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She then puts on men's clothes! which, indeed, she generally wore as most handy: and they have another walk, in the course of which she tells him her story. She was nobly born. But

"' From my earlii'si youth, the Itilchrn, the storeroom, the granaries, the ftVld, were my selected element! Cleanliness find order in the house seemed, even while I was playing in il, to be my peculiar Instinct, my peculiar object. This tendency gave pleasure to my father; and he by decrees afforded it the most suitable employment. When we were by ourselves, when walking through the fields, when I was helping to examine his accounts. I could perceive what happiness he was enjoying.1"

Her mother took great delight in a private theatre—" But I," she observed, '•' very seldom staid among the audience ; however, I always smifftd their candles, and prepared the supper, —and put the wardrobe in order/' After her father's death, her mother wastes the property, and she goes as a kinil of steward or manager, into the family of a neighbouring lady, whom -'she faithfully assisted in struggling with her steward and domestics."

"'I am neither of a niggardly nor grudging temper; but we women are uccus:omed to insist, more earnestly than men. that nothing shall be u-isled. Embezzlement of all sorts is intolerable to tu. Here 1 was in my element once more.*"

This is enough, we suppose, for the character of Theresa. But the accomplished Lothario falls in love with this angel, and here are the grounds on which he justifies his preference.

"' What is the highest happiness of mortals, if not to execute what we consider right and good; to be real!}' masters of the m-'ans conducive to our aims? And where should or can <>ur first and nearest aims be but within the house? All those indispensable, and still to be renewed supplies, where do we expect, do we require to find them, if it ¡a not in the place where we arise and where we eo to sleep, where kitchen and cellar, and every tpecies of accommodation for ourselves and ours is to be always ready? What unvarying activity is needed to conduct this constantly recurring series in unbroken living order! It is when a woman has attained this inward mastery, that she truly makes the husband whom she. loves a master: her attention will acquire all sorts of knowledge for her; her aciivity will turn them all to profit. Thus is she dependent upon no one ; and she procures her husband genuine independence, that which is interior and domestic: whatever he possesses he beholds secured; what he earns, well employed.' " be.

They are engaged accordingly to be married; but the match is broken ofl by an unlucky discovery, that this pay Lothario had formerly had a love affair with Theresa's mother, when she was travelling abroad under a feigned name! We are rather surprised, we confess, at the notable fair one's delicacy, in considering this as a bar to their union—for Iter notions on the subject of conjugal fidelity must be owned to be sufficiently liberal, having intimated, in reference to her lover's Bubsequent intrigues with Aurelia and others. that

"Kven if he had been her husband, she would linvc hnd snmVient spirit to endure a matter of this kind, if it hnd not troubled her domestic order: at least she often used to say, that a wife, who properly conducted her economy, should take no um

brage at tuch little fanciei of her ttvtbond, bat h« always certain that he would return."

Our hero returns to the castle quite enchanted with this paragon of women—and his rising flame is fed by the conversation which takes place with regard to her. Atie; amusing themselves with each telling couidentially their pretty love adventures, thf accomplished Lothario holds forth in tin; edifying and decided manner.

'*'It is true,' observed Lothatio, * there can scarcely any feeling in the world be more agrtcable, than when the heart, after a pause ot iiuumrence, again opens to love for some new object. Vti I would for ever have renounced that happiness, had fate been pleased to unite me with There» What a heaven had I figured for niyselt br.-iuiTheresa! Not the heaven of an enlhueiasiic b!:?s; but of a ture life on earth: order in prosperir). courage in adversity, care for the smallest, and • spirit capable of comprehending and manaeins u:-. greatest. You may well forgive me.' added tie. and turned to Wilhelm with a smile, 'that I forsook Aurelia for Theresa: with the one Í eouid expect a calm and cheerful life, with the other no'. a nappy hour.' 'I will confess,' said Wilhelm, 'that in coming hither, I had no small anger т ту heart against you; that I proposed to censure »:'» severity your conduct to Aurelia.1 'It was reil.y censurable,' said Lothario: 'I should not пате exchanged my friendship for her with the sentiment of love; I should not, in place of the respect whit h she deserved, have intruded an attachment she »u neither calculated to excite nor maintain. Аш' she vae not lovely when she loved! the greatest mistry which can befall a woman.'"

