either hand of him without moving his short neck; hardly ever turning back: of a light-brown complexion; teeth not yet fail. ing him; smoothish faced, and ruddy cheeked: at sometimes looking to be about sixtyfive, 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; if they have very large hoops, he looks down and supercilious, and as if he would be thought wise, but perhaps the sillier for that: as he approaches a lady, his eye is never fixed first upon her face, but upon her feet, and thence he raises it up, pretty quickly for a dull eye; and one would think (if we thought him at all worthy of observation) that from her air and (the last beheld) her face, he sets her down in his mind as so or so, and then passes on to the next object he meets;

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meets; only then looking back, if he greatly likes or dislikes, as if he would see if the lady appear to be all of a piece, in the one light or in the other. Are these marks distinct enough, if you are resolved to keep all the advantages you set out with? And from this odd, this grotesque figure, think you, Madam, that you have have any thing to apprehend? Any thing that will not rather promote than check your mirth? I dare be bold to say (and allow it too) that you would rather see this figure than any other you ever saw, whenever you should find yourself graver than you wish to be.

And here let me add, that your saying, you shall never intend the revealing of yourself as a favour, shall never hinder me from taking it as a very great one.

I am greatly obliged to you, Madam, for the affecting history you give me of your Magdalen. I pity her with all my soul, and I execrate the inhospitable wretch, who could ensnare and ruin so young a creature; his

wife's sister, the daughter of his father and mother by marriage. I remember imper. fectly a case of this nature many years ago, happening to a genteel family in the neighbourhood of London. Here the villainous husband ran away with the sister of his wife; kept her privately at different lodgings, by turns, to frustrate pursuit and detection. The unhappy delinquent died in his hands, and unslaked lime was put into her coffin, to destroy her features and flesh, to prevent knowing who she was, were the coffin to be opened. Well I knew, Madam, that there were worse men than Lovelace, villain as he

was.

You did say, as you own, that you could tell me wherein you intended to deceive me, if I desired it. I did desire it. And what is your answer? Not such a one as, I dare say, you think yourself I ought to be satisfied with. It is, indeed, such a one as a lady would make to a man whom she had intirely in her power, and who knew not how

to help himself. And is it possible for a lady so excellent to resolve against doing a favour she intends to do with a grace? Yet, notwithstanding this usage,

I am my dear incognita's, &c.

S. RICHARDSON.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

Dec. 16th, 1749

YOU are ever ready, Sir, to acknowledge an obligation upon my strongly soliciting you to resume your pen, yet will you not give me the least satisfaction, not a glimmering of hope. Won't you, Sir? If you did but see with what a suppliant air I ask it, I am sure you could not help giving me this short affirmative answer, I will. Do, dear Sir! How the thoughts raise my spirits!

"For what should you set about drawing a good

a good man? a man who needs no repentance?" Because I believe there never was a fine character drawn without having its admirers (even amongst the most profligate) if not its imitators. And as I know with the good man you would connect the fine gentleman, it might, I hope, be thought worthy of imitation. It is a character we want, I am sorry to say it; but few there are who deserve it. Do but try, Sir, what good you can do this way; and let me have to brag, that I was instrumental in persuading you to it.

The character of Sophia is so very trifling and insipid, that I never heard a dispute about it.

The girls are certainly fond of Tom Jones, as I told you before, and they do not scruple declaring it in the company of your incognita; for, alas! I am no awful body to them; they just say the same before me as if I were but twenty; tho' I give you my word, I never let a faulty word or action pass me without a visible disapprobation; and many a round

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