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is no shame in this : if not, his ambition ought to give place to so many old servants of hers who had spent their whole to a reasonable pride, and he should apply to the cultiva. lives in qualifying themselves for the office) Grand Picker of tion of his own mind those abilities which he has not been Straws and Push-pin Player to her Supinity (for that is her permitted to use for others' service. Such a private hap- title). The first is much in the nature of Lord President piness (supposing a small competence of fortune) is almost of the Council; and the other like the Groom-Porter, only always in every one's power, and the proper enjoyment without the profit; but as they are both things of very great of age, as the other is the employment of youth. You honour in this country, I considered with myself the load of are yet young, have some advantages and opportunities, onvy attending such great charges ; and besides (between and an undoubted capacity, which you have never yet put to you and me) I found myself unable to support the fatigue of the trial. Set apart a few hours, see how the first year will keeping up the appearance that persons of such dignity must agree with you, at the end of it you are still the master; if do, so I thought proper to decline it, and excused myself as you change your mind, you will only have got the know- well as I could. However, as you see such an affair must ledge of a little somewhat that can do no hurt, or give you take up a good deal of time, and it has always been the cause of repentance. If your inclination be not fixed upon policy of this court to proceed slowly, like the Imperial and anything else, it is a symptoin that you are not absolutely that of Spain, in the dispatch of business, you will on this determined against this, and warns you not to mistake mere account the easier forgive me, if I have not answered your indolence for inability.
sensible there is nothing letter before. stronger against what I would persuade you to, than my own You desire to know, it seems, what character the poem of practice; which may make you imagine I think not as I your young friend bears here. I wonder that you ask the speak. Alas! it is not so; but I do not act what I think, opinion of a nation, where those, who pretend to judge, do and I had rather be the object of your pity, than that not judge at all; and the rest (the wiser part) wait to catch you should be that of mine; and, be assured, the advan- the judgment of the world immediately above them; that is, tage I may receive from it does not diminish my concern Dick's and the Rainbow Coffee-houses.
Your readier way in hearing you want somebody to converse with freely, would be to ask the ladies that keep the bars in those two whose advice might be of more weight, and always at hand. theatres of criticism. However, to show you that I am a We have sometime since come to the southern period of our judge, as well as my countrymen, I will tell you, though voyages; we spent about nine days at Naples. It is the I have rather turned it over than read it (but no matter; largest and most populous city, as its environs are the most no more have they), that it seems to me above the middling ; deliciously fertile country of all Italy. We sailed in the bay and now and then, for a little while, rises even to the best, of Baiæ, sweated in the Solfatara, and died in the grotto del particularly in description. It is often obscure, and even Cane, as all strangers do; saw the Corpus Christi proces- unintelligible ; and too much infected with the Hutchinson sion, and the King and the Queen and the city underground jargon. In short, its great fault is, that it was published (which is a wonder I reserve to tell you of another time), at least nine years too early. And so methinks in a few and so returned to Rome for another fortnight; left it (left words, “à la mode du Temple," I have very pertly disRome!) and came hither for the summer. You have seen? patched what perhaps may for several years have employed an Epistle to Mr. Ashton, that seems to me full of spirit a very ingenious man worth fifty of myself. and thought, and a good deal of poetic fire. I would know You are much in the right to have a taste for Socrates ; your opinion. Now I talk of verses, Mr. Walpole and he was a divine man. I must tell you, by way of news of have frequently wondered you should never mention a the place, that the other day a certain new Professor made certain imitation of Spenser, published last year by a name- an apology for him an hour long in the schools; and all the sake of yours, with which we are all enraptured and world brought in Socrates guilty, except the people of his enmarvailed.
The Muse is gone, and left me in far worse company ; if After 1742 Gray lived chiefly at Cambridge. she returns, you will hear of her. As to her child (since The following letter, written to Dr. Wharton in you are so good as to inquire after it) it is but a puling chit 1744, plays with his own love of leisure, that meant yet, not a bit grown to speak of; I believe, poor thing, it freedom to work as he pleased, and includes a com- has got the worms that will carry it off at last. Mr. ment upon Akenside's ** Pleasures of Imagination,” Trollope and I are in a course of tar-water; he for his first published in that year, with great success,
present, and I for my future distempers. If you think it when its author's age was twenty-three. By after
will kill me, send away a man and horse directly; for I elaboration Akenside increased the weakness of the
drink like a fish.