And in this cavalier manner is the subject dismissed. He denies, however, that Felix ¡s his child, or Aurelia's either; and avers tb: he was brought to her by the old woman Barbara, by whom the boy was generally attended. On this hint Wilhelm flies back to the town, finds out Barbara, in whom he at length recognises the attendant of hií lirrt love, Mariana, and learns from her that tin1 boy Felix is the offspring of their early connexion, and that the unhappy rnother died in consequence of his desertion, not only heartbroken but innocent! He is long incredulous, and appoints the ancient crone to come to him again at night, and abide all his interrogations.—The scene which follows, we thiiik. is very powerfully executed, and is the only [art almost of the book which produces any thing of a pathetic effect.

"Midnight was past, when something rustled •* the half-open door, and Barbara came in w<:h' little basket. 'I am to tell you the story of our woes.' said she; 'and I must believe that you »! > sit unmoved at the recital; that you are wailing юг me but to satisfy your curiosity; that you win "°"'' as you did formerly, retire within your cold «eins ness, while our hearts »re breaking. But look Я» here! Thus, on that happy evening, did I brine У09 the bottle of champagne ! 'thus did I piare the Ihr« glasses on the table! and as you then began, v soft nursery tales, to cozen us and lull us osle' so will I now with stern truths instruct yon «" keep you waking.'

"Wilhelm knew not what losay. whenthecrow in fact let go the cork, and filled three g!a-s*" '. th« brim. 'Drink '.' cried she. having emptied » a draught her foaming class. 'Drink, ere ihesp'r-' of it pass! This third glass shall froth away No\ tasted, to the memory of my unhnppy M«r»r' _ How red were her lips, when she An drank wJt health! Ah! and now for ever pale and cold!' 'Sibyl '. Fury!' Wilhelm cried, springing up, and linking the table with his fiat. 'Softly, Mein Herr'.' replied i he crone; 'you shall not ruffle me. Your debt« to us are deep and dark: [he railing of a debior docs not anger one. But you are right: the simplest narrative will punish you eufficii-ruly. Hear, then, the struggle and the victory ot Mariana et riving to continue yours,'"

She then telle a long story, explaining away

the indications of perfidy, on the strength of

irhich. he had quitted her; and the scene

ends in this very dramatic and truly touching

. msnner.

"'Good, dear Barbara!' cried Wilhelm, springin? up, and seizing the old woman by the hand, 'we bave had enough of mummery and preparation! Thy indifferent, thy calm, contented lone betrays thee. Give me back my Mariana! She is living Ï she ia near at hand! Not in vain didst thou choose thia late lonely hour to visit me; not in rain host thou prepared me by thy most delicious narrative. Where is she? where hast thou hid her T I believe all, I will promise to believe all. Thy object is attained. Where hast thou hid her? Let me light thee with this candle,—let me once more see her fair and kindly lace!'

"He had pulled old Barbara from her chair: she stared at him ; tear» started to her eyes; wild pangs of grief look hold of her. 'What luckless error,' cried she, leaves you still a moment's hope? Yes, I have hidden her—but beneath the ground! neither the light of the sun nor any social taper shall again illuminate her kindly face. Take the boy Felix to her grave, and say to him: "There lies thv mother, whom thy father doomed unheard." The heart of Mariana beats no longer with impatience to behold yon. Not in a neighbouring chamber ie she waiting the conclusion of my narrative, or fable; the dark chamber has received her, to which no bridegroom follows, from which none romes lo meet a lover." She cast herself upon the floor betide a chair, and wept bitterly."

She then shows him some of the poor girl's letter*, -which ho had refused to receive, and another which she had addressed to him on her deathbed. One of the former is as follows.

"' Thou regardest me as ¡guilty—and so I am; but not as ihou thinkest. Come to me! It involves the safety of a soul, it involves a life, two lives, one of which must ever be dear to thee. Thte, too. thy suspicion will discredit: yet I will speak it in the hour ot death: the child which I carry underneath my heart, is thine. Since I began to love thee, no other man has even pressed my hand: О that thy love, that thy uprightness, had been the companions of my youth !'"

