fit to give up.

Sordid taste, of an age we are doomed
to make part of! when to belie and ca-
lumniate with spirit, is thought the highest
attainment of wit ; and to applaud and dis-
tinguish with judgment, the boldest adven-
ture of folly.

After all, there is something due from a
man to himself, as well as to the rest of
the world; and I do not know which of the
two is exposed to tlie most dangerous error
—he who (too tenacious of his own first
impressions), gives up nothing to the judg-
ment of others } or he who, resolving upon

nothing

WITH AARON HILL. 73

nothing without previous deliberation and
forecast, quits his notions too easily, in
respect to rasher and much weaker deci-
sions ?

As to that extraordinary exception, which
has been taken by some of the cloth, against
the word silly, applied to a parson, I have
resumed it from Mr. "Williams, and bestow
it very heartily on the objectors. Sure
these gentlemen forgot, who injoined his
disciples to be wise as serpents. But if I
understand the distinction you designed for
Mr. Williams's character, he is drawn as a
well-moaning weak man, of too credulous
and unreflecting a confidence, to be hit by
the e[)itliet unguarded (my substitute, as
it now stands, for silly; for I would hu-
mour the sensibility — it would be uncivil to
cull it the pride — of the gentlemen who
think themselves hurt through his sides).

1 am charmed at the good news you send
me, concerning the progress of Pamela.
But you are too obliging, dear Sir, to put

V«L. I. E me

%

74 CORRESPONDENXE

me in mind of renewing a trouble, I hav«
been so often encouraged to give you ; and,
excepting tlie pieces you have been so kind
as to favour me with a sight of, I have read
nothing, of what has been published, for
eighteen months past; so that any books,
great or small, containing matter either so-
lid or curious, cannot fail to be welcome
and useful.

Against we hear that your present hurry
is a little abated, which, I suppose, may
be upon the rising of the house, my good
girls and I retain our purpose upon Salis-
bury-square. And, in the mean time, they
desire me to tell good Mrs. Richardson
^nd yourself, that they often dream of you
in the night, and have the liveliest foretaste
of your companies. I threatened them
tliis morning, that I would send their true
pictures before them, that you might ex-
pect to see nothing extraordinary; and
one of the baggages answered me, that the
most extraordinary thing I could send,

would

WITH AARON HILL. 75

would be the pictures of women drawn
truly. But I am running on, as if you had
nothing to do, but amuse yourself with the
prattle of two idle girls, and their imperti-
nent father, who is,

Your's, &c.
A. Hill.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

yu/y29, 1741..

jl "WILL not wound your apprehensive
mind, my dear friend, with the particulars
of what my days and nights have suffered,
since the happy afternoon we passed in
Salisbury-court. — It was the last and live-
liest of our pleasures ; and it seemed as if
the checquer-work of human instability
condemned us to this long vexation, be-
"Cause no short or common one could be
£ 2 consi'

76 CORRESPONDENCE

considered as a balance for it. It is not
possible to tell you with how charmed a
sensibility my daughters and myself re-
turned from that delightful visit, and what
schemes were formed between us for re-
newing and extending the felicity. But —
there followed a discovery, of such domestic
melancholy consequence, that I do not
know whether they, from sisterly, or I,
from fatherly concern, have undergone the
greatest share of restlessness. I fear vain
application to prevent the ruin of a youth,
who, being born without any aptitude to
thinkj.was destined to be led away by every
light temptation.

Imagine for us, from this general hint of
our affliction, that has many branches,
and let it justify us to your generous
thoughts.

I have been long accustomed to prepare
and arm my mind against impressions of
calamity; but, whether frequent exercise
of this too necessary virtue may now, at

last.

AVITH AARON HILL. 77

last, have deadened its due power to make
resistance, or what other weakness I should
charge it on, I know not ; but I find my-
self less able than I ought to be to shake '
off these successions of fresh evils, and
support a frame of temper answerable to
the shocks they give me.

But I will turn aside myself, and be no
part of my own prospect. Let me look
at, and delight in you, through all your
brightness of increasing fame : — a fame that
never was so well deserved before, and
never can be hurt by envy ; yet, what a
monstrous breadth of her coarse clouds
have you drawn up, by shining on them
with too strong a lustre ! Sometimes
I pity, and am sometimes very angry at,
the persisting dulness of their malice.—
Hitherto, however, it is innocent of con-
sequence. It must depend on you, not
them, to give ability to their bad purpose.
Should they prevail so far as to deprive the
world of any part of what your promise to
E 3 the

78 CORRESPONDENCE

the piiblic has now made a debt of honour,
then, indeed, their influence would be felt :
but this, dear Sir, you must not, cannot,
sufler. And yet, I almost dread to ask
what I long ardently to hear: — how far
have you gone on in that bold, dangerous,
glorious. Second Part, which no man
breathing but the author of the First is
equal to ?

My two good girls, all-charmed and
filled with the idea of that happy afternoon,
will not allow me to say any thing about
them; because, as soon as they can find
their hearts at ease enough to tell their
transports, they reserve themselves the
pleasure of avowing what they feel. And,
as for me, I never shall be able to express
how truly I shall live and die.

Dear Mr. Richardson's
most humble

and affectionate Servant,
A. Hill.

TO-

WITH AARON HILL. 79

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

DEAR SIR,

Oct. 15, 1741.

Al. thousand thanks are due to you
for the two delightful sheets of Pamela,
part II. Where will your wonders end? or
how could I be able to express the joy it
gives me to discern your genius rising, not
like a pyramid, still lessening at it labours
upward, but enlarging its proportion witii
the grace and boldness of a pillar, that,
however high its shaft is lifted, still looks
largest at its capital. Go on. Dear Sir, (I
see you will and must) to charm and cap-
tivate the world, and force a scribbling race
to learn and practice one new virtue — to
be pleased with what disgraces them. My
daughters are in Surry, preaching Pamela,
and Pamela's author, with true apostolical
attachment J and they and I are, every
where and every way, both his and his
dear family's most faithful servant,

A. Hill.

E 4 TO

80 CORRESPONDENCE

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Oct. 24, 1742.
DEAR SIR,

it OU are, as usual, very kind and good ;

and, because I know that your good-nature

would be pleased if I could tell you what

it wishes to hear from me, I am grieved it

is not in my power to send you word that

we are all, once more, recovered.

On the contrary, I languish still, and
hourly shrink away in flesh and spirit,
without any other visible remains of my
late fever. I have neither strength nor
appetite ; and (which is quite af new afflic-
tion to me) I am tortured with sharp head-
aches.

All my family have been, or are, in the
sajne bad condition. Our gardener we
have buried, who was taken ill the very
day and hour that I was. And, truly, it
was a loss beyond all likelihood or pro-
mise from a man of his condition. He

was

WITH AARON HILL. 81

was one of those few servants who attach
themselves by heart, as well as duty, to the
will and interest of the family they live in.
He was sober, modest, silent, ever busily
laborious, and ingenious beyond any in-
stance I have met with, of a person in his
■station. He turned his hand, with readi-
ness and pleasure, to whatever interruption
of his present applications he was called
away to, and was never known to murmur,
or even look dissatisfied. He was an ex-
cellent mathematician j surveyed and mea-
fiured land, with great exactness ; was
«mith, cargenter, cooper, bricklayer, and
whatever artizau the family had use for;
and, in all these different talents had at-
tained a -handy and dispatchful readiness.
He loved, and was beloved by every body
in the family: and I will not ask your
pardon for this story I have told you of
him ; because it would be doing an injus-
tice to your humanity, who know to mea-
sure the true value of a good and faithful
E ^ servant.

82 CORRESPONDENCE

servant, not as it often is, but as it should
be measured.

As soon as it please God we have the
power to think of stirring, we shall quit,
with proper haste and indignation, this
unlucky and ill-chosen place, (most part of
whose inhabitants we have seen buried)
and are in hopes to find relief in the dry,
smoaky air of London.

My daughters (all that is left them of
themselves) are most sincerely and affec-
tionately your's, and your dear family's.

My only comfort is, that I am able now
to write and read, without much difficulty;
and so I fdl up a large vacuum? which else
would but make room for idle thoughts and
vapours. I will yet delight myself with
the idea of those future happier hours, I
hope to make myself amends by,, in your
company, for all these sad and gloomy ones,
that have so Long and cruelly affected,

Your ever faitliful servant,.

A. Hill.

WITH AARON HILL. 83.

TO MR. HILL.

Salisbury-court, Fleet-street,
Oct. 29, 1742.
GOOD SIR»
Jl CANNOT avoid troubling you with a
ftew lines on the melandioly subject of
your last, which so greatly affected me,
that I could not help speaking of it to a
skilful friend, who greatly admires you.

He desired me to recommend to your
better consideration two things for your
case: the one to quit, with all possible
haste, the air that has been so unkindly
pernicious to you^ and to get into the
town. His reason was more especially
the season of the year, w^hen, as he ob-
serves, the fall of the leaves fills the pools,
the ponds, and the dikes, as well as the mois-
ter air, with particles, and animalcula, and
perishables, of vegetable as well as animal
nature, that are so noxious to tender con-
stitutions 5 and which are qualified by the
E. 6 Londoiv

84 CORRESPONDENCE

London smoak, and the warmer air of a
close compacted city. The other is, the
asses milk ; and I have such hopes from
both, that I should not have held myself
excused, if I had not instantly — ^the very
moment — ^while eyen my friend was but
stepping from me, taken pen in hand on
the occasion.

In mean time. Sir, and till you can be
provided to your wish, and that you may
change your present air by such degrees
for that of the town as may not be too sen-
sible, I should think myself greatly favour-
ed, if you would be pleased to fill a coach
£rom your dear family, and try the Ham-
mersmith air. I have only a female ser-
vant there, who is there all the year, and
one of my town maids, whom I send thither
for her health, which is amended by the
air. And that you may see how free I will
be, I will acquaint you, that, from this time
to the 12th of November, I shall not have
<my otlier friead there : tliat, on that day,

indeed.

WITH AARON HILL. 85

indeed. Miss R- , who is to change

her name with her new friend, retires thi-
ther, to avoid the noise of the town, for
one week, or so ; and, after that, it will
again be quite free, and at your service.
And, as the parlours are distinct, as well
as the bedchambers, and I can make ten
beds within the house, I will be down or
up, and not invade, but at your pleasure
and that of the ladies, a moment of your
retirement, nor shall any one else. The
preparations for the solemnity I have men-
tioned permit me not to make the same
offer as to Salisbury-court ; else, with what
pleasure should I do it ! And, I hope. Sir,
my freedom in what I have mentioned will
conyince you of the ease and convenience
it would be to me to be thus favoured.
My dear Sir, what can be done ? Change
of air only, even sometimes of a good to a
more indifferent one, is of benefit j what
then may it not be of an indifferent to a
better: for a swampy to a drier? And

there

86 CORRESPONDENCE

there will not want one hour's time on my
side to prepare for you or your's; for I
will not make strangers of you, or do one
thing for you that I would not otherwise
do, as to the customary matters of the
house, furniture, &c.

What an excellent servant have you lost !
But he was happy in such a master and
ladies ! That servant must be very bad in
nature, that could not be made good in
such a household. — Yet, for his many other
talents and abilities, M'here can such an-
other, in his or in any station, be found \
But could he have known that he should
have been thus lamented; the loss of him
thus regretted, by so excellent a masteri,
how happy to him must have been the last
moments of his life !

