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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 L 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. 0 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? 0 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 female correspondents all, with one exception, bear out an opinion whicb 1 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 Sevigne 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:
"Hamburg, November 29th, 1760.
"Honored Sir,"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.
"Poor Hohorst! he is gone. Not killed in the battle (he was present at two), but by the fever. The Hungarian hussars have 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
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 everything 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 ,'ove 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 me, and said I was in love. I rallied them again, and said that they must have a very friendshipless heart, if they had no idea of friendship to a man as well as to a woman. Thus it continued for eight months, in which time my friends found as much love in Klopstock's letters as in me. I perceived it likewise, but I would not believe it. At the last Klopstock said plainly that he loved; and I startled as for a wrong thing. I answered that it was no love but friendship, as it was, what I felt for him; we had not seen one another enough to love (as if love must have more time than friendship)! This was sincerely my meaning, and I had this meaning till Klopstock came again to Hamburg. This he did a year after we had seen one another the first time. We saw we were friends; we loved, and we believed that we loved; and a short time after I could even tell Klopstock that I loved. But we were obliged to part again and wait two years for our wedding. My mother would not let marry me a stranger. I could marry then without her contentment, as by the death of my father my fortune depended not on her. But this was a horrible idea for me, and thank Heaven that I have prevailed by prayers! At this time, knowing Klopstock, she loves him as her lifely son, and thanks God that she has not persisted. We married, and I am the happiest wife in the world. In some few months it will be four years that I am so happy, and still I dote upon Klopstock as if he was my bridegroom.
"If you knew my husband, you would not wonder. If you knew his poem I could describe him very briefly, by saying he is in all respects what he is as a poet. This I can say with all wifely modesty. But I dare not speak of my husband; I am all raptures when I do it. And as happy as I am in love, so happy am I in friendship in my mother, two elder sisters, and five other women. How rich I am!
"Sir, you have willed that I should speak of myself, but I fear I have done it too much. Yet you see how it interests me."I am, Sir, &c. &c. &c."
"Hamburg, May 6th, 1758."It is not possible, Sir, to tell you what a joy your letters give me. My heart is very able to esteem the favor that you in your venerable age are so condescending good to answer so soon the letters of an unknown young woman, who has no other merit than a heart full of friendship, though at so many miles of distance.
"It will be a delightful occupation for me, my dear Mr. Richardson, to make you more acquainted with my husband's poem. Nobody can do it better than I, being the person who knows the most of that which is not yet published; being always present at the birth of the young verses, which begin always by fragments here and there of a subject of which his soul is just then filled. He has many great fragments of the whole work ready. You may think that two people, who love as we do, have no need of two chambers. We are always in the same. I, with my little work, still, still, only regarding my husband's sweet face, which is so venerable at that time! with tears of devotion and all the sublimity of the subject. My husband reading me his young verses, and suffering my criticisms. Ten books are published, which I think probably the middle of the whole. I will as soon as I can, translate you the arguments of these ten books, and what besides I think of them. The verses of the poem are without rhymes, and are hexameters, which sort of verses my husband has been the first to introduce in our language; we being still closely attached to the rhymes and iambics.
"And our dear Dr. Young has been so ill? But he is better, I thank God along with you. And you, my dear, dear friend, have not hope of cure of a severe nervous malady? How I trembled as I read it! I pray God to give to you at the least patience and alleviation. Though I can read very well your handwriting, you shall write no more if it is incommodious to you. Be so good to dictate only to Mrs. Patty; it will be very agreeable to me to have so amiable a correspondent. And then I will still more than now preserve the two of your own handwriting as treasures.
"I am very glad, Sir, that you will take my English as it is. I knew very well that it may not always be English, but I thought for you it was intelligible. My husband asked me, as I was writing my first letter, if I would not write in French ?' No,' said I, ' I will not write in this pretty but fade language to Mr. Richardson' (though so polite, so cultivated and no longer fade in the mouth of a Bossuet). As far as I know, neither we nor you nor the Italians have the word fade. How have the French found this characteristic word for their nation? Our German