After this ho pend.« the boy and Mignon to his new love. Theresa, and goes back himself to Lothario, by м-hom, and his energetic friends, the touching tale he had to tell "is treated with indifference and levity." And now comes the mystery of mysteries. After s crent deal of oracular talk, he is ordered, one mominp at sunrise, to proceed to a part of the cnstle to which he had never before found access; and when he gets to the end of и dark hot paspage, he hears a voice call "Enter !:l and he lifte a tapestry and enters!—

"The hall, in which he now stood, appeared to tuve al one lime been a chapel ; instead of ilie altar he observed a large tnble raised some steps above the floor, and covered with a green cloth hanging oreril. On the lop of this, a drawn cunain seemed a» if it hid a picture; on the sides were spaces beautifully worked, and covered in with fine wire netting, like the «helve» of л library ; only here, instead

of books, a multitude of rolls had been inserted. Nobody was in the hall. The rising sun shone through the window, right on Wilhelm, and kindly saluted him as he came in.

'"Be seated!' cried a voice, which seemed to issue from the altar. Wilhelm placed himself in a small arm-chair, which stood against the tapestry where he had entered. There was no scat but this in the room; Wilhelm was obliged to take it, though the morning radiance dazzled him; the chair stood fast, he could only keep his hand before hia eyes.

"But now the curtain, which hung down above the altar, went asunder with a gentle rustling ; and showed, within a picture-frame, a dark empty aperture. A man slept torward at it, in a common dress; saluted the atnonished looker-on, and said to him: 'Do you not recognise me?'"

We have not room, however, for the detail of all this mummery. A succession of figures, known and unknown, present themselves ;— among others, the ghost of Hamlet. At last, after a pause,

"The Abbé came to view, and placed himself behind the green table. 'Come biiher!' cried h« to his marvelling friend. He went, and mounted up the steps. On the green cloth lay a little roll. 'Here is your indenture,' said the Abbé; 'take it to heart; it is of weighty import.' Wilhelm lifted, opened it, and read:


"Art is long, life short, judgment difficult, occasion transient. To act is easy, to think is hard ; to act according lo our thought is troublesome. Every beginning is cheerful; the threshold is the place of expectation. The boy stands astonished, his impressions guide him; he learns sportfully, seriousness comes on him by surprise. Imitation is born with us; what should be imitated ie not easy to discover. The excellent is rarely found, more rarely valued. The height charms ue, the steps tu it do not; with the summit in our eye, we love to walk along the plain. It is but a part ol art that can be taught ; the artist needs it all. Who knows it half, speaks much and is always wrong; who knows it wholly, inclines to act, and speaks seldom or late. The former have no secrets and no force; the instruction they can give is like baked bread, savoury and eatis'/ing for a single day; but flour cannot be sown, ana seed-corn ought not to be ground. Words ore good, but they are not the best. The best is not to be explained by words. The spirit in which we act ia the highest mailer. Action can be understood and again represented by the spirit alone. No one knows what he is doing, while he acts rightly ; but of what is wrong we are always conscious. Whoever works with symbols only, ia a pedant, a hypocrite, or a bungler. There are many such, ana they like lo be together. Their babbling detains the scholar; their obstinate mediocrity vi-xes even the best. The instruction, which the true artist gives ue, opens up the mind; for where words fail him, deeds speak. The true scholar learns from the known to untold the unknown, and approaches more and more to being a master.

"'Enough!' cried the Abbé; 'thereat in due time. Now, look round you among these cases.'

"Wilhelm went and read the titles of ihe rolls. With astonishment, he found Lothario 8 Apprenlicefttip. Jortio'jr Apprenticeship, and his own ApprentieeMp placed there, with many oihere whose names he did not know. 'May I hope to caat a look into these rolls'' 'In tbie chamber, there is now nothing hid from you.' 'May I put a question T* 'Ask not,' said the Abbé. 'Hail to thee, young man! Thy apprenticeship is done; Nature has pronounced inee free.'"

When he afterwards inspects this roll, he finds "his whole life delineated with large, sharp strokes, and a number of bland ana general reflections!" We doubt whether there ig any such nonsense as this, any where else in the universe.

After this illumination, the first step he lakes, with the assent of these oracular sages, is to propose for Theresa, in a long letter. But wliile waiting for her answer, he is sent by Lothario to visit his sister, to whose care, it appears, poor Mignon had been transferred by Theresa. This sister he takes, of course, for the Countess from whom he had parted so strangely in the castle, and is a little embarrassed at the thought of meeting her. But he discovers on the road that there is another sister: and that she is the very healing angel who had given him the great coat when wounded in the forest, and had haunted his fancy ever since.