I Vv ill not dwell upon the melancholy
subject, although it affords me another
argument — change of scene, as well as air,
to support my earnest wishes in the favour
begged for by. Sir, your's truly,

S. Richardson.

TO«

WITH AARON HILL. 8?

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

January 20 J 1743-4.
DEAR SIR,

JLF, among the arts, whereby I delight
myself, in amusing my retreat from the
world, by the practical examination of
their ideas, I could but find out some way
to transmute a warm wish into benefit, ne-
ver mortal was happier than I would make
you feel and confess yourself. You should
be puzzled by nothing, but how to raise a
new hope ; or contrive a desire, which you
already possessed not the end of. As it is,
I must content myself with the simple
power of sending you a few fruitless thanks,
for the obliging regard you are so good to
retain for me and my family ^ not a branch
of which but knows how to value it, at so
just a rate, as to prefer it to any of the
fashionable new-year's gifts, that are said
to be sent abroad from St» James's.

I began

SS C0RRES1P0NDENCE

I began to fear for the state of your
health, and almost dreaded to ask how
your spirits sustained the late sharp wea-
ther, quite unheedful as I was; that I my-
self had been the cause of your long si-
lence, by forbearing to inform you, that
'we were condemned (for one year, still,
from Christmas last), to bear with the bad
air of Plaistow. It is a quiet, and not quite
unpleasant (were it but a healthy), soli-
tude ; a place tha$ seems to have been only
formed for books, and meditation, and the
Muses. — God give to you, and all you love,
those pleasures, and a thousand livelier,
for a long, long, happy length of years to
<;ome, and every year still mending. I am^

Dear Sir,

iJar ever your most faithful

and affectionate servant,

A. Hill.

TO

WITH AARON HILL. B9

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Jpril 2, 1745.

Jl NOW daily gather better hopes, and
will, as soon as I can bear the yet too
pinching sharpness of the air, enjoy a few
days with you> where your goodness has
so often wished me; and whence some evil
daemon, envious of my intended happiness,
has seemed, as often, busy in contriving
accidents to disappoint me !

Do me the favour to accept an Easter
offering from me. It is a small one ; but,
I hope, may be productive of some future
ones, deserving your possession. I believe
the piece may yet be out in a fit season,
and before the town begins to thin.

The title may a little startle you * ; but
you will find the satire (as it should be al-
ways), general, and levelled against things,

* Go to bed Tom, afterwards The Fanciad.

not

90 CORRESPONDENCE

not persons. I do not love the air of boast
or vanity j but, if the world receives this
poem coldly, I have done with hoping to
content them. It will have novelty, at
least (if that can recommend it) ; for many
of the sentiments are such as are not only
new, but for the most part opposite to the
received opinions upon commercial, poli-
tic, and military subjects j and that, too,
in points, whose consequences deserved to
have been better weighed than they have
been, or seem to me to have been, by the
managers of states, and their determinar-
tions.

So much for the general turn and matter
of the poem, which I beg you to bestow^
at leisure, an attentive reading on, and;
tell me frankly what elfect it has upon you»
I shall, and safely may, from that; fore-
judge its public fate ; for, if it does not
please yoiL,. more than commonly,.! have
been cheated into an ill-grounded hope,
fi'om a fond parent's blind partiality : bav-
ins:

WITH AARON HILL. 91

ing bestowed more care and labour on this
piece, than I shall dare confess, if you do
not feel it in the reading you bestow upon
the verses.

As to what may seem particular in the
poem, the compliments to the Marlborough
family, my purpose is as public-spirited,
even there, as every poet's ought to be, on
every subject which he touches. If it can
prove a means of stirring up an inclination
to enable (by their family memoirs), some
fit hand to write a history of the late duke's
conduct • of the war, that both the nation
and the family may draw due glory from,
I shall have been the instrument of no small
future reputation to my country ; which is
(I hope), I* am sure she ought to be,
ashamed to see a length of victories, that
shook one half of Europe, and redeemed
the other, making so lame, so dark, so all-
entangled and confused a figure; that what
must certainly have been the laboured, and
produced, effect of genius, almost more
than human, seems a mass of huddled and

unpurposed

92 CORRESPONDENCE

unpurposed accidents, wherein events were
thrown for, and but followed fortune !

It is impossible for me to close this let-
ter, before I have added the most import-
ant affair it will speak of — I mean, that
obstinate weight and dizziness in your
head — shall I venture to tell you, that I
am sometimes afraid, lest you should fall
too far into the practice of your friend>
Dr. Cheyne's cold doctrines, of abstinence
and excess of evacuations. All extremes
are reproachable ; and that gentleman, in
many of his late writings, seems to forget,
that his own case is not every-body 's ; and
is for treating us, all, like valetudinarians.
Nature ought to be followed (helped, in-
deed, now and then), but fiever to be
thwarted and crossed in her tendencies. 1
have strongly experienced this truth in my
late long confinement. Among other joint
causes, I owed the misfortune to a decay
in the force of my spirits, under a too cold,
too abstinent, regimen of diet.

I will trouble you with no more, now*

upon

WITH AARON HILL. 93

upon this subject, or on any other; but
make haste to tell you, that in health, or
out of health, in poetry or prose, in spirit
And in truth, I never can be other than.

Your faithful humble servant,

A. Hill.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

April 5y 1743.
DEAR SIR,

JL OU are kind, with the usual partiality
of your friendly good wishes, in what you
hint about the hand wherein you would
be glad to see the memoirs of the great
family mentioned in the poem. To be
sure, min<i is infinitely too weak for the
demand of the subject ; and so, I fear, will
any other be found, to whose care such a
trust has a probability of being committed.
For, I do not know how it happens, but

certain

04 CORRESPONDENCE '

certain it is, history is one of the rarest of
all human accomplishments, and no plant,
I am sure, of our climate. It is owing to
a very long and unwearied application to
its study, that I am more than ordinarily
shocked at its too scandalous deficiency,
upon a subject so replete with occasion for
national glory ! But I am doubtful whether
this defect is so obvious as it ought to be
to the family in whose possession the papers
lie, which alone can give foundation to a
hope for the cure of it. I will tell you,
very frankly, the whole extent of my scheme
on this subject.

I hope it is no extravagant supposition,
that the poem may remind the family, and
also the public, that such an undertaking
ought to be promoted; and when, against
next winter, (many general conversations
on the subject being likely in the interval)
they shall be prepared for the impression of
a proof, that nothing that deserves the name
of history has yet appeared in honour of the

duke's

WITH AARON HILL. 95

fluke's great actions, I have tlioughts of get-
ting ready an essay on the campaign of one
year only; (for instance, that of Blenheim)
wherein, when they discern how different
a figure the duke makes from that which
he has hitherto appeared in, they will infer
that he might still be made to shine beyond
comparison more brightly, by the help of
those assistances which they can furnish
for the future. For they will feel, that
what they now beleive sufficiently ex-
plained is darkness, when they see the
subject in the lights it ought to be pro-
duced in; whereas, till then, they may, and
I believe they do, conceive that there is
nothing wanting, to convey a full idea to
posterity of actions, which (far from it!)
must, as now related, carry down a gross
and muddy bulk of ill-packed and hard-
folded intricacies.

My greatest difficulty would be to find,
among our own and the Frciich tracts, ex-
aiiiined and considered together, matter

enough

yd CORRESPONDENCE

enough wherefrom to disentangle facts and
motives, in sufficient charity to form, at
least, so much upon as to demonstrate, by
another model, that the old ones are too
heavy and defective to content the nation
t)r the family; but, I believe, it might be
practicable to select, one way or other,
materials for that one year's history; and
what defects the manuscript must have, for
want of helps the family could furnish, may
(if they please) be remedied before the
public comes to judge of the performance^
This is my plan : and my chief motive
is that true and honest one insinuated in
the poem, from the apprehension of our
conquerors losing ground in histories so
far inferior to the genius they pretend to
celebrate. I know it is too likely, from
my own experience. The duke's own
modest silence on the actions he could
have best described, who only could have
executed tliem, and the confused and dark
accounts which other hands perplexed my

apprehen-

WITH AARON HILL. 97

apprehension by, while they pretended to
enlighten it, misled me to a rash conclu-
sion, which I have since, but by mere ac-
cident, discovered to have been a very false
and unjust one. And, I am sure, it is rea-
sonably to be suspected, that what now, so
near the time wherein the actions were
performed, could cause me to mistake the
author of them so unjustly, will, in times
still more and more removed, produce still
grosser errors, to the disadvantage of that
great man's future character.

I am, &c.

A. HiLU

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

DEAR SIR,

jl SEND you back LeUers XI. and XII. of

your still growing, as well as lengthening,

beauty. She is infinitely pleasing, and so

VOL. I. F sweetly

98 CORRESPONDENCE

sweetly natural in her movement, that you
could not make her seem too tall, though
you should stretch her out to as much vast-
ness as the fame of Virgil.

If there is any place that can be short-
ened, without maiming this delightful com-
position, you, who have created it, and have
its whole proportion and connexion in your
eye at once, are better justified in doing it,
than it is possible for any other man to be,
who, seeing it in parts, divided, and at
distant times, would use, methinl>s, a bold-
ness too unpardonable in advising to re-
trench the smallest piece of any of its
pages, ttll he has revised and re-considered
it in its conclusive and accomplished full-
ness.

You crowd, indeed, your observations
and reflections, in this charming work.
But is not that the very life, and soul, and
fire, that makes the use and beauty of it
impressive and so striking? Jn fact, it is in
the first stages (if at. all) that you must look

for

WITH AARON HILL. 99

for lopping-places. All your after-growths
are sacred, to the smallest twig ; and can ad-
mit no cutting, without downright violation.

I am greatly pleased at the small hint
you give of a design to raise another Alps
upon this Appenine ! We can never see
too many of his works who has no equal
in 4^is labours.

Forgive the haste I write this with, being
called off, by business, in the middle of it
but, for ever. Dear Sir,

your most obliged, &c.

A. Hill.

TO MR. RICHARDSON,

January 1y 1 744-5.
DEAR SIR,

JlT now seems so long since you obliged
me with the two first pieces of your beau-
tiful new work, that I am half ashamed to
tell you why I have not sooner thanked
F 2 yoH

100 CORRESPO>fPENCE

you for the pleasure they brought with
them.

I hsLve (in weighed and oft-repeated read-
ings), found your blank leaves doomed to
an unspotted virgin purity. I must not,
nay, I dare not, think of violating them.
Indeed, I see no modest possibility of do-
ing it ; since precision, in so natural a flow
of drapery, would only serve to stiffen,
what you bid me shorten. You have form-
ed a style, as much your property as our
respect for what you write is, where ver-
bosity becomes a virtue; because, in pic-
tures which you draw with such a skilful
negligence, redundance but conveys re-
semblance; and to contract the strokes,
would be to spoil the likeness.

In short, I cannot improve you. Would
you have me frankly tell you why? It is,
because I want the power to imitate you.
You must be content to stand alone ; and
truly so you would, though fifty dwarf as-
sistants were to croud into your shadow !

You

WITH AARON ttlLL. lOi

You contain, like the new notion of philo-
sophy in vegetation, a whole species in on#
single kernel. Nothing will be ever of
your kind, unless yourself produces it.

I could not have said less than this ; and
more I will forbear to say, till you have
sent the wiiole performance to.

Dear Sir, Your's, &c.

