have been extended to six more, is a certain Lady Bradshaigh, the wife of Sir Roger Bradshaigh of the Haigh, Lancashire, who wrote to him first under the feigned name of Balfour, and continued to address him under that appellation for a considerable time.

The occasion of her first letter was the suspense in which the admirers of "Clarissa" were left as to her fate by the publication of the work in separate portions and at lengthened intervals. The story of the book may be told in very few words. It consists of the betrayal of the heroine by her lover, a libertine, drawn with admirable spirit and skill, and endowed with so many fine qualities of person and intellect, that many of the author's friends implored as if they had been real persons, for the reformation of Lovelace and the happiness of his fair mistress.

Upon this hint spoke Lady Bradshaigh; and her earnestness and pertinacity is really a thing to wonder at. She sank upon her knees, she begged, she reasoned, she threatened, she stormed. There was not a weapon in the female armory that she did not force into her service, and her ardor and fervency give so much eloquence to her pleadings that she has considerably the best of the dispute; chiefly because Richardson had not honesty enough to tell her the real cause of his resolution to bring the story to a tragic end, which was of course its artistic effect; but intrenched himself in all sorts of pitiful evasions and false moralities, instead of saying frankly that a happy conclusion would have spoilt the book. The author was obdurate and the lady disappointed; nevertheless the correspondence continued, and one of the most amusing and characteristic episodes in these six volumes is the story of a journey which Lady Bradshaigh took to London, and of her introduction to her unknown correspondent.

The great novelist was at this time in his sixtieth year, and the fair lady, a buxom country dame, might be some ten or fifteen years his junior (N. B. I have remarked it as a singular circumstance that we never can ascertain a lady's age, even if, as in this case, she have been dead these hundred years, with the same absolute accuracy with which we can verify a gentleman's baptismal registry): and whether from shyness or from pure coquetry she (still as Mrs. Balfour) makes an appointment to meet him in the Park, requesting from him a description by which he may be recognized. He sends her the following:

Short, rather plump, about five feet 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, that it may imperceptibly serve him as a support when attacked by sudden tremors or dizziness, of a light brown complexion, teeth not yet failing him." What follows is very characteristic:

Looking directly foreright as passengers would imagine, but observing all that stirs on either hand of him, without moving his short neck; a regular even pace stealing away ground rather than seeming to rid it; a gray eye too often overclouded by mistiness from the head; by chance lively, very lively if he sees any he loves; if he approaches a lady his eye is never fixed first on her face, but on her feet, and rears it up by degrees, seeming to set her down as so-and-so."

She actually did know him by this portrait; but had the cruelty to keep him parading up and down while she surveyed him at her leisure, and went away without declaring herself. This is her own account of the matter:

"Well, Sir, my curiosity is satisfied as to thedistant view. I passed you four times last Saturday in the Park; knew you by your own description at least three hundred yards off, walking between the trees and the Mall; and had an opportunity of surveying you unobserved, your eyes being engaged among the multitude looking as I knew for a certain will-o'-the-wisp, who I have a notion escaped being known to you, though not your notice, for you looked at me every time I passed! but I put on so unconcerned a countenance that I am almost sure I deceived you. * * * O that this first meeting was over!

When I

When I

"Shall I tell you, Sir, what it puts me in mind of? was very young I had a mind to bathe in a cold bath. came to the edge, I tried it first with one hand then with the

drew them back again; But having a strong in

other. In the same manner my feet; ventured to my ankles, then drew back. clination to go farther (being very sure I should like it were the first shock over), I at last took a resolution and plunged at once over head and ears; and as I imagined was delighted; so that I only repented I had not before found courage to execute what gave me so much pleasure."

Still however the lady coquets and the gentleman becomes a

little angry; after some repetition of his grievances, he continues :

"Yet I resolved to try my fortune on Saturday in the Park in my way to North End. The day indeed, thought I, is not promising; but where so great an earnestness is professed, and the lady possibly by this time made acquainted with the disappointment she has given me, who knows but she will be carried in a chair to the Park, to make me amends, and there reveal herself. Three different chairs at different times saw I. My hope there fore not so very much out of the way; but in none of them the lady I wished to see. Up the Mall walked I, down the Mall and up again in my way to North End. O this dear will-o'-the-wisp, thought I! When nearest farthest off! Why should I at this time of life! And all the spiteful things I could think of I. muttered to myself. And how, Madam, am I to banish them from my memory when I see you so very careful to conceal yourself; when I see you so very apprehensive of my curiosity, and so little confiding in my generosity? O Madam! you know me not! You will not know me!"

