it must have been another person than the Lexicographer, for in 1748 the dictionary had not appeared, and he was only plain "Mister," as indeed Thackeray calls him. Richardson died before Johnson got his doctor's degree. Tunbridge Wells shared with Bath the popularity of being a favourite resort and watering-place, though inland; in the middle of the eighteenth century it was crowded with pleasure seekers from London, situated as it was only forty miles away. The health giving properties of its waters were discovered in 1606, and Queen Henrietta Maria used to retire to its delightful seclusion. Queen Anne was fond of it, and after her accession it became widely popular. A quaint and picturesque town it is, with shops in the Parade like the rows and arcades at Chester and Berne. Richardson in a letter to Miss Highmore, gives a pleasant account of the society at Tunbridge, in which the author of Clarissa played so prominent a part.

"Do come, and see how your other lover (Colley Cibber) spins away, hunting after new faces at seventy-seven *****. And if you do, I will show you a still more grotesque figure than either a sly sinner, creeping along the very edges of the walks, getting behind benches, one hand in his bosom, the other held up to his chin, as if to keep it in place, afraid of being seen as a thief of detection. The people of fashion, if he happen to cross a walk, (which he always does with precipitation), unsmiling their faces, as if they thought him in the way: and he as sensible of so being, stealing in and out of the book-seller's shop, as if he had one of their glass cases under his coat. Come and see this odd figure!"

About 1755 Richardson's health became so shattered that he looked forward with quiet composure to a speedy death. One by one his old friends passed away; in 1757 his eldest daughter Mary was married, the only one of his children

wedded before his death. Patty and Sarah took husbands not long after their father's funeral, and Nancy, who always suffered from ill-health, survived them all, dying a spinster in 1803. Richardson loved his daughters, but they were always afraid of him, as is commonly the case where too much formality obtains between children and parents. His stiffness, arising partly from shyness, partly from self-consciousness, and partly from vanity, made it difficult for him ever to put anyone, even his own children, entirely at ease in his presence. Furthermore, he solemnly believed that the Pater-familias was the Head of the House; and should never be treated by his woman kind on terms of exact equality.

In 1761 his increasing infirmities showed that the last catastrophe was nigh. On the fourth of July in that year he died, and was buried in the centre aisle of St. Bride's church, London, close by his home in Salisbury Court. An epitaph on the floor above his dust, sets forth his many virtues. The gallant cavalier poet, Lovelace, had been buried in the same church; and his noble and dashing qualities had suggested to the novelist the name of his most famous hero, by merit raised to a bad eminence.

Richardson's personal appearance, owing to our fortunate possession of a number of portraits, is as familiar to us as it was to his contemporaries. We have him in his habit as he lived. The best portrait of him was by the artist Highmore, whose daughter Susannah was one of Richardson's most intimate friends. This picture now hangs in Stationers' Hall, off Ludgate Hill, and is reproduced in this edition of the novels. It represents him standing, his right hand thrust within the breast of his coat, and his left hand holding an open book, presumably one of his own compositions. The inevitable quill is within easy reach, and it was with this inspired

instrument that he sketched a portrait of himself, far more animated than even Highmore's talent could portray. In a letter to his favourite correspondent, Lady Bradshaigh, he thus gives a picture by which she is to recognise him in the Park.

"Short; rather plump than emaciated *** about five foot five inches: fair wig; *** one hand generally in his bosom, the other a cane in it, which he leans upon under the skirts of his coat usually, that it may imperceptibly serve him as a support, when attacked by sudden tremors or startlings, and dizziness, which too frequently attack him, but, thank God, not so often as formerly: looking directly foreright, as passersby would imagine; but observing all that stirs on either hand of him without moving his short neck; hardly ever turning back of a light-brown complexion; teeth not yet failing him; smoothish faced and ruddy cheeked: at sometimes looking to be about sixty-five, at other times much younger: a regular even pace, stealing away ground, rather than seeming to rid it: a gray eye, too often overclouded by mistinesses from the head by chance lively; very lively it will be, if he have hope of seeing a lady whom he loves and honours: his eye always on the ladies".

II
CHARACTER

It was by no accident that the genius of Richardson is most evident in his portrayal of women. They were his chosen companions and confidants; though in the matter of confidences, Richardson felt that it was more blessed to receive than to give. He was not a ladies' man, though he knew them well, anymore than he was a man-of-the-town, though he knew that well: he was something quite different-a woman's man. Were he living to-day he would be the hero of Women's Sewing Circles, of the W. C. T. U. and Foreign Missionary

Bands, and the incense that would arise from the thousands of Women's Clubs may best be left to the imagination. During the years of his fame, women clung to his coat-tails with passionate devotion. It is curious, by way of contrast to remember that as the young wits of the seventeenth century loved to call themselves the Sons of old Ben Jonson, so the young women of the next century gloried in the appellation of Richardson's "Daughters:" and the novelist loved to drink tea and talk sentiment with them, even as Ben loved to sit in the tavern, tankard in hand, surrounded by his beloved Sons. This difference in hero-worshippers illustrates sufficiently the contrast in temperament between a robust nature like Jonson's, and delicate one like Richardson's. "My acquaintance lies chiefly among the ladies," he writes, "I care not who knows it." It was not merely because he understood them sympathetically that the women opened their hearts to the great novelist; it was largely because of his goodness, his purity, his discretion, and the absolute safety of even the closest and most confidential relations with the little man. He was no avantour; secrets were safe in his hands. So resplendent a genius united with a moral character so lofty was a rather unusual combination in the social conditions of eighteenth century life; and it drew the hearts of idolatrous women with irresistible power. They felt too, that in Pamela and Clarissa he had glorified women, and had given a final and immortal answer to the gibes on female virtue and constancy, which were the staple of satirical literature and polite conversation. And yet Richardson accepted the worship of the fair without disguising his opinion that men were the lords of creation. A strong minded woman, er what we call today, a "new" woman, Richardson would not have admitted to the circle of his "Daughters." Lady

VOL. I-3.

Bradshaigh, in her charming correspondence with him, said she disliked learned women. "I hate to hear Latin out of a woman's mouth. There is something in it to me, masculine.” In a half bantering way, Richardson gently rebuked her for this utterance, but it is evident that he thought the chief duty of a married woman was to please her husband, and attend to domestic affairs. Furthermore, he shocked his fair correspondent, as he does his admirers today, by theoretically advocating polygamy. He declared that he would not openly support it as an institution, or practise it, because the laws of England forbade it, but in theory he argued with considerable warmth, that it was never forbidden by God, and that it was a natural and proper condition of life. "I do say," he writes to Lady Bradshaigh, "that the law of nature, and the first command (increase and multiply) more than allow of it; and the law of God nowhere forbids it." He continued to press similar arguments upon his horrified friend, who finally tried to close the controversy by writing to him, "I remember how you terrified poor Pamela with Mr. B's argument for polygamy. The deuse take these polygamy notions!"

Richardson's shyness in company, previously spoken of, caused him, as well as his associates, many unhappy hours, and upon casual acquaintances produced a false impression of his character. No one knew this better than he, as is shown in a letter to Miss Mulso, dated 15 August 1755. "Never was there so bashful, so sheepish a creature as was, till advanced years, your paternal friend; and what remained so long in the habit could hardly fail of showing itself in stiffness and shyness, on particular occasions, where frankness of heart would otherwise have shown forth to the advantage of general character." That Richardson was by nature both frank and sincere, is fully shown in the long list of his letters.

The constitutional seriousness of his mind was deepened