Yours, &c. poem. Peterhouse, April 26, 1744.
In 1753 an Act of Parliament authorised the acYou write so feelingly to Mr. Brown, and represent your
ceptance of an offer made by the will of Sir Hans abandoned condition in terms so touching, that what grati
Sloane to transfer to the nation for £20,000 collectude could not effect in several months, compassion has brought
tions that he had made at an expense of £50,000. about in a few days; and broke that strong attachment, or
Sir Hans Sloane's collection and the Cottonian and rather allegiance, which I and all here owe to our sovereign
Harleian collections of MSS. were then vested in Lady and Mistress, the President of Presidents and Head trustees, who were to be called Trustees of the of Heads (if I may be permitted to pronounce her name,
British Museum. Montague House was bought that ineffable Octogrammaton), the power of Laziness. You from Lord Halifax in 1754, and transformed into must know she had been pleased to appoint me (in preference
This was opened to the public as the
British Museum on January 15th, 1759. In the 1 In Dodsley's Miscellany, and also amongst Horace Walpole's following summer Gray visited London, and took a Fugitive Pieces. Gilbert West. This poem, “On the Abuse of Travelling," is also
lodging in Southampton Row, that he might explore in Dodsley's Miscellany.
the literary treasures which had thus been made
accessible. The following letter to a clergyman who Richardson was apprenticed, as a printer, to Mr. was among his correspondents, the rector of Palgrave John Wilde, of Stationers' Hall. Then he rose in ,
, and Thrandeston, in Suffolk, suggests changes of his business by steady application, married Allington time, and has a touch of wisdom at the close :- Wilde, his master's daughter, who died in 1731,
obtained the printing of the journals of the House of GRAY IN SOUTHAMPTON ROW.
Commons, in 1754 became Master of the Stationers'
London, July 24, 1759. Company, and in 1760 obtained a moiety of the I am now settled in my new territories commanding patent of law printer to his Majesty. Richardson's Bedford gardens, and all the fields as far as Highgate and first novel, “Pamela," published in 1740, was de Hampstead, with such a concourse of moving pictures as veloped from a suggestion that he should write a would astonish you; so rus-in-urbe-ish that I believe I shall series of Familiar Letters, adapted to a variety of stay here, except little excursions and vagaries, for a year to occasions. His three novels were all made to consist
What though I am separated from the fashionable wholly of letters written by the persons of the story. world by broad St. Giles's, and many a dirty court and alley, “Pamela" was followed in 1748 by “Clarissa Haryet here is air, and sunshine, and quiet, however, to comfort lowe,” Richardson's best novel, of which an account you : I shall confess that I am basking with heat all the will be given in the volume of this Library which summer, and I suppose shall be blown down all the winter,
treats of the larger works in English Literature. besides being robbed every night; I trust, however, that There was an interval between the publication of the the Museum, with all its manuscripts and rarities by the first and last four volumes of this eight-volumed book, cart-load, will make ample amends for all the aforesaid during which Richardson was urgently besought, by inconveniences.
the fair correspondents whose worship delighted him, I this day passed through the jaws of a great leviathan
to make Clarissa happy. Conspicuous among these into the den of Dr. Templeman, superintendant of the
correspondents was a Lady Bradshaigh, of Haigh, in reading-room, who congratulated himself on the sight of so
Lincolnshire, who wrote the following letter under much good company. We were, first, a man that writes for
the feigned name of Belfour, and requested an Lord Royston ; 2dly, a man that writes for Dr. Burton, of York; 3dly, a man that writes for the Emperor of Germany,
answer by a few lines inserted in the Whitehall
Evening Post. or Dr. Pocock, for he speaks the worst English I ever heard;
Richardson replied through the 4thly, Dr. Stukely, who writes for himself, the very worst
newspaper, and then a correspondence was continued person he could write for; and lastly, I, who only read to
on the subject, “Mrs. Belfour" dating from Exeter, know if there be anything worth writing, and that not with
and directing letters to herself “to be left at the out some difficulty. I find that they printed 1000 copies of
Post Office in Exeter till called for." the Harleian Catalogue, and have sold only fourscore; that they have 9001. a year income, and spend 1300, and are THE MYSTERIOUS LADY TO MR. RICHARDSON. building apartments for the under-keepers; so I expect in
October 10, 1748. winter to see the collection advertised and set to auction.
