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high estimation in which this work was once held by all ranks of people, Mrs. Barbauld fubjoms some very acute and judicious observations both on its literary merits and its mural tendency. We cannot find room for the whole of this critique; but there is so much good sense and propriety in the following passage, that we cannot refrain from inserting it.

"So long as Pamela is solely occupied in schemes lo escape from her persecutor, her virtuous resistnnrc obtains our unqualified approbation; but from the moment ehe begins to entertain hopee uf marrving 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 is wisely resolved not to part with but for its just price. H'-r faying in hie house a moment after she found ht r»e!f at liberty to leave it, was totally unjustifiable: her repentant lover ought to have followed her to her raider's cottage, and to have married her from шт.«-. The familiar footing upon which she condt-.-i-end» io live with the odious Jewkes, shows also, thai her fear of offending the man she hoped ы make her husband, had got the better of her delicacy and just resentment; and the ваше fear leads her to give up her correspondence with honest Mr. Williams, who had generously sacrificed his interest with his patron in order to effect her deliverance. In real life, we should, at this period, conbider Pamela as an interesting girl: but the author sivs. ehe married Mr. B. because he had won her fjfection: and we are bound, it muy be said, to believe an author's own account of hi« characters. But again, it is quite natural that a girl, who had euch a genuine love for virtue, should feel her heart a'.tracied to a man who was endeavouring to destroy tbit virtue Î Can a woman 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 bnnonr to which ehe expresses so much repugnance? —His attempts were of the grossest nature; and previous to. and during those attempts, he endeavoured to intimidate her by sternness. He puts on 'he master too much, to win upon her as the lover, fan affection be kindled by outrage and insult Г Surelv, if her passions were capable of being awakened in his favour, during such a persecution, 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 fehe married him for

'The gilt coach and dappled Flanders maree.' Indeed, the excessive humility and gratitude expressed by herself and her parents on her exaltation, shews a reaard to rank and riches beyond the just ñu asure ofan independent mind. The pious goodtria i Andrews» should not have thought his virtuous di'ishier so infinitely beneath her licentious master, who, after all, married her to gratify his own passion«.—Introd. pp. Ixiii.—Ixvi.

The first part of this work, which concludes with the marriage of the heroine, was written n three months; and was founded, it seems, on a real story which had been related to Fuchard«m by a gentleman of his acquaintяг СР. It was followed by a second part, conf'^wdly very inferior to the first, and was ridiculed bv Fielding in his Joseph Andrews; iti offence for \vhich he was never forgiven.

Within right years after the appearance of Pamela, Richardson's reputation may be said to have attained its zenith, by the successive publication of the volumes of his Clarissa. \Ve have great pleasure in laying before our a part of Mrs. Barbaul ''e very judi

cious observations upon this popular and original performance. After a slight sketch of the story, she observes,

"The plot, as we have seen, is simple, and no underplots interfere with the main design—no digressions, no episodes. It is wonderful that, without these helps of common writers, he could support a work of such length. With Clarissa it begins,— with Clarissa it ends. We do not come upon unexpected adventures and wonderful recognitions, by quick turns and surprises: We see her fate from afar, as it were through a long avenue, the gradual approach to which, without ever losing eight of the object, has more of simplicity and grandeur than the most cunning labyrinth that can be contrived by art. In the approach to the modern country seat, we are made lo 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 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 increasing 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 resignation, elevated with pious hope, and dismissed glowing with the conscious triumphs of virtue.—Introd. pp. Ixxxiii. Lxxxiv.