"He entered the house; he found himself in the most earnest, and, as he almost felt, the holiest place, which he had ever trod. A pendent dazzling lustre threw its light upon abroad and softly rising stair, which lay before him, and which parted into two divisions at a turn above. Marble statues and busts were standing upon pedestals, and arranged in niches; some of them seemed known to him. The impression» of our childhood abide with us, even in their minutest traces. He recognised a Muse which had formerly belonged to his grandfather."

He finds poor Mignon in a wretched state of health—and ascertains that it is a secret passion for him that is preying on her delicate form. In the mean time, and just as his romantic love for Natalia (his fair hostess) has resumed its full sway, she delivers him Theresa's letter of acceptance—very kind and confiding, but warning nim not to lav out any of his money, till she can assist and direct him about the investment. This letter perplexes him a little, and he replies, with a bad grace, to the warm congratulations of Natalia —when, just at this moment Lothario's friend steps in most opportunely to inform them, that Theresa had Ъееп discovered not to be the daughter of her reputed mother!—and that the bar to her union with Lothario was therefore at an end. Wilhelm affects great magnanimity in resigning her to his prior claims—but is puzzled by the warmth of her late acceptance—and still more, when a still more ardent letter arrives, in which she sticks to her last choice, and assures him that "her dream of living with Lothario has wandered far away from her soul;" and the matter seems finally settled, when she comes posthaste in her own person, flies into his arms, and exclaims, "My friend—my love—my husband! Yes, for ever thine! amidst the warmest kisses"—and he responds, "0 my Theresa!"—and kisses in return. In spite of all this, however, Lothario and his friends come to urge his suit ; and, with the true German taste for impossibilities and protracted agonies, the whole party is represented as living together quite quietly and harmoniously for several weeks—none of the parties pressing for a final determination, and all of them occupied, in the interval, with a variety «it tasks, duties, and dissertations. At last

the elective affinities prevail. Theresa begins to cool to her new love: and, on condition of Natalia undertaking to comfort Wilhelm, consents to go back to her engagements with Lothario—and the two couples, and some more, are happily united.

This is the ultimate catastrophe—though they who seek it in the book will not gel at it quite so easily—there being an inimité variety of other évente intermingled or premised. There is the death of poor Mignon—and her musical obsequies in the Hall of the Past— the arrival of an Italian Márchese, who tume out to be her uncle, and recognises his brother in the old crazy harper, of whom, though he has borne us company all along, we have not had time to take notice—the return of Phiiina along with a merry cadet of Lothario's house, as sprightly and indecorous as ever— the saving of Felix from poisoning, by hjs drinking out of the bottle instead of the glas« —and the coming in of the Count, whom Wilhelm had driven into dotage and piety by wearing his clothes—and the fair Countess, who is now discovered to have suffered for years from her momentary lapse in the castle —the picture of her husband having, by a most apt retribution, been pressed во hard to her breast in that stolen embrace, as to give pain at the time, and to afflict her with fears of cancer for very long after! Besides all this, there are the sayings of a very decided and infallible gentleman called Jamo—and his final and not very intelligible admission, that all which our hero had seen in the hall of the castle was "but the relics of a youthful undertaking, in which the greater part of the initiated were once in deep earnest, though all of them now viewed it with a smile."

Many of the passages to which we Ьате now alluded are executed with great talent; and we are very sensible are better worth елtracting than many of those we have cited. But it is too late now to change our selections —and we can still less afford to add to ihera. On the whole, we close the book with some feelings of mollification towards its faulte, and a disposition to abate, if possible, some part of the censure we were impelled to bestow on it at the beginning. It improves certainly as it advances—and thougn nowhere probable, or conversant indeed either wiih natural or conceivable characters, the inventive powers of the author seem to strengthen by exercise, and come gradually to be less frequently employed on childish or revolting subjects. While we hold out the work therefore as a curious and striking instance of that diversity of national tastes, which maie« a writer idolized in one part of polished Europe, who could not be tolerated in another, we would be understood as holding it out as aii object rather of wonder than of contempt; and though the greater part certainly could not be endured, and indeed could not have been written in England, there are many passages of which any country might reasonabl; be proud, and which demonstrate, that if taste be local and variable, genius is permanent and universal.

(©ítobír, 1804.)

The Correspondence of Samuel Richardson, Autkor of Pamela, Clarissa, and Sir Charle* Grandison; selected from the original Manuscripts bequeathed to his Family. To which art prtjued, a Biographical account of that Author, and Observations on his Writings. By Anna LiTiru Barbau i, n 6 vols. 8vo. Phillips, London: 1804.

