great author was accustomed to be adored. A gentler wind never puffed mortal vanity. Enraptured spinsters flung tealeaves round him, and incensed him with the coffee-pot. Matrons kissed the slippers they had worked for him. There was a halo of virtue round his night-cap. All Europe had thrilled, panted, admired, trembled, wept over the pages of the immortal little kind honest man with the round paunch. Harry came back quite glowing and proud at having a bow from him. "Ah!' says he, 'my Lord, I am glad to have seen him!' 'Seen him! why, dammy, you may see him any day in his shop, I suppose?' says Jack, with a laugh. 'My brother declared that he, and Mr. Fielding, I think was the name, were the greatest geniuses in England; and often used to say, that when we came to Europe, his first pilgrimage would be to Mr. Richardson,' cried Harry, always impetuous, honest, and tender when he spoke of the dearest friend. 'Your brother spoke like a man,' cried Mr. Wolfe, his pale face likewise flushing up. 'I would rather be a man of genius, than a peer of the realm * * *. 'I say, Jack, which would you rather be?—a fat old printer, who has written a story about a confounded girl and a fellow that ruins her,—or a Peer of Parliament with ten thousand a year?" This extract has been given at length, because it accurately represents Richardson's fame and influence in his own day. Thackeray, however, supposes this visit to occur in 1756, while Miss Thomson points out that the 1748 journey is the only one that we have any important information about: and the accompanying picture, drawn by Loggan, was owned by Richardson, and the description of the characters are in his own hand-writing. The reference to Dr. Johnson is puzzling; 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 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 |