She then makes some excellent remarks on the conduct of the story, and on the characters that enliven it; on that of the heroine, she observée,

"In one instance, however, Clarissa certainly sins against the delicacy of her character, thai is, in allowing herself lo be made a show of to the loose companions of I/ovelace. But, how does her character rise, when we come to the more distressful scenes; the view of her horror, when, deluded by the pretended relations, she re-enters the fatal house; her temporary insanity after the outrage, in which she so aflectingly holds up to Lovelace the licence he had procured, and her dignified behaviour when she first sees her ravisher, after the perpetration of his crime! What finer subject could be presented to the painter, than the prison scene, where she is represented kneeling amidst the gloom and horror of that dismal abode; illuminating, as it were, the dark chamber, her face reclinedon her crossed arms, her white garments floating round her in the negligence of woe; Belford contemplating her with respectful commiseration: Or, the scene of calmer but heart-piercing sorrow, in the interview Colonel Morden has with her in her dying moments! She is represented fallen into a slumber, in her elbow-chair, leaning on the widow Lovick, whose left arm is around her neck: one faded cheek resting on the good woman's bosom, the kindly warmth of which had overspread it with a fainlish flush, the other pale and hollow, as if already iced over by death; her hands, the blueness of the veins contrasting their whiteness, hanging lifeless before het—the widow's tears dropping unfelt upon her face—Colonel Morden, with his arme folded, gnzing on her in silence, her coffin just appearing behind a screen. What admiration, what reverence, does the nmhor inspire us with for the innocent sufferer, the sufferings too of such a peculiar nature!

"There is something in virgin purity, to which the imagination willingly pays homage. In all ages, something saintly has been attached to the idea of unblemished chastity; but it was reserved fot Richardson lo overcome all circumstances of dishonour and disgrace, and to throw a splendour around the violated virgin, more radiant than sho possessed in her first bloom. He has drawn tl'O triumph of mental chastity; he ha« drawn it uncontaminated, untarnished, and incapable of mingling with pollution.—The scene« which follow the death of the heroine, exhibit grief in an affecting variety of forme, aa it is modified by the character« of different survivors. They run into considerable length, but we have been во deeply interested, tha we feel it a relief to have our grief drawn ofT, as i were, by a variety of sluices, and we are glad not to be dismissed till we have abed tears, even to aatiety."—Introd. pp. xciii.—xcvii.

This criticism we think is equally judicious and refined: and we could easily prolong this extract, in a style not at all inferior. With regard to the morality of the work, Mrs. Barbauld is тегу indignant at the notion of its being intended to exhibit a rare instance of female chastity.

She objects with some reason, to the num ber of interviews which Clarissa is represented to have had with Lovelace after the catastrophe; and adds, "If the reader, on casually opening the book, can doubt of any scene between them, whether it pasees before or after the outrage, that scene is one too much."— The character of Lovelace, she thinks, is very much of a fancy piece; and affirms, that our national manner» do not admit of the existence of an original. If he had been placed in France, she observes, and his gallantries directed to married women, it might have been more natural; "but, in England, Lovelace would have been run through the body, long before he had seen the face either of Clarissa or Colonel Morden."

Mrs. Barbauld gives us a copious account of the praise and admiration that poured in upon the author from all quarters, on the publication of this extraordinary work: he was overwhelmed with, complimentary letters, messages, and visits. But we are most gratified with the enthusiasm of one of his female correspondents, who tells him that she is very eorry, '-'that he was not a woman, and blest vnth the means of shining as Clarissa did; for a person capable of drawing such a character, would certainly be able to act in the same manner, if in a Hie situation!"

After Clarissa, at an interval of about five years, appeared his Sir Charles Grandison. Upon this work, also, Mrs. Barbauld has made many excellent observations, and pointed out both its blemishes and beauties, with a very delicate and discerning hand. Our limits will not permit us to enter upon this disquisition: we add only the following acute paragraph.

"Sir Charles, aa a Christian, was not to fight a duel; yet he was to be recognised as the finished gentleman, and could not be allowed to want the moat essential pan of the character, the deportment of a man of honour, courage, and spirit. And. in order to exhibit his spirit and courage, it was necessary to bring them into action by adventures and rencounters. His first appearance is in the rescue of Miss Byron, a meritorious action, but one which muet necessarily expose him to a challenge. How must the author untie this knot? He makes him so very good a awordsman, 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-master? Every one cannot have the skill of Sir Charles; •very one cannot be the belt awordsman; and the

man whose study it ia to avoid fighting is not qui'e so likely as another to be the best."