A. Hill.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

DEAR SIR,

July 24, 1744.
JL HAVE, again and again, re-perused
and reflected on that good and beautiful
design I send you back the wide and ar-
duous plan of. It is impossible, after the
wonders you have shewn in Pamela, to
question your infallible success in this new,
natural, attempt. But you must give me
^ 3 leave

102 CORRESPONDENCE

leave to be astonished, when you tell me
you have finished it already !

The honour you intended me, in such a
trust as you once thought of*, is a com-
pliment, you may be sure, of no small in-
fluence ; since it had the power of giving
me some pleasure, mixed, as k came to
me, with so horrible, and not to be re-
thought of, an idea !

As to Dr. Young, I know and love the
merit of his moral meanings ; but am sorry
that he overflows his banks, and will not
remind himself (when he has said enough
upon his subject), that it is then high time
to stop. He has beauties scattered up and
down in his complaints, that, had he not so
separated them by lengths of cooling in-
terval, had been capable of carrying into
future ages such a fire, as few past ones
ever equalled. What a pity want should
be derived from superfluity!

• To bequeath to his friendly care and judgment my
poor writings.

he

WITH AARON HILL. 106

To the author of the Seasons, will yon
be so good as to return my thanks, for his
remembering an old friend j who, though
he had still been forgotten, would, not-
withstanding that, have yearly traced him
round with new delight, from Spring quite
down to Winter.

And, because I find myself obliged to
another writer for his present, through such
a hand as your's, pray please to let him
know, I thank him for the favour. But,
indeed, the more I read of these blank
verse eruptions, the more beautifully ne-
cessary I perceive the yoke of rhyming.
It is a kind of trammel that compels close
stepping j whereas the wild luxuriant wan-
tonness of those unfettered launchers into
liberty, throws down enclosure, on pre-
tence of latitude; and overtrampling all
propriety, marked bound, or limitation,
turns distinction into dcsart, and lays dry
the Muses' districts.

Good night, my dear Mr. Richardson.;
F 4 be

104 CORRESPONDENCE

he happy and healthy, and continue to
write on and charm on, and instruct the
true way by example !

Your's ever. A, Hill.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

DEAR SIR,

Sept, 10, 1744.

Tt^E cannot yet say a great deal of the
health you are so kind to wish us. But
our tedious lease is near expiring j and, by
next spring, we shall have before us the
advantage of some better choice, for mend-
ing our bad situation.

Mr. Pope, as you with equal keenness
and propriety express it, is go?ie out. I
told a friend of his, who sent me the first
news of it, that I was very sorry for his
death, because I doubted whether he would
live to recover the accident. Indeed, it
gives me no surprise, to find you thinking
he was in the wane of his popularity. It

arose

WITH AARON HILL. 105

*rose, originally, but from meditated little
personal assiduities, and a certain bladdery-
swell of management. He did not blush
to have the cunning to blow himself up,
by help of dull, unconscious, instruments,
whenever he would seem to sail, as if his
own wind moved him.

The heart of man is said to be inscruta-
ble : but this can scarce be truly said of
any writing man. The heart of such still
shews, and needs must aiiew itself, beyond
all power of concealment; and, without
the writer's purpose, or even knowledge,
will a thousand times, and in a thousand
places, start up in its own true native co-
lour, let the subject it is displayed upon
bend never so remotely from the un-in-
tended manifestation. — How many have I
heard declare (and people, too, who loved
truth dearly, and believed they spoke it),
that they charmed themselves in reading
Pamela; when, all the while, it was Mr.
Kichardson they had been reading.

F 5 In

106 CORRESPONDENCE

In fact, if any thing was line, or truly
powerful, in Mr. Pope, it was chiefly cen-
tered in expression : and that rarely, when
not grafted on some other writer's precon-
ceptions. His own sentiments were low
and narrow, because always interested ;
darkly touched, because conceived imper-
fectly; and sour and acrid, because writ
in envy. He had a turn for verse, without
a soul for poetry. He stuck himself into
his subjects, and his muse partook his ma-
ladies ; which, with a kind of peevish and
vindictive consciousness, maligned the
healthy and the satisfied.

One of his worst mistakes was, that un-
necessary noise he used to make in boast of
his morality. It seemed to me almost a
call upon suspicion, that a man should rate
the duties of plain honesty, as if they had
been qualities extraordinary ! And, in fact,
I saw, on some occasions, that he found
those duties too severe for practice ; and
but prized himself upon the character, in

pto-

WITH AARON HILL. 10?

proportion to the pains it cost him to sup-
port it.

But rest his memory in peace ! It will
very rarely be disturbed by that time he
himself is ashes. It is pleasant to observe
the justice of forced fame ; she lets down
those, at once, who got themselves pushed
upward ; and lifts none above the fear of
falling, but a few who never teazed her.

What she intends to do with me, the
Lord knows ! The whole I can be sure of
is, that never mortal courted her with less
solicitude. And, truly, if I stood con-
demned to share a place in her aerial store-
house, with some> characters that fill up
great voids there, as things go at present,
I should railier \w<\kv a leg, shrink back,
and ask her pardon.

But, what have I to do with fame, who
have only, now and then, tiirown out a
loose leaf (sybil-like), and given the wind
free privilege to scatter it? Perhaps it
is better they should so be scattered > for so
F C I see

108 CORRESPONDENCE

I see it would have been, for many of our
liberal entailers of their works upon a
public, that is scarce disposed to rank
them among pastimes. — I am.

Dear Sir, Your's, &c.

A. Hill.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

DEAR SIR,

1744.

Jl MET with your letter (as a most sea-
sonable consolation), upon my return from
an application, that of all applications I
hate, a law plague, of tedious delays and
attendances, which my very soul seems
corroded by the oppressive chicaneries of.
You are always so good, that I scarce
knov/ where to begin or end the thanks I
find due to you. Reading, to say truth,
is the strongest holder-down of xny thought,

to

WITH AARON HILL. 109

to a diversion from uneasier reflexions.
Writing, possibly, might have the same
effect; but that I mortify myself with a
conscious distrust, that I think not to the
taste of the public. What a monstrous
new proof of it is, the reception that the
Fanciad has met with) It is a year or
more, too, since, upon information that
they were bringing on Alzira, at Drury-
lane House, I revised and altered that play,
and sent it them, improved and strength-
ened to a very great degree ; with the ad-
ditional name to it of Spanish Pride hum-
bled : and the seasonable popular prologue
I here inclose you, which I writ at Mr.
Fletewood's pressing desire. The play is
given out in parts, and is (they tell me),
to come on this season. But the manage-
ment there is so loose, that I question
whether it ought yet to be so far depended
on, as to deserve your thinking of another
edition, to be ready against its acting.
You charm me by the generous truths

you

110 CORRESPONDENCE

you remark, on the mercenary malignity
of Mr. Pope's narrow conduct. His ge-
nius is not native nor mventive : it is a
verbal flexibility of expressiveness, that
now and then throws such light on his
couplets. He can add a door or a window
to another man's house ; but he would
build very badly on a new plan, or model,
of his own disposition. He must have
something to lean against, or would not
move without falling. His imagination,
therefore, is weak and defective ; and since
his judgment too is demonstrably so, by
his everlastingly correcting his new edi-
tions for the Morse, below comparison, to
what else can we attribjite the prodigious
success which his writings have met with,
but to the industrious servility of the arts,
which he used, in his youth, to cajole and
hook in his supporters ? Never was any
thing, I think, more visible than this ap-
pears in the correspondence betwixt him
and Mr. Wycherly ^ and every-where else,

in-

WITH AARON HILL. .111

indeed, throughout all that we see, of his
beginnings. As to his Essay on Man
(which is a battle between beauties and
obscurities), you are very kind to his ge-
nius, when you consider that as a proof of
it, when the versification, I am afraid, is
liis whole — and the matter and design my
lord Bolingbroke's. And yet, in spite of
these truths, there is always here and there,
in whatever he writes, something so expres-
sed to bewitch us, that I cannot, for my soul,
help admiring him ; for he out-charms even
a poet, though he is none. — In this ridicu-
lous combat against king CoUey, some Mi-
nerva has lent the laureat a spear j for there
are strokes, of no Cibberine hand, in this
new Sixpenny-worth of Scorn, that he has
so wisely provoked the severity of

God bless the new shoots of your family,
and their dear root and sweet stem, and all
the lovely little blossoming branches.

I am, dear Sir, Your's, &,c.

A. Hill.

TO

112- CORRESPONDENCE

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

DEAR SIR,

Oct. 13, 1746.

-A-S to the story promised you concerning
Mr. iPope, I could not have forgot to give
it you. It left a much more deep impres-
sion on my memory than any vanity, that
was but a mere vanity, could have been
capable of fixing there. For a too partial
sensibility to self is often but a harmless,
to-be-pitied pride of head ; whereas here
seemed to have been something worsfe than
even a pride of heart — something that blew
up lightness into insolence; and added
coarseness to. ingratitude.

There was a verse, which Mr. Pope
had drawn from a mistaken hint in
Horace, which he would be oft repeating,
and was very fond of:

** For fools admire; but men of sense approie."

I used

WITH AARON HILL. 113

I used to tell him I abhorred the senti-
ment ; both from its arrogance, and want
of truth in nature. We had many con-
tests of this kind : but there are arguers,
whom heaven, as this same gentleman ex-
presses it extremely well,

" Has cun'd with hearts unknowing how to yield. '^

And so our battles usually were drawn
ones, where both sides laid claim to
victory.

In the last debate we had upon this sub-
ject, I desired to know if he was still, as
formerly, convinced Longinus's remark on
the sublime was right ? — " That the most
certain way of knowing it is from the
power in some idea touch'd enthusiasti-
cally, to move the blood and spirits into
transport, by a thrilling kind of joy, that
raises pride in him who hears the passage,
as if his soul grew wider, by expanding to
conceive such images."

He

I'l*- CORRESPONDENCr

He owned it was the strongest definition-
of the true sublime that could be possibly
imagined : but was sure, that only men of
genius could conceive it. Whereupon I
asked him whether joy^ and transport, and
enthusiasm, and a thrill of blood, could pos-
sibly consist with want of admiration ? He
perceived the use I made of his concession,
and said nothing, till I added this new
question: whether only fools admire, if only
men of genius are susceptible of a subr
limity of admiration ?

In some perplexity to find a better an-
swer, he was forced to satisfy himself with
saying, that Longinus's remark was truth;
but that, like certain truths of more im-
portance, it required assent from faith,
without the evidence of demonstration. I
replied, that I had had the pleasure to be
witness of its demonstration, in an instance
that himself gav e cause for.

His curiosity was raised, and I informed
him, that, at reading a new play at Lord
Tyrcounel's, there was present a gentle-
man.

WITH AARON HILL. IIJ

marij distinguished both for rank and ge-
nius, who, on a discourse about the difli-
Gulty of a delicate and manly praise, re-
peated those fine lines, in compliment to
the earl of Oxford, printed before D. Par-
nell's poems. — I added, that this gentle-
man had been so generously warmed, in
his repeating them, that he was the most
undeniable example I had ever seen of all
Longinus's effect of the sublime, in its
most amiable force of energy ! for, (break-
ing off into a humanised excess of rapture,
that expressed philanthropy with such a
natural beauty, that, had he been my
greatest enemy, I must have, from that
moment, been compelled to love him for
it) he told us, " He could never read those
verses without rapture j for, that sentiments
such as those were, appeared to carry
more of the god in them than the man, and
he was never weary of admiring them !"

