same shelf with Moses and Homer, Euripides and Sophocles. History, he said, painted individuals; Richardson had painted the human species. In Germany, Klopstock, Gellert, and Wieland added their voices to the chorus. The book was promptly translated into German, Dutch, and French—the French translator being none else than the Abbé Prévost, himself the author of another epochmaking novel, Manon Lescaut. Prévost had already translated the first two volumes of Pamela, and he also made a version of Grandison. Six years elapsed before Richardson again came forward as a novelist. In Clarissa he had intended the portrait of a good woman; in his next and last work he essayed the (to him) more difficult task of depicting a good man'a man of true honour.' Sir Charles Grandison (whose surname has become synonymous with a certain frigid and formal politeness) represents the beau-ideal of a perfect gentleman and Christian. He disapproves of duelling as fervently as Steele, declines to dock the tails of his horses, and comports himself generally, on all occasions, including the Macheath-like dilemma of loving two ladies at once, with a most edifying discretion. But, although he is drawn with strokes as minute and patient, he never quite 'comes off' in the same way as Clarissa. He is too superfine, too courteous, too impeccable for 'human nature's daily food;' and one can understand, and even excuse, the burst of unwonted levity with which M. Taine eventually dismisses him: 'He is great, he is generous, he is delicate, he is pious, he is irreproachable; he has never done a dirty action or been betrayed into a false gesture. His conscience and his wig are intact. So be it. He shall be canonised and stuffed.' But if the hero of the book never attains to the faultless monsterhood at which the author aimed, in the feminine characters, Clementina, Harriet Byron, Charlotte Grandison, and so forth, he is again at his best. And though Sir Charles Grandison does not equal Clarissa, it is immeasurably superior to Pamela. Besides the volume of model letters with which Pamela originated, a pamphlet dealing with the treatment he had experienced at the hands of the Dublin booksellers, and a paper in the Rambler (No. 97, on 'Virtuous Courtship'), in the introductory sentence to which Johnson describes him as an author who had 'enlarged the knowledge of human nature, and taught the passions to move at the command of virtue,' Richardson made no further contributions to literature of any importance. He continued to write at inordinate length to his friends and admirers, mostly of the opposite sex, and to receive complacently the unstinted tribute of their adulation. A nervous, sentimental little man, a vegetarian and water-drinker, his health, undermined by iong sedentary occupation, declined as he grew older, and he became subject to fits of dizziness. His chief mode of exercise was walking, with alternative of that recently-revived substitute for equitation, the chamber-hobby or horse. He quitted London rarely, and then got no farther than Bath or Tunbridge Wells, where he might be seen in his flaxen wig, furtively shuffling along the side-walks, one hand in his bosom, the other at his chin or grasping his cane-head beneath his coat-tails, shyly distrustful of strangers, but brightening into a fluttered benignity upon the approach of Miss Highmore, Miss Fielding, Miss Mulso, Miss Talbot, Miss Collier, or some other member of the little consistory of feminine flatterers whom he called 'my ladies.' His three novels, as already stated, belong to his residence at North End, which seems at one time to have been known, either actually or familiarly, as Selby House (Corr. i. clxvi.), after the 'Selby House' in Grandison. His favourite writing-place was a grotto or arbour in the middle of the garden at the back, where he had a seat with an inkhorn on the side. He has also an ink-pot let into the handle of his chair in Highmore's portrait. It was his practice to write his letters, either feigned or real, upon a little board which he held in his hand, and this is shown in another picture by Mason Chamberlin, which has been engraved. Some of his work must have been done at Salisbury Court; but it is probable that the greater part of Clarissa and Grandison had its birth in the grotto at North End. To this, says Mrs Barbauld, he used to retreat in the morning 'before the family were up; 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 Byron or Clementina; every turn and every incident was eagerly canvassed, and the author enjoyed the benefit of knowing beforehand how his situations would strike.' One of these sessions, which sometimes took place in the grotto itself, is depicted in a little sketch by Miss Highmore, where Richardson is shown reading the manuscript of Grandison to a circle of friends. These readings must have been invaluable to him in shaping and modifying the course of his story. They must also be responsible, in some measure, for its exceptional length, if, as he told Young, he was apt to add three pages for every one that he retrenched. But his prolixity was innate. It was a part of his minute method, and it is also part of his strength. 