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has given his name to the genus fine-gentleman profligate. Here again, with certain allowances for the change in times and customs, Richardson has succeeded in making a powerful tale, though a very slow-moving one to the modern taste. The lachrymose dénouement is an eighteenth-century prototype of a whole train of latter-day fiction after it became fashionable to end a novel ill. In his final story, 'The History of Sir Charles Grandison' (1753), he turns from painting heroines in order to limn a hero, with whom he most egregiously fails. Sir Charles is an impossible prig and pattern-plate; the reader cannot accept him as true, nor stomach him as in any wise admirable. Surrounded by an adoring bevy of women, he struts about like a turkey-cock, and is twice as ridiculous. In George Meredith's The Egoist,' Willoughby is Grandison, with the significant difference. that the later story-teller consciously satirizes the character, while Richardson takes him in full seriousness. Of these three main works, then, two are masterpieces when viewed in relation to their time and the prior poor estate of English fiction. The third is a comparative failure. All of them, it should be understood, are cast in the epistolary form. Novels in the shape of letters have bred fast since, and the device is now pretty well outworn; but in the middle of the last century this way of telling a story had the charm of novelty. It is a method lending itself well to Richardson's leisurely, at times tedious, gait.

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Richardson's popularity with the fair sex was immense after the appearance of his novels; nor was this confined to one class. That brilliant worldling, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, testifies that the chambermaids of all nations wept over Pamela; while ladies of quality knelt sobbing at Richardson's feet, begging him to spare Clarissa. The situation is not without humor for us to-day; and indeed the modern reader can afford to smile at the mawkish sentimentality and utilitarian morals of a book like 'Pamela.' But the story is epoch-making in English fiction. It does a new thing. girl of the lower class is painted at full length, as if she were worth attention-painted sympathetically; and in this and the subsequent stories the interest is made to depend upon the development of character, rather than upon objective incident as in the case of De Foe's 'Robinson Crusoe,' which came some twenty years earlier. In this Richardson struck the modern note, and started the analytic tendency, which has unceasingly dominated the modern novel since. his day. Hence Richardson's important place in the evolution of fiction of our speech.

Again, it was in the spirit of parody and satire that Fielding, his greater fellow novelist, began his career by writing 'Joseph Andrews'; so that Richardson, in a sense, may be regarded as inspiring

the author of 'Tom Jones.' The former's influence was felt largely in foreign fiction, particularly in that of Germany and France. Richardson's 'Life and Correspondence,' with a Memoir by Mrs. Barbauld, appeared in 1804.

PAMELA IMMURED BY HER LOVER

From Pamela'

THURSDAY.

T

HIS Completes a terrible week since my setting out, as I hoped to see you, my dear father and mother.

My impatience was great to walk in the garden, to see if anything had offered answerable to my hopes; but this wicked Mrs. Jewkes would not let me go without her, and said she was not at leisure. We had a great many words about it: I told her it was very hard I could not be trusted to walk by myself in the garden for a little air, but must be dogged and watched worse than a thief.

"I remember," said she, "your asking Mr. Williams if there were any gentry in the neighborhood. This make me suspect you want to go away to them, to tell your dismal story, as you call it."

"Why," said I, "are you afraid I should confederate with them to commit a robbery upon my master?"

"Maybe I am," said she; "for to rob him of yourself would be the worst that could happen to him, in his opinion."

"And pray," said I, walking on, "how came I to be his property? what right has he to me, but such as a thief may plead to stolen goods?"

"Why, was ever the like heard!" says she. "This is downright rebellion, I protest! Well, well, lambkin" (which the foolish woman often calls me), "if I was in his place, he should not have his property in you so long questionable."

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Why, what would you do,” said I, "if you were he?"

"Not stand shill-I shall-I, as he does, but put you and himself both out of pain."

"Why, Jezebel," said I (I could not help it), "would you ruin me by force ? »

Upon this she gave me a deadly slap upon the shoulder. "Take that," said she: "whom do you call Jezebel?"

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I was so surprised (for you never beat me, my dear father and mother, in your lives), that I was like one thunder-struck, and looked round as if I wanted somebody to help me; but alas, I had nobody! and said, rubbing my shoulder, "Is this also in your instructions? Alas for me! am I to be beaten too?" And so I fell a-crying, and threw myself upon the grass-walk we were

upon.

Said she in a great pet, "I won't be called such names, I'll assure you. Marry come up! I see you have a spirit: you must and shall be kept under. I'll manage such little provoking things as you, I warrant ye! Come, come: we'll go indoors, and I'll lock you up; you shall have no shoes, nor anything else, if this be the case."

I did not know what to do.. This was a cruel thing to me: I blamed myself for my free speech; for now I had given her some pretense for severity, and had by my pertness ruined the only project I had left.