I there looked on Mr. Pope, in expec-
tation of a question that he asked im-
mediately— " AVho was this gentleman ?'*

I an*

116 CORRESPONDENCE

I answered, it was the Speaker of the
House of Commons : and re-paused atten-
tively for the effect his gratitude was
brought in debt for.

But here arose the groundwork of my
story, in a vanity, that merited a name so
much severer, that, I own, I never after-
wards recovered the opinion I then lost of
that (too loud) pretensi^yn to high morals^
which you know he loved ta make on all
occasions.

In short, he had so much unfeeling ar-
rogance, as to receive this honour (done
him in so noble and so natural a manner) as
deserving only a strained supercilious
smile J and all he said upon it was — " The
Speaker is a man remarkable for heat of
passion j and such transports will be com-
mon to such tempers !"

I have done with this long little story.
But, as painters better catch a likeness
from some §mall unguarded glance of
negligence,, (ban any set position of the

coun-

WITH AARON HILL. 117

countenance, so, if I were disposed (as I
am not) to give the world an ugly picture
•of this famous poet's mind, I could not
chuse the help of a more strikingly charac-
teristic feature. It affected me the more,
because I knew him in the first gradations
of his rise to notice j and compared his
present ill-bred and contemptuous disre-
gard of admiration, with the mean sedulity
of all those arts of flattery wherewith he
courted praise, in the beginnings of his
growth to eminence. Many poor plots there
are which the least discerning eye can look
through, in the letters between him and
Mr. W3^cherly, and Harry Cromwell, and
in a long et castera of observations on his
<?Utset conduct. But it is time to put an
end to letters on the fourth page of a
sheet, and so.

Dear Sir, Your's, &c.

A. HiLt.

TO

118 CORRESPONDENCE

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

DEAR SIR,

JL HERE is a manner, (so beyond the mat*
ter, extraordinary always, too, as that is \)
in whatever you say and do, that makes it
an impossibility to speak those sentiments
which it is equally impossible not to con-
ceive in reverence and affection for your
goodness !

This single word, upon receipt of your
sixty, and two twenty pound bank notes,
in so surprisingly obliging (yet so pain-
inforcing) a manner, I could not but, in the
fulness of my heart, compel an aching head

to let me say to you, just now

The rest I must refer to another day, and
larger letter, having neither words, nor
time, in this to say a hundredth part of what
I feel — ^who am, for ever. Dear Sir,
Your obliged

A. Hill.

TO

wrrn aaron hill. 119

TO MR. HILL.

Oi;t. 27, 174S.
DEAR SIR,

^y ITH regard to some parts of your fa-
vour of the nineteenth, I will only say,
that I am too much pained on your account
to express any thing but my pain. A mind
so noble ! so generous ! so under-rating
intentional good from himself! so over-
rating tritiing benefits from others ! But
no more on this suUject. You are an alien,
Sii:, in this world j and no wonder that the
base world treat you as such.

You arc so very earnest about transfer-
ring to me the copyright to all your works,
that I will only say, that that point must
be left to the future issues of things. But
I will keep account. I will, though I were
to know how to use the value of your fa-
vours as to those issues (never can I the
value of your generous intentions). You

will

120 CORRESPONDENCE

will allow me to repeat, ./ will keep account.
It is therefore time enough to think of the
blank receipt you have had the goodness
to send me to fill up.

Would to heaven that all men had the
same (I am sure I may call it just) opinion
of your works that I have ! But — shall I
tell you. Sir ? — The world, the taste of
the world, is altered since you withdrew
from it. Your writings require thought to
read, and to take in their whole force;
and the world has no thought to bestow.
Simplicity is all their cry ; yet hardly do
these criers know what they mean by the
noble word. They may see a thousand
beauties obvious to the eye : but if there
lie jewels in the mine that require labour
to come at, they will not dig. I do not
think, that were Milton's Paradise Lost to
be now published as a new work, it would
be well received. Shakespeare, with all
his beauties, would, as a modern writer, be
hissed off the stage. Your sentiments, even

they

WITH AARON HILL. 121

they will have it who allow them to be no-
ble, are too munificiently adorned : and they
want you to descend to their level. Will
you, Sir, excuse me this freedom ? Yet I
can no longer excuse myself, to the love
and to the veneration mingled that I bear
to you, n I do not acquaint you with what
the world you wish to mend says of your
writings. And yet, for my own part, I
am convinced that the fault lies in that
indolent (that lazy, I should rather call it)
world. You would not, I am sure, wish
to write to a future age only. — A chance,
too, so great, that posterity will be mended
by what shall be handed down to them by
this. And few, very few, are they who
make it their study and their labour, to
stem the tide of popular disapprobation or
prejudice. Besides, I am of opinion that
it is necessary for a genius to accommodate
itself to the mode and taste of the world it
is cast into, since works published in this age
must take root in it, to flourish in the next.
As to your title, Sir, which you are
VOL. I. G pleased

12€[ •<:OTlREST'ONt)ENCE

pleased to require my opinion of, let me
premise, that there was a time, and that
within my own remembrance, when a
pompous title was almost necessary to pro-
mote the sale of a book. But the book-
sellers, whose business is t<> watch thetaste
and foibles of the pubiie, soon (as they
never fail on such cKicasions to do) wore
out that fashion : and now, verifying the
old observation, that good wi«e needs no
bush, a pompous or laboured title is looked
upon as a certain sign of want -of merit in
tlie performance, and hardly ever becomes
an invitation t© the purchaser.

As to your particular title to this great
work, I hav e your pardon to beg, if I refer
to your consideration, whether epic, truly
epic, as the piece is*, you would choose to
call it epic in the title-page ; since him-
dreds who will see the title, will not, at
the time, have seen your admirable defmi-
.tion of the word. Excuse, Sir, this free-

'* Gidcoa J or, the Patriot. An epic Poem.

dom

WITH AAROK HILL. 123

dom also, and excuse these excuses. — I am
exceedingly pressed in time, and shall be
for some time to come, or, sloven as I am
in my pen, this should not have gone.

God forbid that I should have given you
cause to say, as a recommendation, that
there will be more prose than verse in your
future works !

I believe. Sir, that Mr. Garrick, in par-
ticular, has not in any manner entered into
vindictive reflections. I never saw him on
the stage j but of late I am pretty well ac-
quainted with him. I know he honours
you. But he thinks you above the present
low taste ; (this I speak in confidence) and
once I heard him say as much, and wish
that you could descend to it. Hence one
of the reasons that have impelled me to be
so bold as I have been in this letter.

The occasion of the black wax I use, is

the loss of an excellent sister. We loved

each other tenderly ! But my frequent, I

might say constant, disorders of the nervous

G 2 kind

124 CORRESPONDENCE

kind ought to remind me, as a consolation,
of David's self-comfort on the death of his
child, perhaps oftener than it does, im-
mersed as I am in my own trifles, and in
business, that the common parental care
permits me not to quit, though it becomes
every day more irksome to me than an-
other. I am. Sir,

With ivue affection.

Your most faithful,

and obedient servant,

S. Richardson.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Nov. 2, 1748.
Ji REALLY thought, ^ear Sir, that nei-
ther my affection, admiration, or warm
grateful sense of your inimitable virtues,

could

;*

'-'' \A110N HILL. 125

could have admitted the increasi. given i'*
it, by the sincere, kind, friendly plain-
ness, of this last obliging letter.

Yet, it tells me nothing new, of the low
estimation of my writings : I have always
known them, and expected them to be,
unpopular : nor shall I live to^ see them
in another light. But there will rise a
time, in which they will be seen in a far
different one : I know it, on a surer hope
than that of vanity.

As for the present world and me, we are
so well agreed in our contempt of one an-
other, that (exclusive only of one amiable
interest I would wish myself, more spee-
dily, of some poor little use' to), I feel no
desire at all to undergo the imputation of
contenting it.

The simplicity they make so great a cry
about, is what I love as much as they pre-
tend f o love it y for, indeed, they talk of
what they do not understand. Nor can
sucli creatures as complain of poetry, be-
G 3 cause

125 CORRESPONDENCE

cause it puts them to the pain of thinking,
merit any poet's thinking of. Obscurity,
indeed (if they had penetration to mean
that), is burying sense alive ; and some of
my rash, early, too affected puerile scrib-
blin^s must, and should, have pleaded
guilty, to so just an accusation. But the
case, thank God, is very different now ;
and these implicit mules, that oarry malit:^
for their owners, might perhaps have mo-
desty enough to think it so, if they could
see with what unpardoning severity I do,
and shall, revise my copies.

But I am sure, that when my dear friend
told me that the world has changed its
taste, he gives that word the same re-
strained sense I have used it in above.
For no judge better knows, that with ex-
ception to a Jev;ish and stock-jobbing
city, and a foreign court (with their too
numerous dependents), where our very
Janguage is despised, and in a manner out
of use; and English taste, there, changed

in

WITH AARON HILL. 127

in consequence : I say, with due exception
to deaf ears, the world was never more
disposed than now, to English thought
and English feeling. Nor shall we (if our
period, as a people, is as distant as I hope
in heaven it is), in any part of the now
current century, want sufficient numbers
of learned men, and persons of exacted
genius, to preserve all writings worth their
notice J such, I mean, as carry figure to
attract it: for small pamphlet pieces, I
suspect, too seldom reach good hands, or
run a hazard to be lost, among t^e rul-
bish that sinks round them.

What you hint of Mr. Garrick, with
your usual and peculiar sweetness of in-
tention, is just what I think of him, as to
his own free sentiments, detached from
wrong suggestions of malignant minds,
which he too easily adopts, without exam-
ining. We correspond but little, and it
•has been always on a civil footing. But I
Am not without reasons, no,! worth telling
Q 4 you.

HS CORRESPONDENCE

youj for fearing him (which is a weakness
Tery strange, yet but too common through-
out life !) pervertible by men, whose judg-
ment, at the same time, he despises. But,
I hope, my Merope is in a fair way to
come down to him this season from a hand
of power y whence, if it does so come, 1
shall soon better know him.

I cannot help saying something more
about simplicity; because, as Mr. Dryden
told some fools of his own days, that when
they praised an easy way of writing, they
meant that which men could write most
easily 3 so their successors, of the modern
stamp, are far from meaning, when they
cry up what they call simplicity, that na-
tural and delightfully instructive elegance
of unaffected passion, which your touched
and thinking readers see, and suffer under,
and grow better by, in the distresses and
reflections of a Pamela, or a Clarissa. All
that these dim humble wretches mean, by
their abuse of it to a benumbing sense, is

the

WITH AARON HILL. 199

the unjogging slide of something, but they
cannot tell what, that paces their lame un-
derstanding smoothly on, and does not
shake it out of a composure, necessary to
its weakness.

Simplicity (you know it best of all men^
breathing), is a weaker word for the same
thing, propriety. Whatever is conceived
with and .expressed with that wants no^
thing; it has every ornament becoming its
demand, not one beyond it. If it had
none, it would be naked; if too feWy de-
fective; if too many, tawdry. This, my
dear friend, is simplicity ; and this is your
simplicity. Whether we take the word
from simplex (sine plica), or from simphts
(sine and plus), its true sense must l>e
found in its reverse to duplex i so that every
thing is simple, that has nothing added
contrary to its own quality; and every
thing un-simpic, that has foreign and un-
natural annexions. If a camel were to be
described, it might be done with all the
G 5 requisite

"130 CORRESPONDENCE

requisite simplicity^ however loftily the
poet should express the beast's raised neck,
majestic pace, and venerable countenance.
J3ut from the moment he began to mention
-claws and courage, as the camel's attributes,
iiis deviation from the rules of true simpli-
jcity would justly call for the reproach of
4oo magnificently adorned; not because
xjamels ought not to be spoken of magnifi-
«c-eHtly, but because there should not be
^assigned them a magnificence repugnant
•to their nature.