I am pressed, sir, by a multitude of your admirers, to Have you read Lord Clarendon's Continuation of his History? Do you remember Mr. **'s account of it before it
plead in behalf of your amiable Clarissa; having too much came out? How well he recollected all the faults, and how
reason, from hints given in your four volumes, from a certain
advertisement, and from your forbearing to write, after proutterly he forgot all the beauties : surely the grossest taste is better than such a sort of delicacy.
mising all endeavours should be used towards satisfying the discontented; from all these, I say, I have but too much
reason to apprehend a fatal catastrophe. I have heard that Samuel Richardson, the novelist, was an inde- some of your advisers, who delight in horror (detestable fatigable letter-writer. He was born in 1689, the wretches !), insisted upon rapes, ruin, and destruction ; others, son of a joiner in Derbyshire. He wrote afterwards who feel for the virtuous in distress (blessings for ever attend of himself :-“From my earliest youth, I had a love them !), pleaded for the contrary. Could you be deaf to these, of letter-writing: I was not eleven years old when I
and comply with those? Is it possible, that he who has the wrote, spontaneously, a letter to a widow of near art to please in softness, in the most natural, easy, humorous, fifty, who, pretending to a zeal for religion, and being
and sensible manner, can resolve to give joy only to the illa constant frequenter of church ordinances, was con
natured reader, and heave the compassionate breast with tears
for irremediable woes? Tears I would choose to shed for tinually fermenting quarrels and disturbances, by backbiting and scandal, among all her acquaintance.
virtue in distress; but still would suffer to flow, in greater I collected from the Scripture texts that made against
abundance, for unexpected turns of happiness, in which, sir, you
excel any other author I ever read! where nature ought her. Assuming the style and address of a person in
to be touched, you make the very soul feel. years, I exhorted her, I expostulated with her. But
Which consideration (amongst many others) will, I hope, my handwriting was known. I was challenged with
induce you not to vary from what has given your goodit, and owned the boldness; for she complained of it
natured and judicious readers so much pleasure. It is not to my mother with tears. My mother chid me for
murder, or any other horrid act, but the preceding distresses, the freedom taken by such a boy with a woman of
which touch and raise the passions of those, at least, whom her years; but knowing that her son was not of a
an author would wish to please, supposing him to be such pert or forward nature, but, on the contrary, shy and
a one as I take you to be. Therefore, sir, after you have bashful, she commended my principles, though she bronght the divine Clarissa to the very brink of destruction, censured the liberty taken.'
He tells us also that
let me intreat (may I say, insist upon) a turn, that will make at thirteen he wrote love-letters for girls of his your almost despairing readers half mad with joy. I know native place, and had their confidences. In 1706
you cannot help doing it, to give yourself satisfaction; for I
for fear you should not find it out; but if you take me for a fool, I do not care a straw. What I have said is without the least vanity, not but modesty would have forbid; but that you only know me by the name of
TO MR. RICHARDSON.
pretend to know your heart so well, that you must think it a crime, never to be forgiven, to leave vice triumphant, and virtue depressed.
If you think, by the hints given, that the event is too generally guessed at, and for that reason think it too late to alter your scheme, I boldly assert—not at all; write a little excuse to the reader, “that you had a design of concluding so and so, but was given to understand it would disappoint so many of your readers, that, upon mature deliberation and advice of friends, you had resolved on the contrary."
Now, sir, I must inform you, that I do blush most immoderately, which I rejoice to feel; for I must be mistress of a consummate assurance, in offering to put words in the mouth of the ingenious Mr. Richardson, without a blush of the deepest dye.
Dear Sir, -Let me intreat! only suppose all the goodnatured, compassionate, and distressed on their knees at your feet, can you let them beg in vain ?