'You have,' said Aaron Hill, who tried vainly to abridge him, 'formed a style ... where verbosity becomes a virtue; because, in pictures which you draw with such a skilful negligence, redundance but conveys resemblance; and to contract the strokes would be to spoil the likeness.' This is the verdict of an admirer; but it is true. Richardson's style is not good; it is colloquial, it is pedestrian, it is diffuse. But it is also direct and unaffected, and, what is more, in the much-debated metaphor of Buffon, it is the man himself the sentient being, homme même. Pamela in Church. Yesterday [Sunday] we set out, attended by John, Abraham, Benjamin, and Isaac, in fine new liveries, in the best chariot, which had been new cleaned and lined, and new-harnessed; so that it looked like a quite new one. But I had no arms to quarter with my dear lord and master's, though he jocularly, upon my taking notice of my obscurity, said that he had a good mind to have the olive-branch, which would allude to his hopes, quartered for mine. I was dressed in the suit I mentioned, of white, flowered with silver, and a rich head, and the diamond necklace, ear-rings, &c. I also mentioned before. And my dear sir, in a fine laced silk waistcoat, of blue paduasoy, and his coat a pearlcoloured fine cloth, with gold buttons and button-holes, and lined with white silk; and he looked charmingly indeed. I said I was too fine, and would have laid aside some of the jewels: but he said it would be thought a slight to me from him, as his wife; and though, as I apprehended, it might be that people would talk as it was, yet he had rather they should say anything, than that I was not put upon an equal foot, as his wife, with any lady he might have married. It seems the neighbouring gentry had expected us, and there was a great congregation, for (against my wish) we were a little of the latest; so that, as we walked up the church to his seat, we had abundance of gazers and whisperers. But my dear master behaved with so intrepid an air, and was so cheerful and complaisant to me, that he did credit to his kind choice, instead of shewing as if he was ashamed of it; and as I was resolved to busy my mind entirely with the duties of the day, my intentness on that occasion, and my thankfulness to God for his unspeakable mercies to me, so took up my thoughts, that I was much less concerned than I should otherwise have been at the gazings and whisperings of the ladies and gentlemen, as well as the rest of the congregation, whose eyes were all turned to our seat. When the sermon was ended, we staid the longer because the church should be pretty empty; but we found great numbers at the church-doors, and in the church-porch; and I had the pleasure of hearing many commendations, as well of my person as my dress and behaviour, and not one reflection or mark of disrespect. Mr Martin, who is single, Mr Chambers, Mr Arthur, and Mr Brooks, with their families, were all there; and the four gentlemen came up to us before we went into the chariot, and in a very kind and respectful manner complimented us both; and Mrs Arthur and Mrs Brooks were so kind as to wish me joy. And Mrs Brooks said : 'You sent Mr Brooks, madam, home t' other day quite charmed with a manner which you have convinced a thousand persons this day is natural to you.' 'You do me great honour, madam,' replied I; 'such a good lady's approbation must make me too sensible of my happiness. My dear master handed me into the chariot, and stood talking with Sir Thomas Atkyns at the door of it (who was making him abundance of compliments, and is a very ceremonious gentleman, a little too extreme in that way), and I believe to familiarise me to the gazers, which concerned me a little; for I was dashed to hear the praises of the country-people, and to see how they crowded about the chariot. Several poor people begged my charity; and I beckoned John with my fan, and said: 'Divide in the further church-porch that money to the poor, and let them come to-morrow morning to me, and I will give them something more if they don't importune me now.' So I gave him all the silver I had, which happened to be between twenty and thirty shillings; and this drew away from me their clamorous prayers for charity. Mr Martin came up to me on the other side of the chariot, and leaned on the very door, while my master was talking to Sir Thomas, from whom he could not get away, and said: By all that's good, you have charmed the whole congregation. Not a soul but is full of your praises. My neighbour knew, better than anybody could tell him, how to choose for himself. Why,' said he, 'the Dean himself looked more upon you than his book!' 