Inlrod. pp. cxxvii. cxxviii.

Besides hie great works, Richardson published only a paper in the Rambler (the 97th): an edition of /Esop's Fables, with Reflections; and a volume of Familiar Letters for the tue of persons in inferior situations. It was th.s latter work which gave occasion to Pamela: it is excellently adapted to its object, and we think may be of singular use to Mr. Wordsworth and his friends in their great scheme of turning all our poetry into the language oí the common people. In this view, we recommend it very earnestly to their consideration.

There is little more to be said of the trar* actions or events of Richardson's Ufe. Hit books were pirated by the Dublin booksellers: at which he was very angry, and could obtain no redress. He corresponded with a jrrea! number of females; and gradually withdrew himself from the fatigues of business to his country residence at Parson's Green; where his life was at last terminated in 1761, by a stroke of apoplexy, at the age of seventy-two.

His moral character was in the highest degree exemplary and amiable. He was temperate, industrious, and upright; punctual anil honourable in all his dealings; and with a kindness of heart, and a liberality and generosity of disposition, that must have made him a very general favourite^ even if he had never acquired any literary distinction.—He had a considerable share of vanity, and was observed to talk more willingly on the subject of his own works than on any other. The lowness of his original situation, and the latenes? o! his introduction into polite society, had given to his manners a great shyness and reserve; and a consciousness of his awkwardness and his merit together, rendered him somewhat jealous in his intercourse with persons in more conspicuous situations, and made him require more courting and attention, than every one was disposed to pay. He had high notions of parental authority, and does not seem always quite satisfied with the share of veneration which his wife could be prevailed on to show For him. He was particularly partial to the society of females; and lived, indeed, asMre. Barbauld has expressed it, in a flower-garden of ladies. Mrs. Barbauld will have it, that this was in the way of his profession as an author; and that he frequented their society to study the female heart, and instruct himself in all the niceties of the female character. From the tenor of the correspondence now before us, however, we are more inclined to believe, with Dr. Johnson, that this partiality was owing to his love of continual superiority, and that he preferred the conversation of ladies, because they were more avish of their admiration, and more easily engaged to descant on the perplexities of Sr Charles, or the distresses of Clarissa. ¡ close application to business, and the sedenary habits of a literary life, had materially injured his health: He loved to complain," most invalids do who have any hope of reing

listened to, and scarcely writes a letter •without some notice of his nervous tremors, his giddiness ала catchings. "I had originally a good constitution," he says, in one place. '• and hurt it by no intemperance, but that of application."

In presenting our readers with this imperfect summary of Mrs. Barbauld's biographical dissertation, we have discharged by far the most pleasing part of our task; and proceed to the consideration of the correspondence which it introduces, with considerable hearings of spirit, and the most unfeigned reluctance. The letters are certainly authentic; and they were bought, we have no doubt, for a lair price from the legal proprietors: but their publication, we think, was both improper and injudicious, as it can only tend to lower a very respectable character, without communicating any gratification or instruction to others. We are told, indeed, in the preface, <;that it was the employment of Mr. Richardson's declining years, to select and arrange the collection from which this publication has been made; and that he always looked forward to their publication at some distant period;" nay, "that he was not without thoughts of publishing them in his lifetime; and that, after his death, they remained in the hands of hie last surviving daughter, upon whose decease they became the properly of his grandchildren, and were purchased from them at a very liberal price by Mr. Phillips." We have no doubt that what Mrs. Barbauld has here stated to the public, was stated to her by her employers: But we canr.oi read any one volume of the letters, without being satisfied that the idea of such a Publication could only come into the mind of Richardson, after his judgment was impaired Ьу the infirmities of "declining years;" and we have observed some passages in those which are now published, that seem to prove sufficiently his own consciousness of the impropriety of such an exposure, and the abwuce o/ any idea of giving them to the world. In the year 1755, when nine-tenths of the whole collection must have been completed, we 6nd him expressing himself in these words to his friend Mr. Edwards:

"I am employing myself at present in looking "тег and sorting and classing my correspondences a^d o<her papers. This, when done, will amuse n«, by reading over again a very ample correspondence, and m comparing the sentiments of my 'orrííooiidenle, at the time, with the present, and inproTingfrom both. The many letters and papers I «hall destroy will make an executor'» work the "•isier; and if any of my friends desire their letters '' be relamed, they will be readily come at for that pirpose. Otherwise they will amuse and direct *• children, and teach them to honour their father's inunda in tktir elosctt fur the favours done him." Vol. Hi. pp. 113, 114.

Accordingly, they remained in the closet till the death of the last of his children; and then the whole collection is purchased by a bookseller, and put into the hands of an editor, who finds it expedient to suppress hvo'iirds of it!

These who have looked into the volumes j

in question, will be at no loss го comprehend the reasons of the unqualified reprehension we are inclined to bestow on their publication. For the information of those who have not had an opportunity of seeing them, we may observe that, so far from containing any view of the literature, the politics, or manners of the times—any anecdotes of the eminent and extraordinary personages to whom the author had access—or any pieces of elegant composition, refined criticism, or interesting narrative, they consist almost entirely of compliments and minute criticisms on his novels, a detail of his ailments and domestic concerns, and some tedious prattling disputations with his female correspondents, upon the duties of wives and children; the whole go loaded with gross and reciprocal flattery, as to be ridiculous at the outset, and disgusting ¡n the repetition. Compliments and the novels form indeed the staples of the whole correspondence: we meet with the divine Clarissa, and the more divine Sir Charles, in every page, and are absolutely stunned with the clamorous raptures and supplications with which the female train demand the conversion of Lovelace, and the death or restoration of Clementina.' Even when the charming books are not the direct subject of the correspondence, they appear in eternal allusions, and settle most of the arguments by an authoritative quotation. In short, the Clarissa and Grandison are the scriptures of this congregation; and the members of it »tick ae close to their language upon all occasions, as any of our sectaries ever did to that of the Bible. The praises and compliments, again, which are interchanged among all the parties, are so extremely hyperbolical as to be ludicrous, and so incessant as to be excessively fatiguing. We shall trouble our readers with but a very few specimens.

The first series of letters is from Aaron Hill, a poet of some notoriety, it seems, in his day; but, if we may judge from these epistles, a very bad composer in prose. The only amusing things we have met with in this volume of his inditing, are his prediction of his own _reat fame, and the speedy downfal of Pope's; and his scheme for making English wine of a superior quality to any that can be imported. Df Pope he says, that he died "in the wane of his popularity ; and that it arose originally only from meditated little personal assiduities, and a certain bladdery swell of management." And a little after—

"But reel his memory in peace! It will very rarely be disturbed by that time he himself is ashes. i is pleasant to observe the justice of forced fame; she lets down those, at once, who got themselves Mislii-il upward; and lifts none above the fear of яШпг. but я few who never teased her.

"What she intends to do with me, the Lord mows !"—Vol. i. p. 107.

In another place he adds, "For my part. I am afraid to be popular; I see so many who write to the living, and deserve not to live. .hat I content myself with a resurrection when dead:" And after lamenting the unpopularity of some of his writings, he saye "Bnt there will arise a time in which they will be seen in a far different light. I ¿noir i< on a surer hope than that of vanity." The wine project, which is detailed in many pages, requires no notice. As a specimen of the adulation with which Richardson was incensed by all his correspondents, we may add the following sentences.