And so they go on, the gentleman remonstrating, the lady holding back through fifty pages of letter-press-more or less; and when their cross-purposes would have ended there is no divining, had not Lady Bradshaigh gone to Mr. Highmore's to view a portrait of her unknown friend, where enough transpired to suggest to the painter, who knew of the correspondence, that he was talking to the person who had so mystified the unlucky author. He discovered that the gentleman who escorted her was of Lancashire, and called Sir Roger; his servant heard the surname from the coachman, and was positive that it began with a B; and after so much had been done in the way of detection the fair delinquent avowed herself, and the game of hide-and-seek was fairly over. Let it be added, that in spite of all this nonsense, Lady Bradshaigh was a warm-hearted and well-conducted woman, and that her devotion to the writer of her idolatry ended only with his life.

I have said that Richardson's correspondents were almost exclusively feminine, although there are a few letters from Dr. Young, Colley Cibber, Aaron Hill, and others of that class, and one note from Dr. Johnson, whom our printer, familiar with kind and generous actions, had had the honor to bail. These fe

male correspondents all, with one exception, bear out an opinion which I have long ventured to entertain of the general inferiority of women's letters. For the truth of which I would only appeal to the collections of such as are most celebrated in that line from the over-rated Lady Mary Wortley Montagu down to Anna Seward. Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Delany, Mrs. Vesey, Miss Talbot, Miss Bowdler, Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, Mrs. Hannah More-what are they? There is to be sure one great exception in general literature-for Madame de Sevigné is, perhaps, the most delightful letter-writer who ever put pen to paper. And there is another exception, also a foreigner, in this collection-an exception all the more charming because foreign, for the German idiom undoubtedly adds grace and freshness to the sweet simplicity of Mrs. Klopstock's communications. I need not apologize for transcribing them all. Would that she had been spared to write

more:

66

Honored Sir,

"Hamburg, November 29th, 1750.

"Will you permit me to take this opportunity, in sending a letter to Dr. Young, to address myself to you? It is very long ago that I wished to do it. Having finished your "Clarissa" (oh, the heavenly book!) I could have prayed you to write the history of a manly Clarissa, but I had not courage enough at that time. I should have it no more to-day, as this is only my first English letter-but I have it! It may be because I am now Klopstock's wife (I believe you know my husband by Mr. Hohorst), and then I was only the single young girl. You have since written the manly Clarissa without my prayer. Oh, you have done it to the great joy and thanks of all your happy readers! Now you can write no more, you must write the history of an angel.

Not killed in the battle (he was
The Hungarian hussars have

Poor Hohorst! he is gone. present at two), but by the fever. taken your works with our letters, and all what he was worth, a little time before his death. But the King of Prussia recompensed him with a company of cavalry. Poor friend! he did not long enjoy it.

He has made me acquainted with all your lovely daughters. I kiss them all with my best sisterly kiss; but especially Mrs. Martha, of whom he says that she writes as her father. Tell her

s*

in my name, dear Sir, if this be true that it is an affair of conscience not to let print her writings. Though I am otherwise of that sentiment, that a woman who writes not thus, or as Mrs. Rowe, should never let print her works. Will you pardon me this first long letter, Sir? Will you tell me if I shall write a second? I am, honored Sir, your most humble servant,

"M. KLOPSTOCK."

Hamburg, March 14th, 1758.

"You are very kind, Sir, to wish to know every thing of your Hamburg kindred. Then I will obey, and speak of nothing but myself in this letter.

"You will know all what concerns me.

Love, dear Sir, is all what me concerns. And love shall be all what I will tell you in this letter.

In one happy night I read my husband's poem, The Messiah.' I was extremely touched with it. The next day I asked one of his friends who was the author of this poem? and this was the first time I heard Klopstock's name. I believe I fell immediately in love with him. At the least my thoughts were ever with him filled, especially because his friend told me very much of his character. But I had no hopes ever to see him, when quite unexpectedly I heard that he should pass through Hamburg. I wrote immediately to the same friend, for procuring by his means that I might see the author of The Messiah' when in Hamburg. He told him that a certain girl at Hamburg wished to see him, and for all recommendation showed him some letters in which I made bold to criticize Klopstock's verses. Klopstock came, and came to me. I must confess that though greatly prepossessed of his qualities, I never thought him the amiable youth whom I found him. This made its effect. After having seen him two hours, I was obliged to pass the evening in a company which never had been so wearisome to me. I could not speak; I could not play; I thought, I saw nothing but Klopstock. I saw him the next day and the following, and we were very seriously friends. But the fourth day he departed. It was a strong hour the hour of his departure. He wrote soon after; and from that time our correspondence began to be a very diligent one. I sincerely believed my love to be friendship. I spoke with my friends of nothing but Klopstock, and showed his letters. They rallied at