'O sir,' s. I, 'you are very encouraging to a weak mind.' 'I vow,' said he, 'I say no more than is truth. I'd marry to-morrow if I was sure of meeting with a person of but one-half of the merit you have. You are,' continued he—‘and 'tis not my way to praise too much—an ornament to your sex, an honour to your spouse, and a credit to religion. Everybody is saying so,' added he, for you have by your piety edified the whole church.' As he had done speaking, the Dean himself complimented me, that the behaviour of so worthy a lady would be very edifying to his congregation, and encouraging to himself. Sir,' said I, 'you are very kind: I hope I shall not behave unworthy of the good instructions I shall have the pleasure to receive from so worthy a divine.' He bowed and went on. Sir Thomas then applied to me, my master stepping into the chariot, and said: 'I beg pardon, madam, for detaining your good spouse from you. But I have been saying he is the happiest man in the world.' I bowed to him; but I could have wished him further, to make me sit so in the notice of every one: which, for all I could do, dashed me not a little. Mr Martin said to my master: 'If you'll come to church every Sunday with your charming lady, I will never absent myself, and she 'll give a good example to all the neighbourhood.' 'O my dear sir,' said I to my master, 'you know not how much I am obliged to good Mr Martin: he has by his kind expression made me dare to look up with pleasure and gratitude.' Said my master: My dear love, I am very much obliged, as well as you, to my good friend Mr Martin.' And he said to him: 'We will constantly go to church, and to every other place where we can have the pleasure of seeing Mr Martin.' Mr Martin said: 'Gad, sir, you are a happy man, and I think your lady's example has made you more polite and handsome too than I ever knew you before, though we never thought you unpolite neither.' And so he bowed, and went to his own chariot; and as we drove away, the people kindly blessed us, and called us a charming pair. (From Pamela's journal, in Pamela.) The Death of Lovelace-Translation of a letter from F. J. De la Tour. To John Belford, Esq., near Soho Square, London. TRENT, December 18, N.S. Sir, I have melancholy news to inform you of, by order of the Chevalier Lovelace. He showed me his letter to you before he sealed it, signifying that he was to meet the Chevalier Morden on the 15th. Wherefore, as the occasion of the meeting is so well known to you, I shall say nothing of it here. I had taken care to have ready, within a little distance, a surgeon and his assistant, to whom, under an oath of secrecy, I had revealed the matter (though I did not own it to the two gentlemen): so that they were prepared with bandages, and all things proper. For well was I acquainted with the bravery and skill of my chevalier; and had heard the character of the other; and knew the animosity of both. A post-chaise was ready, with each of their footmen, at a little distance. The two chevaliers came exactly at their time: they were attended by Monsieur Margate (the Colonel's gentleman) and myself. They had given orders over night, and now repeated them in each other's presence, that we should observe a strict impartiality between them: and that, if one fell, each of us should look upon himself, as to any needful help or retreat, as the servant of the survivor, and take his commands accordingly. After a few compliments, both the gentlemen, with the greatest presence of mind that I ever beheld in men, stript to their shirts, and drew. They parried with equal judgment several passes. My chevalier drew the first blood, making a desperate push, which, by a sudden turn of his antagonist, missed going clear through him, and wounded him on the fleshy part of the ribs of his right side; which part the sword tore out, being on the extremity of the body: but, before my chevalier could recover himself, the Colonel, in return, pushed him into the inside of the left arm, near the shoulder and the sword (raking his breast as it passed) being followed by a great effusion of blood, the Colonel said, sir, I believe you have enough. : My chevalier swore by G-d he was not hurt : 'twas a pin's point and so made another pass at his antagonist; which he, with a surprising dexterity, received under his arm, and run my dear chevalier into the body: who immediately fell: saying, The luck is yours, sir-O my beloved Clarissa!