"Where will your wonder» end? or how could I be able 10 express the joy it gives me ю discern your genius rising with the grace and boldness oía pillar! &.C. Go on, dear sir (I see you will and must), to charm and captivate the world, and force a scribbling race to learn and practise one rare virtue—to be pleased with what disgraces them." —" There is a manner (so beyond the mailer, extraordinary too as that is) in whatever you say or do, thai makes it an impossibility to speak those sentiments which it is equally impossible not to conceive in reverence ana affection for your goodness."

In allusion to the promise of Sir Charles, he says—

"I am greatly pleased at the hint you gave of a design to raise anoiher Alps upon this Appenine: we can never see loo many of his works who has no equal in his labours."

These passages, we believe, will satisfy most readers; but those who have any desire to see more, may turn np any page in the volume: It may be of some use, perhaps, as a great commonplace for the materials of "soft dedication."

The next series of letters is from Miss Fielding, who wrote David Simple, and Miss Collier, who assisted in writing The Cry. What modem reader knows any thing about the Cry, or David Simple Î And if the elaborate performances of these ladies have not been thought worthy of public remembrance, what likelihood is there that their private and confidential letters should be entitled to any notice? They contain nothing, indeed, that can be interesting to any description of readers; and only prove that Richardson was indulgent and charitable to them, and that their gratitude was a little too apt to degenerate into flattery.

The letters of Mrs. Pilkington and of Colley Gibber appear to us to be still less worthy of publication. The former seems to have been a profligate, silly actress, reduced to beegary in her old age. and distressed by the misconduct of her ill-educated children. The compassionate heart of Richardson led him to pity and relieve her; and she repays him with paltry adulation, interlarded, in the bombastic style of the green room, with dramatic misquotations misapplied. Of the letters of Cibber, .Mrs. B. says that "they show in every line the man of wit and the man of the woríd." We are sorry to dissent from so respectable an opinion: but the letters appear to us in everv respect contemptible and disgusting; without one spark of wit or genius of any sort, and bearing all the traces of vanity, impudence, affectation, and superannuated debauchery, which might have been expected from the author. His first epistle ¡8 to Mrs. Pilkington (for the editor has more than once favoured us with letters that have

no sort of relation to Richardson or bis writings), and sets oil in this manner:

'Thou frolicsome farce of fortune! Whet! Is there another act of you to come then ( 1 wu alraid, some lime ago, you had made your last n •. Well! but without «it or compliment, 1 am giij to hear you are eo tolerably alive," &.C.

We can scarcely conceive that this pilinil slang could appear to Mrs. Barbauld like tie pleasantry of a man of fashion. His letters to Richardson are, if any thing, rather more despicable. After reading some of the proof sheets of Sir Charles, he writes,

"Z ds! I have not patience, lili I know wr -.:

has become of her. Whv, you—I do not kn"» wlmi ю call you !—Ah! ah! you may laugh if Too please: but how will you be able to luok me in the lace, if the lady should ever be able to show i.-.t

again? What piteous, d d, disgraceful p. ^.e

have you plunged her ini For God'» sake «ei Î me the sequel; or—I dont know what to eay '—"

The following is an entire letter:

"The delicious meal I made of Miae Byron on Sunday last has given me an appeiiie for »noibtt slice of her, off from the spit, before she is eemd up to ihe public table. If about five o'clock icmorrow afternoon will not be inconvenient, Mrs. Brown and I will come and piddle upon a hit m<rof her: but pray let your whole family, with Mr». Richardson at the head of them, come in Sor their share. This, sir, will make me more and mort yours," &.C.