The gardener saw the scene: but she called to him, "Well, Jacob, what do you stare at? Pray mind what you are upon.» And away he walked to another quarter, out of sight.

"Well," thought I, "I must put on the dissembler a little, I see. »

She took my hand roughly. "Come, get up," said she, "and come in a' doors. I'll Jezebel you, I will!"

"Why, dear Mrs. Jewkes-" said I.

"None of your dears and your coaxing," said she: "why not Jezebel again ? »

I

She was in a passion, I saw; and I was out of my wits. have often heard women blamed for their tongues. I wished mine had been shorter.

"But I can't go in," said I; "indeed I can't."

"Why," said she, "can't you? I'll warrant I can take such a thin body as you under my arm, and carry you in, if you won't walk. You don't know my strength.".

"Yes, but I do," said I, "too well; and will you not use me worse when I come in?" So I arose; and she muttered to herself all the way, she to be a Jezebel with me, that had used me so well, and such like.

When I came near the house, I said, sitting down upon a bench, "Well, I will not go in until you say you forgive me,

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Mrs. Jewkes. If you will forgive me calling you that name, I will forgive your beating me."

She sat down by me, and seemed in a great pucker, and said, "Well, come, I will forgive you this time;" and so kissed me as a mark of reconciliation.

"But pray," said I, "tell me where I am to walk or go, and give me what liberty you can; and when I know the most you can favor me with, you shall see I will be as content as I can, and not ask you for more."

"Aye," said she, "this is something like: I wish I could give you all the liberty you desire; for you must think it no pleasure to me to tie you to my petticoat, as it were, and not let you stir without me. But people that will do their duties must have some trouble; and what I do is to serve as good a master as lives."

"Yes," said I, "to every one but me."

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"He loves you too well, to be sure," said she; "that's the reason! so you ought to bear it. Come," said she, "don't let the servant see you have been crying, nor tell her any tales; for you won't tell them fairly, I'm sure. I'll send her to you, and you shall take another walk in the garden, if you will: maybe it will get you a stomach for your dinner; for you don't eat enough to keep life and soul together. the bone, or you could not look so well little stomach, so little rest, and so much for nothing at all."

You are a beauty to as you do, with so pining and whining

"Well," thought I, "say what thou wilt, so I can be rid of thy bad tongue and company; and I hope to find some opportunity now to come at my sunflower." But I walked the other way to take that in my return, to avoid suspicion.

I forced my discourse to the maid, but it was all upon general things; for I found she is asked after everything I say or do.

When I came near the place, as I had been devising, I said, "Pray step to the gardener, and ask him to gather a salad for me to dinner."

She called out, "Jacob! >>>>

Said I, "He can't hear you so far off: and pray tell him I should like a cucumber too, if he has one.”

When she had stepped about a bowshot from me, I popt down, and whipt my fingers under the upper tile; and pulled out

a letter without direction, and thrust it into my bosom, trembling for joy. She was with me before I could secure it; and I was in such a taking that I feared I should discover myself.

"You seem frightened, madam," said she.

"Why," said I, with a lucky thought, (alas! your poor daughter will make an intriguer by-and-by; but I hope an innocent one!) "I stooped to smell at the sunflower, and a great nasty worm ran into the ground, that startled me; for I can't abide

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Said she, "Sunflowers don't smell."

“So I find,” I replied. And then we walked in.

Mrs. Jewkes said, "Well, you have made haste now. You shall go another time."

I went to my closet, locked myself in, and opening my letter, found in it these words:

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I am infinitely concerned in your distress. I most heartily wish it may be in my power to serve and save so much innocence, beauty, and merit. My whole dependence is upon Mr. B., and I have a near view of being provided for by his favor to me. But yet I would sooner forfeit all my hopes in him (trusting to God for the rest) than not assist you, if possible. I never looked upon Mr. B. in the light he now appears in. I am entirely of opinion you should, if possible, get out of his hands, and especially as you are in very bad ones in Mrs. Jewkes's.

We have here the widow Lady Jones; mistress of a good fortune, and a woman of virtue, I believe. We have also Sir Simon Darnford, and his lady, who is a good woman; and they have two daughters, virtuous young ladies. All the rest are but middling people, and traders, at best. I will try, if you please, either Lady Jones or Lady Darnford, if they'll permit you to take refuge with them. I see no probability of keeping myself concealed in this matter, but will, as I said, risk all things to serve you; for never saw I sweetness and innocence like yours: your hard case has attached me entirely to you; for I well know, as you so happily express, if I can serve you in this case, I shall thereby perform all the acts of religion in one. As to Lady Davers, I will convey a letter, if you please; but it must not be from our post-house, I give you caution: for the man owes all his bread to Mr. B., and his place too; and I believe, from something that dropped from him over a can of ale, has his instructions. You don't know how you are surrounded: all which confirms me in your opinion that no honor is meant you, let what will be professed; and I am glad you want no caution on that head.

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