-now art thouInwardly he spoke three or four words more. His sword dropped from his hand. Mr Morden threw his down, and ran to him, saying in French-Ah monsieur, you are a dead man-call to God for mercy! We gave the signal agreed upon to the footmen; and they to the surgeons, who instantly came up. Colonel Morden, I found, was too well used to the bloody work; for he was as cool as if nothing extraordinary had happened, assisting the surgeons, though his own wound bled much. But my dear chevalier fainted away two or three times running, and vomited blood besides. However, they stopped the bleeding for the present; and we helped him into the voiture; and then the Colonel suffered his own wound to be dressed, and appeared concerned that my chevalier was between whiles (when he could speak, and struggle) extremely outrageous. Poor gentleman! he had made quite sure of victory! The Colonel, against the surgeons' advice, would mount on horseback to pass into the Venetian territories, and generously gave me a purse of gold to pay the surgeons; desiring me to make a present to the footman, and to accept of the remainder, as a mark of his satisfaction in my conduct, and in my care and tenderness of my master. The surgeons told him, that my chevalier could not live over the day. When the Colonel took leave of him, Mr Lovelace said, You have well revenged the dear creature. I have, sir, said Mr Morden: and perhaps shall be sorry that you called upon me to this work, while I was balancing whether to obey, or disobey, the dear angel. There is a fate in it! replied my chevalier-a cursed fateor this could not have been!-but be ye all witnesses, that I have provoked my destiny, and acknowledge that I fall by a man of honour. Sir, said the Colonel, with the piety of a confessor (wringing Mr Lovelace's hand), snatch these few fleeting moments, and commend yourself to God. And so he rode off. The voiture proceeded slowly with my chevalier; yet the motion set both his wounds bleeding afresh; and it was with difficulty that they again stopped the blood. We brought him alive to the nearest cottage; and he gave orders to me to dispatch to you the packet I herewith send sealed up; and bid me write to you the particulars of this most unhappy affair, and give you thanks, in his name, for all your favours and friendship to him. Contrary to all expectation, he lived over the night: but suffered much, as well from his impatience and disappointment as from his wounds; for he seemed very unwilling to die. He was delirious, at times, in the two last hours; and then several times cried out, as if he had seen some frightful spectre, Take her away! Take her away! but named nobody. And sometimes praised some lady (that Clarissa, I suppose, whom he had invoked when he received his death's wound), calling her, Sweet Excellence! Divine Creature! Fair Sufferer!-and once he said, Look down, Blessed Spirit, look down !— and there stopped ;-his lips however moving. At nine in the morning, he was seized with convulsions, and fainted away; and it was a quarter of an hour before he came out of them. His few last words I must not omit, as they show an ultimate composure; which may administer some consolation to his honourable friends. Blessed said he, addressing himself no doubt to Heaven; for his dying eyes were lifted up-a strong convulsion prevented him for a few moments saying more-but recovering, he again with great fervour (lifting up his eyes, and his spread hands) pronounced the word blessed :—then, in a seeming ejaculation, he spoke inwardly so as not to be understood: at last, he distinctly pronounced these three words, LET THIS EXPIATE! and then, his head sinking on his pillow, he expired, at about half an hour after ten. He little thought, poor gentleman! his end so near: so had given no direction about his body. I have caused it to be embowelled, and deposited in a vault, till I have orders from England. This is a favour that was procured with difficulty; and would have been refused, had he not been an Englishman of rank: a nation with reason respected in every Austrian government-for he had refused ghostly attendance, and the sacraments in the Catholic way. May his soul be happy, I pray God! I have had some trouble also, on account of the manner of his death, from the magistracy here: who have taken the requisite informations in the affair. And it has cost some money. Of which, and of the dear chevalier's effects, I will give you a faithful account in my next. And so, waiting at this place your commands, I am, sir, Your most faithful and obedient servant, Sir Charles Grandison. Sir Charles Grandison, in his person, is really a very fine