After these polite effusions, we have a (•<•••reepondence with Mr. Edwards, the authr' of the Canons of Criticism, a good deal of which is occupied as usual with flattery ?;.•! mutual compliments, and the rest with consultations about their different publication«. Richardson exclaims, "О that yon could r— solve to publish your pieces in two ргМ'л volumes!" And Mr. Edwards sends him long epistles in exaltation of Sir Charle? з: •! Clarissa. It is in this corresponden«1 ihn: we meet with the first symptom of that v.:<-' absurd and illiberal prejudice which Richar•.!• son indulged against all the writings of Fit'Ming. He writes to Mr. Edwards—

"Mr. Fielding has met with the disapprobo-n vou foresaw he would meet with, of his Arm i. He is. in every paper he publishes und« tbe n'le of the Common Garden, contributing to h;« o*i ovcnhrow. He has been overmatched in his ova wny by people whom he hod despised, and MÏ.o" he thought he had vogue enough, from the nicer» hi* ftpunons brat Tom .lones Fo unaccountably met with, in write down, but who have turned Ы« "'11 artillery asamst him. and beat him out of the fr'J. and made him even poorly in his Court of Cri: -" give up his Amelia, and promise lu wri:e ho :ь ron the like Mibjecls."—\ol. Ш. pp. 33—34.

This, however, is but a small specimen cf his antipathy. He says to his French translator, "Tom Jones isa dissolute book. I's nn is over, even with us. Is it true that Frat.f' had virtue enough to refuse to license such » profligate performance 1" But the worst of all is the following—

"I have not been able to read nny more than 'h'j first volume of Amelia. Poor Fielding! I conic not help telling Ail later, that I was equally No• prised at, and concerned for, his continued low«» Had your brother, said I, been born in a «tiblc> « been a ranner at a sponging house, we should have thought him a genius, and wished he had had the advantage of a liberal educatioti, and of being admitted into good company; but it is beyond my conception, that a man of lamily, and who had some learning, and who really is a writer, should descend во excessively low in all his pieces. Who can care for any of his people? A person of honour asked me, the other day, what he could mean, by saying, in his Govern Garden Journal, that he had followed Homer and Virgil in his Amelia! I answered, that he was justified in saying No, because he must mean Cotton's Virgil Traves'irtJ. where the women are drabs, and mo men scoundrels."—Vol. vi. pp. 154, 155.

It is lamentable that such things should have been written confidentially; it was surely unnecessary to make them public.

After the dismissal of Mr. Edwards, we meet with two or three very beautiful and interesting letters from Mrs. Klopstock, the first wife of the celebrated German poet. They have pleased us infinitely beyond any thing else in the collection; but how far they are indebted for the charm we have found in ihem to thfi lisping innocence of the broken E.! in which they are written, or to their intrinsic merit, we cannot pretend to determine. We insert the following account of tier courtship and marriage.

'• After having seen him two hours, I was obliged t.i pas« the evening in acompany, which never had been so wearisome to me. I could not speak, I could not play; I thought I saw nothing but Klopr.ock. I saw him the next day, and the following, brvi we were very seriously friends. But the fourni <hv he departed. It was an slrong hour the hour 3Í Ь:< departure! He wrote soon after, and from thai time our correspondence began to be a very ciilieent one. I sincerely believed my love to be friendship. I spoke with my friends of nothing but Klopstock, and showed his letters. They rallied at me, and Slid I was in love. I raillied ñera açain. and said that they must have a very frpndshiplpss heart, if they had no idea of friendship to a man as well as to a woman. Thus it continued eight months, in which time my friends fi'ind as much love in Klopstock's letters as in me. 1 pen-eived it likewise, but I would not believe it. Ai the last Klopstock said plainly that he loved; in.1 1 startled as for a wrong thing. I answered, that it was no love, but friendship, as it was what I ttit for him; we had not seen one another enough to love (as if love must have more time than friendship !) This was sincerely my meaning, and I had this meaning till Klopslock came again to Hamburg. This he did a year after we had seen one another the first time. We saw, we were friends, wt loved; and we believed that we loved: and, a fhort time after, I could even tell Klopstock that I ¡.«fid. But we were obliged to part again, and wait two years for our wedding. My moiher «Nojld not let mo marry a stranger. I could marry •h?n without her cnnsemment, as by the death of my father my fortune depended not on her: but thi* was an horrible idea for me; and thank Heann that I have prevailed by prayers! At this urn* knowing Klopstock, she loves him as her lifc'.y »on, and thanks God that she has not pcrmted. We married, and I am the happiest wife .n the world. In some few months it will be four y»r» that I am so happy, and still I dole upon Klopstock as if he was my bridegroom.

