training as a novelist in a way that may be earnestly recommended to all youthful literary aspirants. "I was not more than thirteen, when three *** young women, unknown to each other, having a high opinion of my taciturnity, revealed to me their love-secrets, in order to induce me to give them copies to write after, or correct, for answers to their lover's letters: nor did any one of them know that I was the secretary to the others. I have been directed to chide, and even repulse, when an offence was either taken or given, at the very time that the heart of the chider or repulser was open before me, overflowing with esteem and affection; and the fair repulser, dreading to be taken at her word, directing this word, or that expression, to be softened or changed. One highly gratified with her lover's fervour, and vows of everlasting love, has said, when I asked her direction; I cannot tell you what to write; but, (her heart on her lips) you cannot write too kindly; all her fear was only, that she should incur slight for her kindness."

While this last episode has moved many to laughter, it has always seemed to me the essence of pathos. "You cannot write too kindly!" This girlish heart, swelling with inarticulate affection, has long since crumbled into dust. Let us not laugh at its excited beating; there are other things to laugh at. Let us hope that the aged youth who acted as her secretary, made her thoughts into a literary masterpiece, and that her kindness, far from incurring the slight she feared, inspired her boy lover to double devotion.

I have said that the women are agreed on the subject of Richardson's qualifications to analyse their feelings; the best living authority on Richardson, and his latest biographer, is a woman, and a wise woman. Miss Clara Thomson remarks as follows on Richardson's early and unconscious training as a novelist: "It was this early experience that enabled him to

describe with such astonishing accuracy the intricacies of feminine passion, and to realise the fallacy of the prejudice that requires a woman's affections to be passive till roused to activity by the declaration of a lover. He understood that *** the ordinary heroine of the masculine dramatist or novelist is rather an exposition of what he thinks a woman should be, than an illustration of what she is."

It is interesting to remember that the greatest living English novelist, Thomas Hardy, had early training similar to Richardson's. He acted as amanuensis for the village girls, when he was only a child, and though he did not compose, but only wrote their letters, his impressionable brain, receiving so many warm outpourings of the feminine heart, reproduced them afterwards with the fidelity that Tess and Eustacia show.

When seventeen years old, Richardson was bound as an apprentice to John Wilde, of Stationers' Hall, a printer. He had hoped, in selecting this business, to devote all his spare hours to general reading; but unfortunately he had no spare hours to devote to anything. Mr. Wilde soon discovered that he had a faithful and valuable apprentice; and he forthwith determined to use all the boy's energy and time to his master's profit; rewarding him with well-merited praise, and calling him the pillar of his house. Hard-pressed as Richardson was, his insatiable passion for letter-writing became ungovernable; and he carried on a full correspondence with a gentleman, his superior in rank and fortune. Richardson's similarity in deeds and maxims to Hogarth's faithful apprentice, has naturally impressed many. His only diversion was letter-writing, he was careful never to write when by any possibility he could be serving his master, and the candle whose light flickered o'er his manuscript, was bought by his own money.

The young man's steadiness and industry met with their natural and edifying reward: graduating from the apprentice school, he became a journeyman printer, and finally the foreman. In 1719 he opened business for himself, removing in 1724 to Salisbury Court, now Salisbury Square, identified with Richardson from that day to this. There his warehouse and his city residence remained till his death. We need not follow further his fortunes as a printer. He became one of the best-known men of his class in London; through the Speaker's influence, he printed the Journals of the House of Commons, and acquired a snug fortune; which enabled him to have a pleasant country-house, and to indulge himself in another passion-hospitality-one of his noblest and most delightful characteristics.

Miss Thomson has shown that on 23 November 1721, Richardson was married to Martha Wilde, and that all the circumstances indicate that she was the daughter of his former master, the Dictionary of National Biography to the contrary notwithstanding. Could anything carry out more completely the parallel to Hogarth, or could we ever find a better model for the hero of a modern Sunday-school book? The youth's father loses his fortune; the boy leaves school, and becomes an apprentice; by faithful and diligent toil, by a sober, righteous and godly life, he rises steadily in fortune and reputation; he becomes the independent head of a flourishing business; and places the capstone in position by marrying his original employer's daughter!

Richardson was twice married, both times happily. His first wife died in 1731, and the next year he made his second matrimonial venture, marrying Elizabeth Leake, of Bath. She was then thirty-six years old. She survived her husband, dying in 1773. Richardson had just a dozen children, six

by each wife. Martha Wilde bore him five sons and one daughter, and Elizabeth Leake presented him with five daughters and one son. The satisfaction that so exceedingly methodical a man as Richardson must have obtained from so symmetrical branches of offspring, was seriously impaired by the fact that they were so soon blighted by death. All the children of his first wife died practically in infancy, and of the second brood, a son and a daughter died not long after birth. This boy was the third that Richardson called Samuel, the mortality of the sons being equalled only by the immortality of the father-as if Fate had determined to reserve that name for only one individual. Four daughters survived him, cheering his way in the Valley, and showing him constant devotion and love. A busy time they had, writing and copying his long letters, but they seemed in somewhat similar circumstances to exhibit more cheerfulness than the daughters of Milton.

Richardson travelled so seldom, that even his shortest journeys were events in his tranquil career. In the Autumn of 1748, he made his famous visit to Tunbridge Wells, in Kent. It is pleasant to recall Thackeray's imaginary description in The Virginians:

"Do you see that great big awkward pock-marked, snuffcoloured man, who hardly touches his clumsy beaver in reply. D his confounded impudence-do you know who that is?

'No, curse him! Who is it, March?' asks Jack, with an oath.

'It's one Johnson, a Dictionary-maker, about whom my Lord Chesterfield wrote some most capital papers, when his dictionary was coming out, to patronise the fellow. I know they were capital. I've heard Horry Walpole say so, and he

knows all about that kind of thing. Confound the impudent schoolmaster.'

'Hang him, he ought to stand in the pillory!' roars Jack. "That fat man he's walking with is another of your writing fellows, a printer, his name is Richardson; he wrote 'Clarissa', you know.'

'Great Heavens! my Lord, is that the great Richardson? Is that the man who wrote 'Clarissa'?' called out Colonel Wolfe and Mr. Warrington, in a breath.

Harry ran forward to look at the old gentleman toddling along the walk with a train of admiring ladies surrounding him.

'Indeed, my very dear sir,' one was saying, 'you are too great and good to live in such a world; but sure you were sent to teach it virtue!'

'Ah, my Miss Mulso! Who shall teach the teacher?' said the good fat old man, raising a kind round face skyward. 'Even he has his faults and errors! Even his age and experience does not prevent him from stumbl-Heaven bless my soul, Mr. Johnson! I ask your pardon if I have trodden on your corn.'

'You have done both, sir. You have trodden on the corn, and received the pardon,' said Mr. Johnson, and went on mumbling some verses, swaying to and fro, his eyes turned toward the ground, his hands behind him, and occasionally endangering with his great stick the honest meek eyes of his companion author.

"They do not see very well, my dear Mulso', he says to the young lady, but such as they are, I would keep my lash from Mr. Johnson's cudgel. Your servant, sir'. Here he made a low bow, and took off his hat to Mr. Warrington, who shrank back with many blushes, after saluting the great author. The