man. He is tall; rather slender than full his face in shape is a fine oval; he seems to have florid health; health confirmed by exercise. His complexion seems to have been naturally too fine for a man: but, as if he were above being regardful of it, his face is overspread with a manly sunniness, [I want a word,] that shews he has been in warmer climates than England and so it seems he has; since the tour of Europe has not contented him. He has visited some parts of Asia, and even of Afric, Egypt particularly. : I wonder what business a man has for such fine teeth, and so fine a mouth, as Sir Charles Grandison might boast of, were he vain. In his aspect there is something great and noble, that shews him to be of rank. Were kings to be chosen for beauty and majesty of person, Sir Charles Grandison would have few competitors. His eye-Indeed, my Lucy, his eye shews, if possible, more of sparkling intelligence than that of his sister Now pray be quiet, my dear uncle Selby! What is beauty in a man to me? You all know that I never thought beauty a qualification in a man. And yet, this grandeur in his person and air is accompanied with so much ease and freedom of manners, as engages one's love with one's reverence. His good breeding renders him very accessible. His sister says, he is always the first to break through the restraints, and to banish the diffidences, that will generally attend persons on a quite new acquaintance. He may; for he is sure of being acceptable in whatever he does or says. Very true, Lucy: shake your head if you please. In a word, he has such an easy, yet manly politeness, as well in his dress as in his address, (no singularity appearing in either), that were he not a fine figure of a man, but were even plain and hard-featured, he would be thought (what is far more eligible in a man than mere beauty) very agreeable. Sir Charles Grandison, my dear, has travelled, we may say, to some purpose. Well might his sister tell Mr Reeves, that whenever he married he would break half a score hearts. Upon my word, Lucy, he has too many personal advantages for a woman, who loved him with peculiarity, to be easy with, whatever may be his virtue, from the foible our sex in general love to indulge for handsome men. For, O my dear! women's eyes are sad giddy things, and will run away with their sense, with their understandings, beyond the power of being overtaken either by stop-thief, or hue-and-cry. I know that here you will bid me take care not to increase the number of the giddy; and so I will, my Lucy. The good sense of this real fine gentleman is not, as I can find, rusted over by sourness, by moroseness: he is above quarrelling with the world for trifles: but he is still more above making such compliances with it as would impeach either his honour or conscience. Once Miss Grandison, speaking of her brother, said, My brother is valued by those who know him best, not so much for being a handsome man, not so much for his birth and fortune, nor for this or that single worthiness, as for being, in the great and yet comprehensive sense of the word, a good man. And at another time she said, that he lived to himself, and to his own heart; and though he had the happiness to please every body, yet he made the judgment or approbation of the world matter but of second consideration. In a word, added she, Sir Charles Grandison, my brother, (and when she looks proud, it is when she says, my brother), is not to be misled either by false glory, or false shame, which he calls, The great snares of virtue. What a man is this, so to act!-What a woman is this, so to distinguish her brother's excellencies! What a poor creature am I, compared to either of them! And yet I have had my admirers. So perhaps may still more faulty creatures among their inferiors. If, my Lucy, we have so much good sense as to make fair comparisons, what have we to do but to look forward rather than backward, in order to obtain the grace of humility? But let me tell you, my dear, that Sir Charles does not look to be so great a self-denier, as his sister seems to think him, when she says, he lives to himself, and to his own heart, rather than to the opinion of the world. He dresses to the fashion, rather richly, 'tis true, than gaudily; but still richly: so that he gives his fine person its full consideration. He has a great deal of vivacity in his whole aspect, as well as in his eye. Mrs Jenny says, that he is a great admirer of handsome women. His equipage is perfectly in taste, though not so much to the glare of taste, as if he aimed either to inspire or shew emulation. He seldom travels without a set, and suitable attendants; and what I think seems a little to savour of singularity, his horses are not docked: their tails