JLong as this letter is already, I have
something still to add, relating to a prose
jpiece I informed you I should want your
judgment on. Jt is my tract of new im-
provements in the art of war, by 4sea and
land. This piece is very full of novelty,
Mid possibly will have jnuch future conse-
quence. And yet the supercilious narrow-
jDess in vogue may make it be supposed,
ilhat mothing of this nature can be worth
ucgard, nor authorised by a commission,

itO

WITH AARON HILL. \3l

to think rationally. To such heads it were
of little influence to say, how much I saw
and learned in armies of three different
nations at the outset of my life (too soon
engaged in foreign ramblings). A still less
.effect would .follow, if I went about to
make them sensible, how preferable to
whole lives of mill-horse rounds in practi-
cal contractions, an extended theory may
Jbe, when exercising a not-unadapted ge-
nius, long and obstinately bent on all ex-
aminations pro-per to that study. — Would
it rnot he better I should spare myself the
trouble of these undeserved apologies, to
^uch a .war-defaming race as we know
where to look for? and, instead of a dry
dissertation on what might be done in arms,
present it to the entertained imagination,
us what had already been; laying the scene,
at some pretended time, in some imagi-
nary country^ and uniting, in a lively
story, all the use, surprise, and pleasure,
;0f historical narration, filled with warlike
G 6 and

139 CORRESPONDENCE WITH A. HILL.

and political events, of a new turn and
species to the active demonstrations of a
theory, that else might pass for project
only. I persuade myself that one might
make a piece of this kind very pleasing ;
and will throw it into such a form, If you
conceive it would do better.

Are you to hope no end to this long,
long, long, nervous persecution ? But, it
is the tax you pay your genius ; and I ra-
ther wonder you have spirits to support
such mixture of prodigious weights, such
an effusion of the soul, with such confine-
ment of the body, than that it has over-
strained your nerves to bear yaur spirit's
agitation! — God Almighty bless you! I
should never end at all, if I writ on till I
had nothing left that I still wished to tell
you, from your (beyond his power of tell-

Most obliged and

grateful humble servant,
A. Hill.
LETTER

«

LETTER

FROM

Mr. W a R B U R T O N

TO

Mr. RICHARDSON.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

GOOD SIR,

Dec.2Sy 1742.

Jl HIS very day, on receiving my things

from London, I liad the pleasure to find in

the box an obliging letter from you, of the

17th past, with a very kind and valuable

present of a fme edition of your excellent

work, which no one can set a higher rate

upon. I find they have both lain all this

time at Mr. Bowyer's.

I have so tru6 aa esteem for yon, that

you

134 LETTER FROM

you may depend on any thing in my power,
that you think may be of any service to
you.

Mr. Pope and I, talking over your work
when the two last volumes came out,
agreed, that one excellent subject of Pame-
ila's letters in high life, would have been to
diave passed her judgment, on first stepping
dnto it, on every thing she saw there, just
AS simple nature (and no one ever touched
mature to the quick, as it were, more cer-
itainly and surely than you) dictated. The
•effect would have been this, that it would
have produced, by good management, a
most excellent and useful satire on all the
follies and extravagancies of high life;
which to one of Pamela's low station and
good sense would hav« appeared as absurd
and unaccountable as European polite
vices and customs to an Indian. Vou
easily conceive the effect this must have
added to the entertainment of the book ^
ajid for the use, that is incontestable. And

j^'hat

Ml?. 17ARBURT0N. 135

what could be more natural than this in
Pamela, going into a new world, where
•every thing sensibly strikes a stranger?
But, wheA I have the pleasure of seeing
3^ou in town, we will talk over this matter
•at large ; and, I fancy, you will make some-
thing extremely good of our hints. I have
a great deal to say upon this subject, that,
when we are together, you will not only
understand more 'perfectly, hut I shall be
able to conceive more clearly by the use of
your true judgment.

At least, I shall be always zealous of
shewing how much I am, X»ood Sir,

Your very obliged and most

affectionate, humble servant,

W. Warburtoi^.

COR.

CORRESPONDENCE

BETWEEN

Mr. RICHARDSON

AND

Mr. strahan;

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Edinburgh^ Aug. 17, 1749.
DEAR SIR,
j^FTER an agreeable, though somewhat
fatiguing, journey of five days, we arrived
safely at this place, where we found all
friends as well as we expected. The alte-
rations in persons, places, and things, since
I was here last, struck me exceedingly,
and afi'orded me the most convincing proof
imaginable of the mutability of human
aifairs. Many people are strangely altered,

many

WITH MR. STRAHAN. 137

many have disappeared, and many are now
no more, which it is impossible to think of
without concern, and a degree of serious-
ness not to be suddenly checked. Nay, so
natural is it to be prejudiced in favour of
the appearances things had when we were
young, that even the alterations for the
better please me not ; at least, not till I
have reasoned myself into the utility and
propriety of the change.

I am like to be very well entertained
while I stay here. TTiere are sensible men
in plenty; though such as Mr. R. are
rarely found any where. I assure you the
most valuable folks here like your writings
best. You may, with great propriety, say,
exegi monument um.

There is nothing in this place worth
WTiting you, only that there seems to be a
great spirit of industry gone forth, which
I am sure will turn to the advantage of
both parts of the united kingdom.

I hope this will lind you in perfect health,

and

138 CORRESPONDENCE

and happy in every sense. None merits
•every good thing better than you do; nor
is there any person better qualified for the
enjoyment of every rational pleasure. I
hope your little girl is somewhat better,
and that the rest continue perfect models
of what young ladies sliould be. You will
he so good to give my best respects to
the valuable Mrs. Richardson ; and to Mrs.
Poole and Miss Button, whom, you know,
you and I both love.

I remember your long-continued friend-
ship for me with pleasure and gratitude.
I admire your generosity, your benevo-
lences your sagacity, your penetration,
your knowledge of human nature, and
your good heart; I esteem you as my
friend, my adviser, my pattern, and my
benefactor; I love you as my father i
and let me, even me also, call you my
Nestor.

My wife and her mother bid me say
every thing that is kind and respectful to

you

WITH MR. STRAHAN. 139

you and Mrs. Richardson: shall we have
the pleasure of hearing from you ? — Mr.
Hamilton will, no doubt, have occasion to
trouble you now and then. I know you
will not grudge giving him your best ad-
vice ^ whose every long day is filled with
acts of benevolence to every body you

know.

I am, dear Sir,

Your most obliged humble servant.

W. Strahan.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Edinkurghy Aug. 24, 17494
DEAR SIR,
J.F I were to be long at a distance from
you, I fancy I should become as trouble-
some in writing, as you have experienced,
to your cost, I have often been in talking
to you, as every thing I see puts me in

miud

140 CORRESPONDENCE

mind of you. — What would Mr. Richardson
think of this ? — Here is room for his
praise; — and here for his censure: —
this would raise his compassion; this his
indignation ; this would touch his benevo-
lent heart with joy; and here he would
exercise his charity ; this man's solid sense
would delight him; the ladies would, in
general, charm him; and the honest preju-
dices of many, in favour of their native
country, would make him smile. These,
and many other such-like thoughts often:
occur to me, so that I am oftener in your
company than you imagine. The civilities
I daily meet with, and the hospitality with
which I am entertained, are not to be ex^
pressed. I have nothing to do but go from
feast to feast, the manners of the better
part of this country bearing a very near
resemblance to those of North End. I am
overwhelmed with their kindness, so that
I must really make my stay here as short
as possible, lest living thus i iotously should

prejudice

WITH MR. STRAHAN. 141

prejudice my health. But no more of thia
till I see you — a pleasure I truly long for.

At intervals, as I am now almost become
a stranger to this country, and am possibly
now taking my leave of it, I visit what is
ancient or curious. Yesterday I paid my
compliments to the remains of King James
the Fifth, and shook Lord Darnley by the
hand ; he was Queen Mary's husband, you
well know, and was seven foot eight inches
in stature: a portly personage once, and
now — what we must all be. O what a
pleasing melancholy filled me on beholding
their venerable remains. To see the very
bodies of two such great men, who existed
two centuries ago, is a curiosity indeed.
They are in the chapel of Holyrood House,
a very noble structure, but almost entirely
demolished at the revolution, and since
utterly neglected. Here monuments of
men, like men, decay ! But, however, the
outside is firm, so that it may easily be re-
paired, when the government thinks proper.

What

142 CORRESPONDENCE

What else I have seen, with my observa-
tions on every thing that occurs, will afford
me matter of conversation with you, when
my tongue, perhaps, would be more imper-
tinently employed. I shall therefore say
no more now. Suffer me only to take
every occasion of making my sincere ac-
knowledgments for your continued and
uninterrupted kindness and friendship to
me. When I think of particular instances
of your goodness to me, all I can say to
you upon that subject comes so very short
of \\ hat I feel, that I do myself great in-
justice in endeavouring to say any thing
at all. I am. Dear Sir,

Your most obliged servant,
W. Straiian.

TO

WITH MR. STRAHAK. 145

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Sept^2f 1749,
DEAR SIR,

Could you communicate to me a very
small portion of your lively and creating
fancy, my letters would be much more
worthy of your perusal. The Israelites,
who were obliged to make bricks without
straw, were, in my opinion, in a much
more tolerable situation than the man who
is obliged to write without genius, because,
though they had, indeed, no allowance of
straw delivered out to them, they had the
whole land of Egypt to glean it in j and as
that, like Clarissa, was notoriously a most
fruitful country, in which there were doubt-
less many delicious spots, they unquestion-
ably found very pretty pickings in it.

Since my last, I have been at Glasgow,
a town greatly altered for tlie better, in
point of trade, since I was there last. Se-
veral large manufactories are set on foot, in

which

144 CORRESPONDENCE

which the poor of all ages, and both sexes,
are usefully employed. From thence I
went to Paisley, where Mr. Millar's father
is minister, a venerable old man, who, like
the church he preaches in, is nodding to
his dissolution, but beautiful even in riiins.
The town is almost entirely composed of
manufacturers, and is in so exceeding
thriving a way, that it is, they tell me,
considerably increased even since last year
when Mr. Millar was there. I returned
thence to Stirling, and visited the castle,
and went over the noble monuments of the
amazing grandeur of our kings before the
union of the crowns that are crumbling into
dust. Here is a fine palace built by King
James the Fifth, and a parliament-house,
infmitely superior to that of Westminster.
Here is a chapel also, purposely erected
for the christening of Prince Henry, King
Charles the First's eldest brother. Had he
been preserved, who knows how thing$
might now have been altered from what

they

WITH MR. STRAHAN. 14.5

they are. — ^AU these are hastening to de-
cay, as no care is taken of any thing here
except the fortifications. I had forgot to
tell you, tliat the great church at Glasgow,
and that noble structure at Paisley, are
about 600 years old, and are most authen-
tic proofs of the power of the church, or
rather churchmen, in those days, who were
able, in times of poverty and rudeness, to
erect a variety of piles, any one of which
would sensibly distress the whole kingdom,
now, in its improved and flourishing state,
to finish. On my return to Edinburgh, I
passed by the ruins of the abbacy of Cul-
ross, part of which is now turned into a sta-
ble. The Temains of gentlemen's houses, of
long standing, occur every where ; in which
the builders have visibly studied strength
and security, preferably to pleasure and
conveniency. During this excursion, I
was continually comparing past times with
the present ; the ancient glory of a prince,
and a few noble families, supported at the
VOL, I, II cxpence

146 CORRESPONDENCE

expence of the lives of some, and the liber-
ties of all the rest of the people, (who, the
clergy excepted, laboured under the last
degree of poverty, slavery, and ignorance)
with the present economy of things, when
our merchants are princes, and tradesmen
enjoy the good things of the earth; when
property may be acquired and safely en-
joyed by the meanest labourer; and when
superstition and ignorance can hardly find
shelter in our meanest cottages. And yet,
comfortable as this comparison is, tlie ruin
of these ancient badges of om* slavery, by
reason of their splendour and magnificence,
impresses me with a very deep concern.