"If you knew my husband, you would not »onder. If you knew his poem, I could describe Him very briefly, in saying he is in all respects what he ¡s M a poet. This I can say with all wifely moie«iy But I dare not to speak of my busbed; I am all raptures when I do it. Aul as

happy as I am in love, so happy am I in friendship, in my mother, two elder sisters, and five other women. How rich I am ¡"—Vol. iii. pp. 146—149,

One of the best letters is dated from Tunbridge in 1751. We shall venture on an extract.

"But here, to change the scene, to see Mr. Walsh at eighty (Mr. Cibber calls him papa), and Mr. Gibber at seventy-seven, hunting after new faces; and thinking themselves happj? if they can obiain the notice and familiarity of a tine woman !—How ridiculous !—

"Mr. Cibber was over head and ears in love with Miss Chudleigh. Her admirers (such was his happiness 1) were not jealous of him ; but, pleased with that wit in him which they had not, were always for calling him to her. She said pretty things—lor she was Miss Chudleigh. He said pretly things— for he was Mr. Cibber; and all the company, men and women, seemed to think they had an interest in what was said, and were half as well pleased as if they had said the sprightly things themselves; and mighty well contented were they to be secondhand repeaters of the pretty things. But once I faced the laureate squatted upon one of the benches, with a face more wrinkled than ordinary with disappointment. 'I thought,' said I, 'you were of the parly at the tea treats—Miss Chudleigh is gone into the tea-room.1—' Pshaw!' said he, 'there is no coming at her, she is so surrounded by the toupets.' —Ana I left him upon the fret—But he was called to soon after; and in he flew, and his face shone again, and looked smooth.

"Another extraordinary old man we have had here, but of a very different turn; the noted Mr. Whiston, showing eclipses, and explaining other phenomena of the stars, and preaching the millennium and anabaptism (lor he is now, it seems, of that persuasion) to gay people, who, if they have white teeth, hear him with open mouths, though perhaps shut hearts; and after his lecture is over, not a bit the wiser, run from him the more eagerly 10 С—r and W—sli, and to flutter among the loudlaughing young fellows upon the walks, like boys and girls at a breaking up."—Vol. iii. p. 316—319.

As Richardson was in the habit of flattering his female correspondents, by asking their advice (though he never followed it) as to the conduct of his works, he prevailed on a certain Lady Echlin to communicate a new catastrophe which she had devised for his Clarissa. She had reformed Lovelace, by means of a Dr. Christian, and made him die of remorse, though the last outrage is not supposed to be committed. How far Lady EchliiVs epistles are likely to meet with readers, in this fastidious age, may be conjectured, from the following specimen.

"I heartily wish every Christain would read and wisely consider Mr. Skelton's fine and pious lessons. I admire the warmth of this learned gentleman's zeal ; it is Inudnble and necessary, 'especially in an age like this, which, for its coldness (he observes) may be called the winter of Christianity.' A melancholy truth, elegantly expressed! I have only perused a small part of this divine piece, and am greatly delighted with what I have rend. Swre/v Af in a heavenly man. I am alxo very fond of Dr. Clark: and excellent good Serd! I thnnk you. sir, for introducing another wise charmer, not (ess worthy of every body's regard. He mérite attention, and religiously commands it."—Vol. v. p. 40.

Next come several letters from the Reverend Mr. Skelton, mostly on the subject of in« Dublin piracy, and the publication of some works of his own. He eeems to have been a man of strong, coarse sense, but extremely irritable. Some delay in the publication oi'

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