are only tied up when they are on the road. This I took notice of when we came to town. I want, methinks, my dear, to find some fault in his outward appearance, were it but to make you think me impartial; my gratitude to him and my veneration for him notwithstanding. But if he be of opinion that the tails of these noble animals are not only a natural ornament, but are of real use to defend them from the vexatious insects that in summer are so apt to annoy them (as Jenny just now told me was thought to be his reason for not depriving his cattle of a defence, which nature gave them), how far from a dispraise is this humane consideration! And how, in the more minute as well as we may suppose in the greater instances, does he deserve the character of the man of mercy, who will be merciful to his beast! I have met with persons, who call those men good, that yet allow themselves in liberties which no good man can take. But I dare say, that Miss Grandison means by good, when she calls her brother, with so much pride, a good man, what I, and what you, my Lucy, would understand by the word. (From a letter from Miss Byron to Miss Selby.) Richardson's works were collected in 1811, in nineteen volumes, with a sketch of his life, by the Rev. Edward Mangin, M.A. They were also included in Ballantyne's Novelist's Library, with a memoir by Sir Walter Scott. Later editions are Works, with a prefatory chapter of biographical criticism by Mr Leslie Stephen (12 vols. 1883); and Novels, with an introduction by Miss Ethel M. M. M'Kenna (20 vols. 1901). This last, which includes reproductions of the pretty old plates of Stothard, Burney, and the rest, is based upon Mangin's text. There are notable articles upon Richardson in Blackwood's Magazine (Mrs Oliphant), March 1869; Fortnightly Review (Mr H. Buxton Forman), October 1869 and December 1901; Contemporary Review (H. D. Traill), October 1883; and National Review (Mrs Andrew Lang), November 1889. The New Lucian of Mr Traill (1900) also contains, at pages 268-86, an admirable dialogue between Fielding and Richardson; and there are references to his work in Larroumet's Marivaux (1882); Jusserand's Le Roman Anglais (1886); Texte's Jean Jacques Rousseau, &c. (1895); and Erich Schmidt's Richardson, Rousseau, und Goethe (1875). A bust of Richardson, by George Frampton, A.R. A., was recently (20th November 1901) unveiled at the St Bride Foundation Institute, in Fleet Street. His North End house (formerly 49 but now 111 North End Road, Fulham) still exists, and was recently the residence of the late Sir E. Burne-Jones, Bart.; the Parson's Green house, which stood at the south-west corner of the green facing the King's Road which leads from Buckingham Palace to Putney Bridge, has long disappeared. An interesting sketch of it, with a misleading title, was engraved by J. P. Malcolm in 1799. AUSTIN DOBSON. William Somerville (1675-1742), the poet of The Chase, was, as he tells Allan Ramsay, 'a squire well born, and six foot high.' The patrimonial estate (to which he succeeded in 1705) lay in Warwickshire, and was worth £1500 a year. Generous but extravagant and dissipated, he died in distressed circumstances; and having no child to succeed him, for present relief of burdens he settled his estate on the Scottish Lord Somerville. He wrote a poetical address to Addison when he purchased an estate in Warwickshire. In his verses to Addison,' says Johnson, 'the couplet which mentions Clio is written with the most exquisite delicacy of praise; it exhibits one of those happy strokes that are seldom attained.' Addison signed his papers in the Spectator with the letters of the name Clio; and this is the couplet which so delighted Johnson : When panting virtue her last efforts made, In welcoming Addison to the banks of Avon, Somerville (like many another critic of the time) scruples not to rank him above Shakespeare: In heaven he sings; on earth your muse supplies Somerville's chief poetical ventures were The Two Springs, a Fable (1725); Occasional Poems (1727); The Chase (1735); Hobbinol, a burlesque (1740); and Field Sports, a poem on hawking (1742). The Chase, in blank verse, contains practical instructions to sportsmen; this is a bright sketch of an autumn morning proper for 'throwing off the pack:' Now golden Autumn from her open lap Her fragrant bounties showers; the fields are shorn; And counts his large increase; his barns are stored, And groaning staddles bend beneath their load. stack-stands All now is free as air, and the gay pack hollos In the rough bristly stubbles range unblamed ; Hail, gentle Dawn! mild, blushing goddess, hail! Stothard illustrated an edition of The Chase (1800), as did also Hugh Thomson (1896). An edition of the works appeared in 1801. |