I have insensibly spun out a long letter,
without saying hardly any thing ; and, least
I tire you too much at once, I shall only
add, at present, the assurances of my most
perfect gratitude and esteem, being always,

Dear Sir, Your's, &c.

W. Strahan.

TO

WITH MR. STRAHAN. 147

TO MR. RICHARDSON*

Edinburgh, Sept. 16, 1749.

DEAR SIR,

^VHEN I sit down to write to you, I
present you before my eyes, with a smile
of complacency overspreading your intel-
ligent countenance, as if telling me, before
I put pen to paper, that you expected to
hear nothing new from me ; but that's your
fault, not mine. Had you been less assi-
duous in storing your mind with every sort
of useful knowledge, you would yet have
had something to learn. / have the plea-
sure of daily making new discoveries, which
youy who have long ago travelled over the
whole territories of human nature, are al-
ready intimately acquainted with. In this
respect, I am happier than you. — " I am
glad of it, Mr. Strahan ; I envy not your
superior ignorance, I assure you."

This moment I was going to say several
H 2 bright

148 CORRESPONDENCE

bright things, which, as lam afraid I shall
not be able to recollect again, I am sorry
to tell you, you will probably lose for
ever ; but was interrupted by several peo-
ple, who insist on my company, whether I
will or no. I must therefore hasten to tell
you, that I have had the pleasure and
honour of your kind epistle ; that my face,
sleek as it is, I am very sensible wilJ, in
time, if it lasts, undergo a change, which
I now neither hope for nor fear — ^that I
hope I shall be able to tell you this, to
your face, twenty years hence r-^—that my
wife says- she loves you, as does also her
old infirm mother ; poor conquests you
would say, if you were not Air. Richard-
son : — that I have not yet seen Mrs. A ,

but intend it soon : — that Mr. — — —
is in Ireland, from whom you need never

expect any thing : — that is

in the North just now, but having got a
good post, you will surely recover his
tJioney j please, therefore, send me down

another

WITH MR. STRifHAN. 149

another copy of the bill, with a letter an-
nexed, (directed to Mr. George Balfour,
writer to the Signet in Edinburgh,) im-
powering him to receive it for you; this
you will be so good as to do directly. I
have spoke to him, and he will take parti-
cular care of it. Mr. Hamilton has franks
to forward to town. That I am very greatly
pleased Mr. Hamilton has your good
opinion and approbation; he is full of
your kindness in all his letters.

Allow me also. Sir, to acknowledge,
(and I do it with the utmost sense of
gratitude) the great honour you have
done me, in admitting me to such a share
of your conversation and friendship, which
I have reason to value and be proud of oa
many accounts. You have indeed laid me
under so many repeated obligations, and
oblige too in so obliging a way, that I
am afraid I must remain your poor in-
solvent debtor as long as I live: yet I will
beg leave to say, that, if I do not deceive
tt 3 myself.

150 CORRESPONDENCE

myself, I think I shall ever endeavour to
pay all I can towards the interest of them,
since the principal I am afraid I shall
never he able to discharge. I know you
may justly reproach me with neglecting
one affair in particular you recommended
to me ; but I can with great truth say, it
proceeds not from indolence, or any worse
cause, but purely from an almost irresis-
tible dislike to that sort of employment,
which I really did not perceive in myself
before, but which I am determined never-
theless to conquer.

I take this opportunity also to acquaint
you, that my spouse was yesterday, be-
tween six and seven in the morning, safely
delivered of a boy. She and I had long
ago determined, if this child should be a
male, to name it Samuel, after you; to
make him, as it were, a living monument
of your friendship ; but without intention
of putting you to expence, as I never make
any formal christening. This, I hope, you
will do me the honour to accept of.

I shall

WITH MR. STRAHAN. 15^1

I shall ever retain that just value and
esteem for your singular humanity and
goodness, which such a variety of amiable
qualities never fail to command j and it
shall always be my sincere wish, that you
may enjoy a good state of health, to enable
you to do all the good that is in your
heart to do ; that your young and promis-
ing family may exceed all your expecta-
tions of them; and that they, with Mrs.
Richardson, (whose invincible honesty of
heart, and unaffected love and veneration
for you, must daily gain ground in the
affections of a heart like your's) may all
concur to make life serenely agreeable to

you. I am, &c.

William Strahan.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

September 21, 1749.
DEAR SIR,

jl THINK it is an observation of your

own, that people cannot be at a loss for a

U 4 subject

152 CORRESPONDENCE

subject when they write to those they es-
teem and love. I own I am entirely of
your opinion, and therefore when I sit
down to write to you, I am not at all
puzzled to say enough, but only to say
something that may in some degree de- ,
serve your reading. If this was not the
case, you might expect to be overpowered
with my letters, as you have often been
with my talking, when, from a sincere de-
sire to please and divert you, (however
short I came of my intention) I have
opened the sluice? of every folly in my
brain, and overwhelmed you with non-
sense.

Since I wrote last I have been in the
north, seeing an old and a dear comrade,
the parting from whom pierced me to the
very soul. In my way I visited the ancient
city of St. Andrew's, a most august mo-
nument of the splendour of the Scots epis-
copal church in former times. It is a most
awful heap of ruins, to which I could wish
all high-churchmen in Britain would take

a visit

WITH MR. STRAHAN. 153

a visit once a-year, in pilgrimage, where
they will behold a tremendous and amaz-
ing instance to what a deplorable degree
of contempt and ruin they may reduce
themselves, by their excessive arrogance,
pride, and oppression.

On my return I had the pleasure to re-
ceive your letter. I shall set out for Lon-
don in about eight days, and hope to have
the pleasure to see you ten days after that.

This recess from the hurry of business •
has been no disagreeable pause to me: it
has, I may venture to say, afforded me
both amusement and instruction. It is
like turning over another leaf in the book
of life, which, though not so crowded with
the most useful matter, is nevertheless
much fairer to the eye, more legible and
pleasant in the reading. In traversing the
country I have had occasion to see seve-
ral pictures of life, which, though not en-
tirely new to'me, were yet nearly so. I
have seen (a rare sight in London) indo-
H 5 . lence,.

154 CORRESPONDENCE

lence, inactivity, poverty, tranquillity, and
happiness, dwelling under one roof. I have
seen the several gradations from that to
the busy moiling trader, and from him
again to those who were born to every
earthly enjoyment. How seemingly dif-
ferent their situations, how nearly equal
their pretences to real happiness ! What an
amazing variety in one little island. Here
the poor reaper issues from his homely
cot, in the bleak regions of the everlasting
mountains, contented if after the weeks of
harvest are over in the more fertile plains,
he can return home with a few shillings to
subsist him till the return of that season.
This is the utmost his most laborious
employment of cutting down the corn,
can procure him. There, the merchant
thirsts after a princely inheritance; or the
ambitious statesman labours to lord it not
only over all his fellow-subjects, but even
over his prince. But I will tire you no
longer than till I tell you, that 1 have seen

Captain

WITH MR. STRAHAN. 155

Captain C , who is a very pretty gen-
tleman, and lives in the finest house in
Scotland, which he is exceedingly fond of,
and is indeed particularly pleased with this
country. I am really greatly affected, and
my wife more so, with the loss of my pretty
little Anne, and could delineate the pangs
I felt on that occasion, but that I write to
one who is too susceptible of the most ten-
der impressions, and who has had too many
occasions (may he never have another) to
exercise the most difficult of all christian
duties, resignation to the will of heaven.

I hope you will believe, that I remem-
ber not only you, but your's, with very
great respect and affection. I wish to find
health even in that part of your family
where you seem least to expect it; and
my wife and her mother join me in every
good wish to you all.

I am, &c.

W. Strahan.
H 6 TO

156 CORRESPONDENCE

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Answickf Oct, 1, n4£>.

DEAR SIR,

Jl AM thus far on my road to you, and
long to finish my journey; but as I travel
with women and a child, we make but a
slow progress.

■^ Had I a tolerable pen, I could describe
to you, I think, in lively colours, what I
felt at parting with dear friends, some of
whom I am sure I shall see no more. I
could tell you how exquisitely pleasing
the sight of my native country has been
to me ; and how easily, how naturally, how
cordially, I have renewed old friendships.
I could tire you with descriptions of the
different states of my mind, as I was dif-
ferently affected with joy, sorrow, surprise,
&c. I could paint to you the analogy
between an excursion of this kind, and the

journey

WITH MR. STRAHAN. 157

journey of life itself. But these things I
must defer for a few days longer, and am,
meanwhile. Dear Sir,

Your most obedient

humble servant,

W. Strahan.

P.S. There is a very pretty lady in com-
pany, much resembling your Clarissa.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Yorkj October 5 J 1749.
DEAR SIR,

Once more — I am now half way, and
shall have the pleasure of seeing you two
days after you receive this : as nothing has
occurred during our journey worth men-
tioning, I have nothing to say on that sub-
ject. The lady in my last postscript is one

after

1^8 CORRESPONDENCE

after your own heart; she has true sim*
plicity of manners, attended at the same
time with a most becoming and easy dig
nity. Her person is well proportioned
and stately, and commands respect; her
deportment, her unaffected and engaging
affability and constitutional good-nature,
commands your affection; she discovers a
fund of good sense, and knowledge of life
and manners, accompanied with a solidity
of judgment rarely to be found with so few
years, and so much beauty: her sweet
temper is most engaging, whilst her con-
versation is most instructive. Having seen
much of the world, she seems to have made
a very proper use of it, and made a just
estimate of human life. Thus qualified, I
prophesy you will be very fond of her. I
have not done her half justice; your pene-
trating judgment will soon discover a
thousand beauties which I have not saga-
city enough to find out: But from what I
have said, you may easily perceive my

wife

WITH MR. STRAHAN. 159

wife has no small cause of jealousy ; but I
am open and above-board with it, and
freely own I cannot help admiring beauty
and loving virtue, wherever I find it ; and
she has good sense enough not to be of-
fended, and is indeed as fond of her as
I am.

While I am writing, I cannot help look-
ing back with some astonishment on my
manner of life for these two months. In-
stead of plodding in business; hunting after
pleasure, roving from place to place, from
company to company, with a degree of
unconcern about my most material affairs,
which I did not believe myself capable of.
These scenes have, however, been inter-
spersed with others of a distressful kind,
which gave me pause; and while they
melted my heart with grief, and stirred up
all that was friendly and affectionate in me,
at the same time afforded proper motives
for recollection, and gave occasion for
many serious, and, I hope, not unusefui
reflections.

Your

160 CORRESPONDENCE.

Your goodness and your known friend-
ship for me, will, I hope, excuse me for
troubling you, upon all occasions, with
whatever is uppermost in ray heart. You,
yourself, will answer for me, that I mean
well J for you know how much I am.

