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except that, if the object was to paint human nature as it is, its failings ought not to be concealed any more than its virtues.

To this he answered with quickness: "But why propose the object at all, if it disgust? still more, if not correct in the representation? I never could feel other than disgusted at the picture of a dunghill, or the garbage of a butcher's shop, though ever so well painted; and I blame the painter for proposing it to himself, who must be as nasty in his taste, with all his art, as Swift, with all his wit. But passing this, I deny that the gross and mean conduct of Jones to Lady Bellaston is a truthful representation. It is wholly incompatible with all the rest of his character for frankness, sincerity, generosity, and independence; so that the author is here absolutely mistaken, and the illustrious Homer nods. But this, as only affecting the author himself, may be forgiven. What is far less pardonable, is the general effect of the book on the reader, which is to render our usual corrupt habits (by which, I mean, our sensual indulgences) absolutely of no consequence to our moral happiness.

"As to the effect upon females, too, what are we to say? Jones, soiled as he is with dirty, low amours, is properly reproached with them by his mistress. As a delicate palliation, he tells her, that the delicacy of her sex cannot conceive the grossness of ours; and Sophia, pure as snow, and with fancied firmness, declares that she will never marry a man who is not as incapable as herself of making such a distinction. She therefore requires time—perhaps twelve months-to be con

vinced of his reformation. What is the result? Before the conversation is over, she consents to marry him the next day.

"Thus, you see, all that moralists endeavour to guard against is not only not made hateful, but is recommended by example; and I need not refer you to Horace's knowledge of mankind, where he says,

Decipit exemplar, vitiis imitabile.'"*

I own I had little to reply to this attack, new and unexpected as it was; for, in truth, I felt, as my landlord at Oakingham said, dumb-founded; nor, after such an invective against Fielding, could I, as I told Mr. Manners, expect much mercy to Smollett.

"Smollett," said he, "does not equal Fielding in knowledge of the heart, and his pictures are too gross to be quite so dangerous. Nobody wishes to imitate Pickle. We turn from him as a spoilt, froward child, and in his attempt upon Emilia, we think him as great a fool as scoundrel: we wish him kicked for being so contemptible in his iniquity. The picture, too, is absolutely false. Feeling as he is represented to do towards Emilia, it is just neither more nor less than impossible that he should conceive the design upon her he does. And what shall we say to his being forgiven and taken back, not only to her heart, but that of her brother, described as so sensitive in every point of honour? No; the conduct of this once, and I fear still favourite story, is as despicable as a work of art, as it is dangerous and untrue as a picture of manners. As

* That example is a deceitful one which is imitable in its vices.

to the last, what youth that reads it but may say to himself, Let me but once gain a young woman's affection, and no vice, dishonour, or infamy I may be guilty of, will deprive me of it. Is this the character of a virtuous woman ?"

He asked this pointedly; and I thought of Bertha, when I gave an emphatic "No."

"Then, as to Roderick," continued Mr. Manners, "he had more of both talent and mind than Peregrine; but he sets out a bit of a blackguard, and his livery coat, pestle and mortar habits, and sharper conduct, keep him so almost to the end. We should not like to be compared with him ourselves. For my own part, I think there is too much horse-play in both these famous novels; and though I relish broad humour as well as others, I feel that it may be repeated ad nauseam; and when the novelty of it is faded, and we have closed the book, we are not in a hurry to open it again. I like laughter, but cannot laugh at the same joke (particularly a practical one) more than twice, or at farthest thrice. Give me the book which makes you think as well as laugh, and whose sentiment and moral, by addressing your heart and mind, can delight your pensive as well as your merry hours-delectando pariterque monendo. Such a book may lie upon your table, while the others range on the higher shelves of your library, and are calculated chiefly for those who, as has been well said, read not so much to assist thought as to avoid thinking.

"In short, I would rather write one sentence which would give peace to the soul, inspire a virtuous feeling,

or call up a happy recollection, than a whole volume of the most refined wit and genius, which, however admired for them, would leave the mind familiar with vice, and consequently lowered in its self-respect."

I yielded to this, for I felt it myself; but seeing Richardson's works in handsome old bindings, I took down Pamela, and observed,

"Probably, from its situation, this author comes under your more favourable description. You will at least not class him among those who you say seduce us into vice."

"Certainly not," replied he; "and yet I have much to say before I would recommend even him to the study of very young people, which is too thoughtlessly, I think, done by parents, and guardians, and governesses For where there are licentious descriptions of indecent scenes, though mingled ever so little with moral precepts ever so numerous, I have always observed that the first are more referred to and better remembered than the last. Pamela, therefore, with all its goodness and exhibition of virtue rewarded, is one of the last books I would put into the hands of a very young girl. Why should her pure thoughts-stainless, because ignorant that there can be such a thing as the seduction of a servant by her master, much more that there are indecencies, such as Richardson, with no sparing hand, lays open to his readers-be turned from the chaste channel in which they have hitherto run?

"The same may be said of the far-famed Clarissa itself, where there are scenes which no young daugh

ter or sister of mine should ever, with my consent, look into. Nor do I agree with Johnson, that Lovelace is made hateful. As Voltaire said the Devil was Milton's hero, so is Lovelace's wickedness made less detestable by the uncommon superiority of his mind over all his fellow rascals in the story. He is able, accomplished, insinuating, bold, always self-possessed, and though highly wicked, never mean. Even when killed, his spirit in the field has something redeeming in it, and we are not so angry with him as we ought to be. In other respects, too, the picture of manners is faulty. The lady herself, though a paragon of virtue, and a dreadful victim, is not too amiable or humble. Before her misfortunes, she is pert and flippant to her family, particularly to her sister, whom she crows over with vulgar vanity. All her letters, too, to her confidante, Miss Howe, shew what, in lower life, and if she had been uneducated, would indicate something very like what we call a minx."

I was startled still more at this most unlooked-for criticism, which I thought completely new and unprecedented, and began a string of propositions upon the excellent moral precepts and virtuous examples to be found in this classic writer,-when Mr. Manners stopt me.

"Spare," said he, "the eloquent effusion which I see is coming, for I allow all Richardson's genius, and above all, his knowledge of the windings and turnings of the heart. He is also most pleasingly dramatic, and, spite of twaddle and priggism in many of his characters, I could shut myself up with him at Selby

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