The public has great reason to be satisfied, we think, with Mrs. Barbauld's share in this publication. She has contributed a very well written Introduction; and she has suppressed about twice as many letters as are now pre tented to our consideration. Favourably as we are disposed to think of all for which she is directly responsible, the perusal of the whole six volumes has fully convinced us ihat we are even more indebted to her forbearance than to her bounty.

The fair biographer unquestionably possesses very considerable talents, and exercises her powers of writing with singular judgment ind propriety. Many of her observations are acute and striking, and several of them very fine anil delicate. Yet this is not, perhaps, the general character of her genius; and it must be acknowledged, that she has a tone and manner which is something formal and heavy; that she occasionally delivers trite and obvious truths with the pomp and solemnity "f important discoveries, and sometimes attempts to exalt and magnify her subject by » тегу clumsy kind of declamation. With ai! those defects, however, we think the life j'id observations have so much substantial merit, that most readers will agree with us m thinking that they are worth much more than all the rest of the publication.

She sets off indeed with a sort of formal dissertation upon novels and romances in -•eneral: and, after obligingly recapitulating 'he whole history of this branch of literature, !rom the Theagenes and Chariclea of Helio¡lorus to the Gil Bias and Nouvelle Heloise '•f modem times, she proceeds to distineuish these performances into three several classes, according to the mode and form of narration adopted by the author. The first, she is pleased to inform us, is the narrative or epic form, in which the whole story is put into the mouth of the author, who is supposed, like 'he Mase, to know every thing, and is not »Hitral to give any account of the sources of! his information; the second is that in which! the hero relates his own adventures; and the third is that of epistolary correspondence, ¡ »here all the agents in the drama successive-' lv narrate the incidents in which they are tJ'incipally concerned. It was with Richarden. Mrs. Barbauld then informs us, that this hst mode of novel writing originated; and *he entere into a critical examination of its adviuitajes and disadvantages, and of the comparative probability of a person dispatching a! '•^native of every interesting incident or con- I venation in his life to hie friends by the post, ¡

and of his sitting down, after his adventures are concluded, to give a particular account of them to the public.

There is something rather childish, we think, in all this investigation; and the problem of comparative probability seems to be stated purely for the pleasure of the solution. No reader was ever disturbed, in the middle of an interesting story, by any scruple about the means or the inducements which the narrator may be presumed to have had for telling it. While he is engaged with the storyj such an inquiry never suggests itself; anu when it is suggested, he recollects that the whole is a fiction, invented by the author for his amusement, and that the best way of communicating it must be that by which he is most interested and least fatigued. To us it appears very obvious, that the first of the three modes, or the author's own narrative, ig by far the most eligible; and for this plain reason, that it lays him under much less restraint than either of the other two. He can introduce a letter or a story whenever he finds it convenient, and can make use of the dramatic or conversation style as often as the subject requires it. In epistolary writing there must be a great deal of repetition and egotism; and we must submit, as on the stage, to the intolerable burden of an insipid confidant, with whose admiration of the hero's epistles the reader may not always be disposed to sympathi/e. There is one species of novel indeed (but only one), to which the epistolary style is peculiarly adapted; that is, the novel, in which the whole interest depends, not upon the adventures, but on the characters of the persons represented, and in which the story is of very subordinate importance, and only serves as an occasion to Iraw forth the sentiments and feelings of ihe agents. The Heloise of Rousseau may be considered as the model of this species of writing; and Mrs. Barbauld certainly overlooked this obvious distinction, when she asserted that the author of that extraordinary work is to be reckoned among the imitators of Richardson. In the Heloise, there is scarcely any narrative at all; and the interest may be said to consist altogether in the eloquent ex pression of fine sentiments and exalted passion. All Richardson's novels, on the other hand, are substantially narrative; and the letters of most of his characters contain little more than a minute journal of the conversations and transactions in which they were successively engaged. The style of Richardson might be perfectly copied, though the L

epistolary (опт. were to be dropped; but no imitation of me Heloise could be recognised, if it were not in the shape of letters.