Dear Sir,
Your most obliged

and affectionate

humble servant,

\Vm. Strahan.

COR-

CORRESPONDENCE

BETWEEN

Mr. RICHARDSON

AND

Mr. HARRIS.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Sarurrif June 13, 1749.
DEAR SIR,

JL AM much obliged for your kind pre-
sent; yet, not so much for that, as for the
very friendly and benevolent manner in
which you make it. As to the work itself,
I shall always value it, as having that
stamp or character which alone can make
any work valuable, to the liberal and dis-
interested j that is, I shall value it as the
work not only of a sensible, but of an
honest man.

My wife begs your acceptance of her
compliments. With her's I join my own

to

1621 CORRESPONDENCE

to Mrs. Richardson, and your little family,
for whose welfare you have our sincerest
wishes. I am. Dear sir.

Your most obedient servant,

James Harris.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Sarmn, Jan, 19, 1752.
DEAR SIR,

JL AM glad that Hermes has been able to
merit the approbation of so worthy a man,
and so rational a reader, as yourself.
It would be hard, indeed, if the notion of
learning were confined to the mere know-
ledge of one or two dead languages. Who-
ever surely possesses a good understand-
ing, duly exercised upon becoming sub-
jects, may justly aspire both to the name
and to the character. In this light I con-
sider yourself, having withal this farther

reason

WITH MR. HARRIS. l63

reason to applaud you, that the sordid
views of trade have not (as usual) been so
far able to engross you, as to withdraw
you from the contemplation of more ra-
tional, more ingenuous, and (what per-
haps may sound strange to many of your
neighbours) more interesting subjects.

Your kind wishes for my family I accept
with thanks. Be pleased to accept, in re-
turn, the sincerest wishes both of myself
and wife, for the prosperity of all that you
call your's, believing me to be, as I truly
am.

Dear Sir,

Your very sincere friend,

and humble servant,

James Harris.

COR.

CORRESPONDENCE

BETWEEN

Mr. RICHARDSON

AND

Mr. cave.

TO MR. CAVE.

j4vg.9, 1750.
MR. CAVE,

JL HOUGH I have constantly been a pur-
chaser of the Ramblers from the first five
that you was so kind as to present me with,
yet I have not had time to read any farther
than those first five, till within these two
or three days past. But I can go no fur-
ther than the thirteenth, now before me,
till I have acquainted you, that I am inex-
pressibly pleased with them. I remember
not any thing in the Spectators, in those

Spectators

WITH MR. CAVE. l65

Spectators that I read, for I never found
time — {Alas! my life has been a trifling
busy one) to read them all, that half so
much struck me ; and yet I think of them
highly.

I hope the world tastes them; for its own
sake, I hope the world tastes them ! The
author I can only guess at. There is but
one man, I think, that could write them ;
I desire not to know his name; but I
should rejoice to hear that they succeed ;
for I would not, for any consideration,
that they should be laid down through
discouragement.

I have, from the first five, spoke of them
with honour. I have the vanity to think
that I have procured thema^Imirers; that is
to say, readers. And I am vexed that I have
not taken larger draughts of them before,
that my zeal for their merit might have
been as glowing as now I fmd it.

Excuse the overflowing of a heart highly
delighted with the subject, and believe me

to

166 CORRESPONDENCE

to be an equal friend to Mr. Cave and the
Rambler, as well as

Their most humble servant,

S. Richardson.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

St. JohrCs Gate, August 23, 1750.
DEAR SIR,
JL received the pleasure of your letter of
the 9th inst. at Gloucester, and did intend to
answer it from that city, though I had but'
one sound hand (the cold and rain on my
journey having given me the gout) ; but,
as soon as I could ride, I went to West-
minster, the seat of Mr. Cambridge, who
entertained the Prince there, and, in his
boat, on the Severn. He kept me one
night, and took me down part of his river
to the Severn, where I sailed in one of his
boats, and took a view of another of a pe-
culiar

WITH MR. CAVE. l67

culiar make, having two keels, or being
rather fcwo long canoes, connected by a
floor or stage. I was then towed back
again to sup and repose. Next morning
he explained to me the contrivance of some
waterfalls, which seem to come from a
piece of water which is four feet lower.
The three following days I spent in re-
turning to town, and could not find time to
write in an inn.

I need not tell you that the Prince ap-
peared highly pleased with every thing
that Mr. Cambridge shewed, though he
called him upon deck often to be seen by
the people on the shore, who came in pro-
digious crowds, and thronged from place
to place, to have a view as often as they
could, not satisfied with one ; so that many
who came between the towing line and the
bank of the river were thrown into it, and
his royal highness could scarce forbear
laughing ; but sedately said to them, " I
am sorry for your condition."

Excuse

168 CORRESPONDENCE

Excuse this ramble from the purpose of
your letter. I return to answer, that Mr.
Johnson is the Great Rambler, being, as
you observe, the only man who can furnish
two such papers in a week, besides his
other great business, and has not been
assisted with above three.

I may discover to you, that the world is
not so kind to itself as you wish it. The
encouragement, as to sale, is not in propor-
tion to the high character given to the
work by the judicious, not to say the rap-
tures expressed by the few that do read it ;
but its being thusi relished in numbers
gives hope that the sets must go off, as it
is a fine paper, and, considering the late
hour of having the copj^, tolerably printed.

When the author was to be kept private
{which was the first scheme), two gentle-
men, belonging to the Prince's court, came
to me to enquire his name, in order to do
him service ; and also brought a list of
seven gentlemen to be served with the

Rambler.

WITH MR. CAVE. l69

Rambler. As I was not at liberty, an in-
ference was drawn, that I was desirous to
keep to myself so excellent a writer. Soon
after, Mr. Doddington sent a letter directed
to the Bafnbler, inviting him to his house,
when he should be disposed to enlarge his
acquaintance. In a subsequent number a
kind of excuse was made, with an hint that
a good writer might not appear to advan-
tage in conversation. Since that time,
several circumstances, and Mr. Garrick
and others, who knew the author's powers
and stile from the first, unadvisedly assert-
ing their (but) suspicions, overturned the
scheme of secrecy. (About which there is
also one paper.)

I have had letters of approbation from
Dr. Young, Dr. Hartley, Dr. Sharpe, Miss
C , &c. &c. most of them, like you, set-
ting them in a rank equal, and some supe-
rior, to the Spectators (of which I have not
read many for the reasons which you as-
sign) : but, notwithstanding such recom-

YOt. I. I mendation.

170 CORRESPONDENCE.

mendation, whether the price of fw(hpenc€»
or the unfavourable season of their first
publication, hinders the demand, no boast
can be made of it.

The author (who thinks highly of your
writings) is obliged to you for contributing
your endeavours ; and so is, for several
marks of your friendship.

Good Sir,

Your admirer,

And very humble servant,

E. CayE.

UETTER

LETTER

FROM

LORD ORRERY

TO

Mr. RICHARDSON.

TO MR. rk:hardson.

Marstcn House, near Fromt, in Somenetshtr^,

Nov, 9, nsv

SIR,
JBY means of Mr. Leake, I yesterday re-
reived your most valuable present. Give
me leave to thank you, not only in my
own name, but in the name of my whole
family. Yet, I own, we thank you for
sleepless nights and sore eyes, and per-
haps, there are aching hearts and salt tears
still in reserve for us.

I 2 I wish

172 LETTER, &C.

I wish your gift might have been to a
more useful servant ; but, as I feared, so I
found it impossible to be the important
friend I most heartily wished myself*.
However, I was happy in receiving your
commands ; and I hope my ill success will
not hinder you from giving me opportunity
of publicly shewing myself. Sir,

Your obliged and obedient,
humble Servant,

Orrery.

♦ Relating to the Irish Piracy.

COR-

CORRESPONDENCE

BETWEEM

Mr. RICHARDSON

Aia>

The Rev. SAMUEL LOBB,

AND

WILLIAM LOBB, JuN.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

May 21, 1743*.
DEAR SIR,

Jl SHOULD have thought a compliance
with my request *, without any marks to
distinguish it from those that are usual on
such occasions, a very great obligation
upon me ; but a compliance so big with
generosity as your's, in terms that express

* To stand god-father to his child,

1 3 jus^

174 CORRESPONDENCE

just what I was wishing, but, really, was
far from having the presumption or vanity
to expect, shews not a bare esteem,
but the affection of a sincere friend ; and
this accompanied with such a respect for
one, indeed, of the bestof wives andmothers;
and with such tenderness for the dear little
stranger you so kindly consider already as
your own. So unexpectedly engaging a
compliance as this, affected me on my first
perusing your most obliging letter ; and
every time I think of it, still affects me in
a manner I can no other way give you the
idea of, than by referring you to what you
must have felt yourself, if at any time, with
such warm wishes for an interest in the
friendship of a person you most highly
valued, you have had your expectations so
agreeably disappointed and exceeded, as
by a goodness that admits of but few ex-
amples, mine have now been.

I do not pretend, by thus referring you
to your own sentiments of gratitude, that

mine

WITH THE REV. S. LOBB. 175

itime are equally grateful. The true ster-
ling generosity is uniform and of a piece
on all occasions, if exerting itself; and,
therefore, shews itself as much in acknow-
ledging, and, where there is the opportu-
nity, in returning obligations, as in seek-
ing and embracing opportunities of con-
ferring them.

On the 19th of May, through the good-
ness of God, we had all the friends with us
we had invited, but Mrs. Leake, and Mrs.
Oliver, who were not horsewomen enough
to accompany our other friends. What an
additional pleasure would it have been,
could your afiairs, and the time, have per-
mitted you to have indulged your kind
disposition of making one of the company.

Our much esteemed friends, Mr. and
Mrs. Allen, desired me to send you their
best compliments, and to Mrs. Richardson,
of whom Mrs. Allen speaks with great re-
spect and good-liking.

The god-father and god-mother of our
I 4 dear

176 CORRESPONDENCE

dear little fellow surprised us with their
liberality on the occasion. The evening
my friends were going, I gave the nurse,
who is a widow with seven children, three
guineas, without any intimation that any
thing more was likely to come to her share 3
for this she was very thankful ; but when,
the next day, I added the other three gui-
neas, she was almost beside herself, and, in
the surprise of her joy, she fell down on
her knees, stammering out a million, ten
millions, of thanks, with a most beautiful
and natural remark on the goodness of
God, in the care of the fatherless and
widow. It was very affecting to see the
natural workings of a grateful mind.

I am. Dear Sir,

Your most obliged and affectionate

friend and servant,

S. LOBB.

TO

WiTir THE REV. S. LOBB. 177

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

March 1, 1747-8.
DEAR SIR,
A CERTAIN friend, that at present shall
be nameless, has laid me under a very
great and unreturnable obligation, by a
very singular and quite unexpected favour^
Now, though it be ever so much against
me, I will do him the justice to give you
his true character ; or else, you know, how
will you be able to form a judgment? If
any good quality may be said to be bom
with a person, generosity and he were cer-
tainly born together. I do not mean that
they were twins ; it is part of his very self.
Now you must be sensible that such a per-
son (wliich is another consideration that
makes terribly against me) can never con-
fer a favour, but he makes it as big again
as it would be (were it conferred by an-
other of less generosity), by the very man-
I 5>

l'/^ CORRESPONDENCE

tier of his conferring it. The case there-
fore, in short, is this. This friend has
obliged me, as above, so long ago as- the
12th day of January last; and now it is
the first day of March, and, in all this
time, that is, in the space of near six-and-
fbrty days, has not had from me so much
as a bare acknowledgment. And now, in
spite of your own generosity, tell me the
truth: do not you feel your breast rise
with some degree of indignation ; and have
you not already passed sentence upon me,
as chargeable with the crime I pretend to
such an abhorrence of ? Why, really, while
I have the case, as I have stated it, in
view, without my defence, I am apt to
take your part, and feel some of that very
indignation myself; but still I will not
plead guilty, till, after your having fairly
weighed what I have to allege in my be-
half; you declare, that in spite of your
prejudice in my favour you must be against
me. That, indeed, will sink me at once !

