RICHARDSON.*

SAMUEL RICHARDSON is an extraordinary male writer. Had he belonged to the other sex, there would have been little puzzle about his character-we could have set him down as a clever gossip; but as it stands, he is quite an anomaly in literature, and must for ever excite our wonder how a gentleman with a wife and family-a gentleman in a brown coat and top-boots-could possibly write such interesting womanish works as Clarissa Harlowe, and Pamela.

PAMELA was his first work, and it was the first novel we ever read. We remember we were mere schoolboys when our grandmother was persuaded by an intolerable bore to take it out in numbers. She (good woman) was no novelreader she would not have read one for the world, but how could she ever imagine that a book was one which bore such a title as" Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded: In a series of familiar Letters from a beautiful young Damsel to her Parents: Published in order to cultivate the principles of Virtue and Religion in the minds of the Youth of both sexes: A narrative which has its foundation in truth; and, at the same time that it agreeably entertains, by a variety of curious and affecting incidents, is entirely divested of all those images which, in too many pieces calculated for amusement

* Richardson was born in Derbyshire, in 1689, and was for many years a respectable printer in London, to which business he served an apprenticeship. He died in 1761, leaving a considerable fortune, and the character of a plain, industrious, good man. His Pamela was published in 1741-2;-Clarissa Harlowe in 1751 ;-and Charles Grandison in 1754.

only, tend to inflame the minds they should instruct: By Mr Samuel Richardson."-She believed every word of it, as she did her Bible: and in the winter evenings, after tea, when the household was assembled, she would read aloud to the listening family, page after page, with the most supreme satisfaction-snuffing and commenting at every paragraph --and never stopping short, except when she lighted upon some thrilling passage of the bewitching author, where her voice would fail her, and her lip would quiver, and she could not go on for very fulness of heart. On these evenings, seated on our little stool, at her feet, how we drank every word that fell from her lips !—And then, in the mornings, we would be up long before the family, gorging the overnight's fragments, until we became lost to every thing else our sports as well as our lessons-and went dreaming about all day long of Mrs Jervis, and Mrs Jewkes, and Lady Davers, and Sir Jacob Swynford, and Miss Darnford, and Lord H., and Polly, and old Jonathan, and Colbrand, and the whole family down to the scullion.

It will not be expected, therefore, that we speak otherwise than favourably of our first love'-of the book which has given a bent to all our future studies, and indeed we still recur to its pages with delight, heightened by the recollections of memory,—yet, in reasonable moments, we see its imperfections as others do, and are, in particular, not insensible to the prominent fault of holding her up as a pattern of virtue, who was ready to unite herself to a notorious rake, that had made a series of mean attempts upon her honour, provided the union was in a legal way. Richardson lost himself by attempting too much. In his endeavours to heighten the character of Pamela, he makes her unnatural; and the same may be said of his Sir Charles Grandison, that prince of coxcombs.' He thought it was best to make his amiable characters superlatively good, as those who might follow them were more likely to go farther in their imitation than if the cha

racters were merely amiable-just as a marksman, by aiming at the stars, would be more likely to shoot higher than if his aim were less ambitious; but he should have considered that, by placing the mark beyond our reach, the attempt to gain it would never be made that, as an archer would never think of making a star his popinjay, neither would we think of making Sir Charles our pattern. Sir Charles cannot be imitated, because he goes beyond any thing in human nature, and he cannot be loved for the same reason. The praises, indeed, which the author unceasingly lavishes upon him be come loathsome : we can scarcely read a page without being teased with the never-ending strain of laudation. In looking over a single volume out of a seven-volume copy, we find such exclamations as these:- Wonderful man'—' Nobleminded man'- The best of men'-' What a man is this?'. The best of men' (again) Excellent man' A good man'

The dear man’- The loveliest and the most undaunted, yet noblest looking of youths'-'Excellent Sir Charles Grandison'-' The tender husband'-The domestic man, the cheerful friend, the kind master, the enlivening companion, the polite neighbour' The most delicate-minded of men'The most just, the most generous of men'-'The dearest, best of men''Dearest of men'-' The good man'-'The best of men and of husbands'-'Such a man'—' The generous man'—The life of every company and of every individual' The dear man'- The next to divine man'• Tenderest of husbands, kindest and most considerate of men' The penetrating man'The politest of men'‹ The best of husbands'—' The soul of us all' The most dutiful of sons, the most affectionate of brothers, the most faithful of friends.' -But these are not quite so distasteful as other expressions which we find in the same volume, some of which border upon blasphemy:- Charming behaviour' -'All condescension'-' Cheerful goodness' How did he shine'- Every person in raptures Unaffected dignity'-