After finishing her discourse upon Novels. Mrs. Barbauld proceeds to lay before her readers some account of the life and performances of Richardson. The biography is very scanty, and contains nothing that can be thought very interesting. He was the son of a joiner in Derbyshire; but always avoided mentioning the town in which he was born. He was intended at first for the church; but his father, finding that the expense of his education would be too heavy, at last bound him apprentice to a printer. He never was acquainted with any language but his own. From his childhood, he was remarkable for invention, and was famous among his schoolfellows for amusing them with tales and stories which he composed extempore, and usually rendered, even at that early age, the vehicle of some useful moral. He was constitutionally shy and bashful; and instead of mixing with his companions in noisy sports and exercises, he used to read and converse with the sedate part of the other sex, or assist them in the composition of their love-letters. The following passage, extracted by Mis. Barbauld from one of the suppressed letters, is more curious and interesting, we think, than any thing in those that are published.

"As a bashful and not forward boy, I was «n early favourite with all the young women of taste and readme 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 mothers 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 theirlove-secrets in order to induce me to give them copies to write after, or correct, for answers to their lovers' letters; nor did any of them ever know that I was the secretary to the others. I have been directed to chide, and even to repulse, when an offence was either taken or given, at the very time that the heart of the chider or repulser w;is open before me. overflowing with esteem and nfTeciion; and the fair repulser, dreading to be taken at her word, directing Ihii word, or that expression, to be softened or changed, une highly gratified wiih her lover's fervour and vows of everlasting love, has said, when I h:ive asked her direction—I cannot tell you «'hat 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."—Vol. i. Introduction, p. x.xxix. xl.

We add Mrs. Barbauld's observation on this passage, for the truth of the sentiment it contains, though more inelegantly written than any other sentence ¡n her performance.

"Human nature in human nature in every class; the hopes and the tears, the perplexities and the struggles, of lhs»e luw-bred girls in probably an obscure village, supplied the future author with those ideas which, by their gradual development, produced the characters of a Clarissa and a Clementina; nor was he probnhiy happier, 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

society, than in reading to these girls in, it mar be, a little back shop, or a mantua-maker's parlout wiih a brick floor."—p. xl. xli.

During his apprenticeship, he distinguished himself only by exemplary diligence aad fidelity; though he informs us, that he even then enjoyed the correspondence of a gentieman, of great accomplishments, from whose patronage, if he had lived, he entertained the highest expectations. The rest of his worldly history seems to have been pretty nearly thai of Hogarth's virtuous apprentice. He married his master's daughter, and succeeded to Ы business; extended hie wealth and credit Ir sobriety, punctuality, and integrity; bought a residence in the country; and, though he did not attain to the supreme dignity of Ьола Mayor of London, arrived in due time at the respectable situation of Master of the Worshipful Company of Stationers. In this courrf of obscure prosperity, he appears to haiscontinued till he nad passed his tiftietii yea, without giving any intimation of his future celebrity, and even without appearing to t* conscious that he was differently gifted from the other flourishing traders of the metropolis. He says of himself, we observe, in one of these letters—" My business, till within the*' few years, filled all my time. I had no leisure; nor, being unable to write by a rreular plan, knew I that I had so much inventJoii. till I almost accidentally slid into the writing of Pamela. And besides, little did I imagii.e that any thing I could write would be » kindly received by the world." Of the origin and progress of this first work he has hiraseli left the following authentic account.

"Two booksellers, my particular friendi. «*• treated me to write for them a little volume *f letters, in a common style, on such subiecis и might be of use to those country readers who wfre unable to indite for themselves. Will it bo mj harm, said I, in a piece you want to be written» low, if we should instruct them how they should think and act in common cases, as well as indi*' They were the more urgent with me to begin tht Hill« volume for this hint. I eel about it; »fd. rc the progress of it, writing two or three leiten t» instruct handsome girls, who were obliged to P out to service, as we phrase it, how to avoid ш snares that might be laid against their virtue; tw above story recurred to my thought: »nd bint* sprung Pamela."—Inlrod. p. lui.

This publication, we are told, which iMfl* its first appearance in 1740, was received witD a burst of applause. Dr. Sherlock гесоиmended it from the pulpit. Mr. Pope earn' would do more good than volumes of вятои! and another literary oracle declared, that i all other books xvere to be burnt, Pamela am' the Bible should be preserved! It» suoce* was not less brilliant in the xvorld of fas-htor"Even at Ranelagh," Mrs. BarbanU a>rur. J us, "it was usual Tor the ladies to hold "Г ljl volumes to one another, to show they had г1 the book that everyone xvas talkiitsrnf." ^"''' what will appear »till more extraordinary, or? irentleman declares, that he will pive il l(1"' son as soon as he can read, that he may W"| an early impression of virtue.—After faithtuM reciting these and other testimonies of »*

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