That

WITH THE REV. S, LOBB. 179

That will bring me on my knees : — but I
iiope better things. Thus, then, stands
my defence. — I received the favour, with
all the sentiments the nature of it, and the
manner of conferring it, could inspire. I
admired the benefaction, I loved my friend
for his generosity. I felt myself warmed
with all the gratitude an ingenuous mind
would wish to feel. I was full of it. I
must also confess, that, being then a visitor
^t the house of a gentleman of the very
«ame ^tamp for generosity and goodness,
one Ralph Allen, Esq. in the impatience
of my gratitude, or, perhaps, rather of my
pride to shew him what a footing I had in
the friendsliip of one, whose character I
knew he was no stranger to, I sliewed him
my friend's letter, without so much as once
thinking, till afterward, of the construction
it was capable of— that of an invitation to
go and do likewise. I own, even that
after-thought gave me no real pain ; for as
he needs no intimations of that sort, so,
1 6 from

180 CORRESPONDENCE

from his knowledge both of my circum-
stances and my character, I was satisfied
he could not suspect me of being guilty
of such a meanness. But to return to my
other friend ; with the same grateful senti-
ments, and, I will not deny it, with the
same pleasing vanity, I betrayed his gene-
rosity to more than he is acquainted with :
but he knows the above-mentioned gentle-
man's lady; he has some knowledge of Dr.
Oliver, of Bath ; and a greater of Mr. and,
Mrs. Leake, of the same city, who were of
the number of those to whom, in the ful-
ness of my heart, I shewed the letter I w^as
so proud of So that, I flatter myself, you
will allow that I have nothing further to
account for, but my deferring so long my
acknowledgements to himself Why, what
if I hesitated a little whether I ought to
accept of the favour ? But, indeed, no : my
friend's generosity furnished him. with
an expedient by which, I know, he de-
signed to remove that difficulty. For

he

WITH THE REV. S. LOBB. 181

he throws in my way a pretty little godson
of his, whom he knows I love as well as
himself, in such a manner, that my refusing
his kindness might be construed a faulty
disregard to that little fellow.

I am^ &c.

S. LOBB.

TO MR. S. LOBB.

London, March 7, 1747-8.
DEAR SIR,

JL OUR kind acceptance overpays the
present ; and your equally kind letter, by
its agreeable length, and the heart that it
incloses, more than make amends for the
delay you blame yourself for. I must have
over-valued the trifle almost as much as
you do, had I presumed to harbour the
least hard thought of a irieud I esteem so

much

1«2 CORRESPONDENCE

much (and that for his unquestionable

goodness of heart), because he observed

not a punctilio. I am even sorry that

you should seem to think yourself under

the necessity of apologizing on this score ;

had you been as many weeks as days in

answering, well as I love to hear from yoUj

I should only have doubted your health,

and been solicitous to have put a private

enquiry after it into my next letter to

Bath, and enjoined it to be kept private,

lest it should have been a reflection on my

own expectation for a thing so much in the

way of my business, and so very a nothing

in itself,

I was a little concerned at first reading
your letter, where you mention the shewing
of mine to several of my worthy and valued
friends j but was easy when I considered,
that you, undesignedly, gave greater re-
putation to your own amiably grateful
disposition in the over-rate, than could be
due to me, had the matter been of much
higher value.

My

•o'

WITH THE REV. S. LOBB. 183

My sincere respects to your other self,
and kindest love, as well as blessing, to
my godson, not forgetting the other young
gentleman, from whom not only I, but all
who have seen or heard of him^ expect
great things ; and who w ill never forget
(from such a monitor as he has the happi-
ness to have) that great means, at least, in-
cludes, as of necessary consequence, good.

I am, &c.

S. Richardson.

TO MR. «V. LOBB.

L&ndon, Dec. 29, IISS.

I HAVE finished, thank God! the build-
ing that has engaged my attention for
many past months; and now am collecting
the letters of my kind correspondents,
which I had not answered, because of that

engagement.

184 CORRESPONDENCE

engagement, in order to perform that
duty.

A very kind one of your's, my dear Mr.
Lobb, rises to my eye, bearing date Sept.
20, 1755. Can that be the last you wrote ?
Have I not mislaid one of a later ? I had
the pleasure of seeing you since; I apolo-
gized to you for my silence to that letter ;
I told you how much I was engaged,
mind and person, with workmen of almost
all denominations; and you was so kind as
to say, that if I were to be further hin-
dered from writing in answer to your's that
had come to hand, you would write again,
despising form, &c. Sur^y, then, some
other intermediate letter must have been
Avritten, and miscarried. September, Octo-
ber, November, December. If you have
not written in all this space of time, write
now, to let me know how you have been
engaged; what studies you have mastered ;
what improvements are made, or hoped
for, by the pupils entrusted to your care 3

what

WITH THE REV, S. LOBB. 185

what more valuable correspondents have
been gratified, &c.

Your's, of the 20th of Sept. the last of
your's that came to my hand, was a very
pleasing one, as it gave me assurances, that
you would copy into your life and practice,
all that was copiable (No academical
word, I doubt; but it is mine, not yours.)
in your different station, in Sir Charles
Grandison. Look to it, my dear Mr. Lobb ;
I value not myself for any quality (invention,
or any thing whatever,) so much as for the
assurances of this nature, which you, and
some of my young friends, have given me.
If there be any thing amiable in the better
characters of my humble performances,
and thought so, and pointed out by young
gentlemen and young ladies as such, and
which they promise to make subjects for
imitation, I hold them to it in my mind,
and try them by their own professions.
Have you the copy of that letter by you ?
you promise largely in it, my dear young

friend.

186 CORRESPONDENCE

friend. You are esteemed much in ihtf
university for the talents lent you: you
have raised in me an high opinion of them.
Take care; let me repeat. — Not for my
sake, but your own ! take care !

Wlio now are your rising geniuses at
Cambridge ? What new works are in hand ?
I love your Alma Mater. May you be
more and more an ornament to it, and a
comfort and pleasure to the dear parents I
love, and who so well deserve it, prays

Your's, most sincerely,

S. Richardson.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

A.N answer already! Now is he wanting
to know w hat I have heard about his Billy*
Ha'n't I hit it, friend Lobb ? Not the
only motive, I assure you ; yet I must ask

my

WITH THE REV. S. LOBB. 187

my friend, what he has heard of my boy,
that occasioned such an affectionate con-
gratulation. But, on second thoughts, I
think I will not ; for why do I want to know
what ? Do I pretend to be a stranger to
the honour he has received? I do not.
Indeed, I know enough to think myself
under great obligations to the gracious
giver of his parts, and of his opportunities
and inclinations for improving them ; and
I hope all his good friends and mine
will join their best remembrances with
our's for the favours he has received, and
pray that they may be long continued, and
always improved, to his being while he
lives, and to his long being a most amiable
example of a person's improving and
employing fme parts to worthy pur-
poses. *' As to his negligence in writing,
do not suppose our Billy to be one
of my correspondents : I have not for
a long time received a letter from him."
*' Our Billy!" how kind is that? How shall

I bring

188 CORRESPONDENCE

I bring my poor boy off, charged with a
neglect that has such an ugly appearance
of his not having been so grateful as he
should have been ? You are a father, and
cannot, in your heart, find fault with a fa-
ther, for suggesting what shall occur to
his thoughts to lessen his son's offence. But
the truth of the case I take to be this.
Ever since he has been at the university,
he has had a larger acquaintance than has
been common for an obscure country cler-
gyman ; all along he has had, from princi-
ple, a concern to answer his friends' ex-
pectations, which could only be by a proper
application. Every week, after the first
month, during the time of his being from
me, he has wrote to me once, and generally
three parts of a sheet : when he is to write
to a friend, he must write something worth
writing : for that, every one of good parts
is not so well qualified. I will not pretend
to clear him absolutely; but to save him,
at least, from so heavy a charge as that

of

WITH THE REV. S. LOBB. 189

of having been ungrateful, I must ac-
quaint you, that before the bishop left col-
lege, he told him he had not yet done with
him, by any means, and let him know he
should expect to hear from him now and
then. This obliged him to acquaint his
lordship with his success on his trial for his
degree ; to which his lordship wrote him a
very friendly answer : and about the same
time I received a letter myself from his
lordship, acquainting me as to the satisfac-
tion he had had as to his parts, acquire-
ments, and behaviour.

I am^ &c.

W. LOBB.

TO THE REV. MR. LOBB.

London^ Nov. 10, 1756.

W HY did my dear and reverend friend
so severely and so repeatedly chide his son
for not calling upon me in his way to the

Devizes ?

190 CORRESPONDENCE

Devizes ? You say you repeated your
chidings oftener than he cared you should.
Do we not know that love, were that, in
the present case, wanting (the contrary of
which I hope and believe), is not to be
forced ? And, did I not know my young
friend better, I should have been afraid he
would have loved me less for your chidings.
Is it not natural for young people to abate
of their esteem for those by whom they
suffer in that of their first friends ? But I
know what your chidings were. — Do not I
see you in the very act, with tears of joy
in your honest eyes — " Billy, my love !
you might have called — you should have
called, methinks — should you not, on our

friend R ?" As if, as an abatement

prudential of your sobbing joy, his merit
at the university, hjs duty to you in pre-
sence, after a considerable absence, were
necessary to give expression to your over-
flowing love.

^Vell, .l)ut all has been made up on his

return

WITH THE REV. S. LOBB. 191

return from you. He called upon me here,
with your very kind letters. He dined with
me and my family at Parson's Green, and
again called upon me here before he set out
for Cambridge .; but I was not so lucky as
to be within : and if he writes to me from
college, as he has leisure, I shall think my-
self much obliged to him. We elders love
to be taken notice of by our ingenious and
worthy juniors. How much more, then,
to be defended by them when attacked, as
in the extrcict in your son's letter, in an-
swer to Mr. Greville's cavils ?

I am much obliged to the young gentle-
man for his defence of my writings, and
for his acknowledged friendship to me
but be pleased to know, that if he had not
rated me so high, I would not have been
mortally displeased with him for his not
calling upon me, though I am always very
glad to see him.

As to Mr. GrevUle, I know not the gen-
;tleman by person j by character, I «im told

.he

l<j!2 COPxRESPONDENCE.

he is a lively, gay man, one who knows
what they call high life. I contented my-
self to say to a friend, in perusing his cen-
sure on me, that possibly the gentleman
might be right in one half of what he said
against me ; and, as to the other half, if he
valued hi'mself on the superior opportuni-
ties he has had to be polite and well-edu-
cated, and the writings of both were to be
the test of our merits, it would, by compe-
tent judges, perhaps be as much matter of
wonder that I did no worse, than that he
did not perform better.

I am, dear Sir, your faithful servant,
S. Richardson.

END OF VOL. I.

LEWIS and RODtN, ttiantt, PaternoMtr-ronv

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