So pious, so good' Oh, how he charmed them all'—' His beneficence Excellent heart Never was there a more expanded heart-Blessings on his benevolence'' All the graces of gentle persuasion are his' He imitates God' Divine philanthropy-Godlike instances of goodness,' &c., &c. We must not, however, dwell on the faults of a writer whose excellences are so many and so great. The Lady Clementina is a character that would redeem a novel infinitely more.objectionable than Sir Charles Grandison. The two volumes that relate to her are, perhaps, the best of Richardson's works. Then there is CLARISSA HARLOWE, which, as a whole, is certainly the greatest of the author's efforts; and it may be questioned, if, in the whole range of fictitious writing, two characters claim more interest, or take deeper hold on the sympathy of the reader, than the hero and heroine of that work. Still in this, as in all his writings, the author overdoes his scenes, and dwells so minutely on trifles, that, if he has not been read in early life, he has little likelihood of being read when one has entered upon the business and cares of mature years.

TRIAL SCENE IN PAMELA.

I AM commanded, my dear lady, now to write particularly my trial. The reason will appear in its place. And, Oh! congratulate me, my dear, dear lady! for I am happy, and shall be happier than I ever was; and that I thought, so did every body, was impossible. But I will not anticipate the account of my trial, and the effects, the blessed effects, it has produced. Thus, then, it was:

Mr B. came up, with great impatience in his looks. I met him at my chamber-door, with as sedate a countenance as I possibly could put on, and my heart was high with my purpose, and supported me better than I could have expected.Yet, on recollection, now I impute to myself something of that kind of magnanimity, that was wont to inspire the innocent sufferers of old, for a still worthier cause than mine;

though their motives could hardly be more pure, in that one hope I had, to be an humble means of saving the man I love and honour, from errors that might be fatal to his soul.

I took his hand with boldness:- Dear Sir,' leading him to my closet, here is the bar, at which I am to take my trial,' pointing to the back of three chairs, which I had placed in a joined row, leaving just room to go by on each side. 'You must give me, Sir, all my own way; this is the first, and perhaps the last time, that I shall desire it.—Nay, dear Sir,' turning my face from him, look not upon me with an eye of tenderness: if you do, I may lose my purposes, important to me as they are; and however fantastic 5 my behaviour may seem to you, I want not to move your 1 passions (for the good impressions made upon them, may be too easily dissipated, by the winds of sense)—but your reason, and if that can be done, I am safe, and shall fear no relapse.' 'What means all this parade, my dear? Let me perish,' that was his word, if I know how to account for you, or your humour. You will presently, Sir. But give me all my way-I pray you do, this once-this one time only!' Well, so, this is your bar, is it? There's an elbowchair, I see; take your place in it, Pamela, and here I'll stand to answer all your questions.' 'No, Sir, that must not be.' So I boldly led him to the elbow-chair. You are the judge, Sir; it is I that am to be tried. Yet I will not say I am a criminal. I know I am not. But that must be proved, Sir, you know.' 'Well, take your way; but I fear for your head, my dear, in all this.' I fear only my heart, Sir, that's all! but there you must sit-So here,' (retiring to the three chairs, and leaning on the backs,) here I stand. And now, my dearest Mr B., you must begin first: when you showed me the House of Peers, their bar, at which causes are heard, and sometimes peers are tried, looked awful to me; and the present occasion requires that this should. Now, dear Sir, you must be my accuser, as well as my judge.' 'I have nothing to accuse you of, my dear, if I must give into your moving whimsy. You are every thing I wish you to be. But for the last month you have seemed to be uneasy, and have not done me the justice to acquaint me with your reasons for it.'

'I was in hopes my reasons might have proved to be no reasons; and I would not trouble you with my ungrounded apprehensions. But now, Sir, we are come directly to the point; and methinks I stand here as Paul before Felix ;

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