I have sometimes a faint glimmering of hope, at other times am in despair, which almost makes me mad, and so, sir, you have reason to think me; but you have given me so great a proof of your good-nature and complaisance, that I depend upon being excused for continuing to trespass upon your time and patience.
I must add, that I am in a house full of company, who are wondering at my frequent retirements ; so that I can only now and then snatch half an hour to write what at that time comes into my head. Wonder not, therefore, at the incoherence of this tedious epistle ; but write I must, or die, for I can neither eat or sleep till I am disburdened of my load.
That it is to fall upon you, sir, I am sorry; but through an unlucky necessity it must be so. Had you not favoured me with your's, you never had been troubled with this; and I own it hard you should suffer for your being so infinitely obliging.
I will not say this shall be the last, I hope not; I will flatter myself that I may think a letter of thanks necessary.
The reason of my concealing my name is not for want of confidence in you, but really and truly out of a principle of modesty; for well may I be ashamed to write in the manner
Ι I have done!
I have now, sir, been very grave with you, and must beg pardon for my last airy epistle, in which I took the liberty to use many hard sentences, and even curses ; but I hope I shall have reason to turn them into blessings, from the bottom of my heart.
Think not I expect an answer to all this, indeed I do not.
I should be glad if you would order Mr. Rivington just to tell me he has delivered this to you; and, O what I shall feel, when I read—“This day is published, a continuation of The History of Miss Clarissa Harlowe !” I am ashamed to say how much I shall be affected; but be it as it will, I shall ever acknowledge myself,
BELFOUR. If you should think fit to alter your scheme, I will promise to read your history over, at least once in two years, as long as I live; and my last words are,—be merciful.
I have all this time pleaded only in behalf of Clarissa ; but you must know (though I shall blush again), that if I was to die for it, I cannot help being fond of Lovelace. A sad dog! why would you make him so wicked, and yet so agreeable ? He says, sometime or other he designs being a good man, from which words I have great hopes; and, in excuse for my liking him, I must say, I have made him so, up to my own heart's wish; a faultless husband have I made him, even without danger of a relapse. A foolish rake may die one ; but a sensible rake must reform, at least in the hands of a sensible author it ought to be so, and will, I hope.
If you disappoint me, attend to my curse :- May the hatred of all the young, beautiful, and virtuous for ever be your portion! and may your eyes never behold anything but age and deformity! may you meet with applause only from envious old maids, surly bachelors, and tyrannical parents ! may you be doomed to the company of such ! and, after death, may their ugly souls haunt you!
Now make Lovelace and Clarissa unhappy if you dare.
Perhaps you may think all this proceeds from a giddy girl of sixteen, but know I am pust my romantic time of life, though young enough to wish two lovers happy in a married state. As I myself am in that class, it makes me still more anxious for the lovely pair. I have common understanding and middling judgment for one of my sex, which I tell you
TO MRS. BELFOUR,
October 6th, 1748. MADAM,—There was no need to bespeak my patience, nor anything but my gratitude, on reading such a letter as you have favoured me with. Indeed, I admire it, and have reason to plume myself upon the interest you take in my story. I should be utterly inexcusable, in my opinion, if I took not early and grateful notice of it; yet cannot but say, that if there were no other reason but the condescending one you are pleased to mention in the latter part of your letter, to deny me, I should be proud to know to whom I have the honour of addressing myself by pen and ink.
You cannot imagine, how sensibly I am grieved for the pain the unexpected turn of my story has given you. God
forbid that anything unhappy, or disastrous, should ever fall to the lot of a lady so generously sensible to the woes of others, as she must be who can thus be affected by a moral tale, though the character (however presumed to be in nature) existed not in life.
Indeed you are not particular in your wishes for a happy ending, as it is called. Nor can I go through some of the scenes myself without being sensibly touched. (Did I not say
sprouted up into action afterwards in his character? Pride, revenge, a love of intrigue, plot, contrivance! And who is it that asks, “Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles ? ” On this consideration it has been matter of sur. prise to me, and indeed of some concern, that this character has met with so much favour from the good and virtuous, even as it stands from his two or three first letters; and in some measure convinced me of the necessity of such a catastrophe as I have made.
Had I drawn my heroine reconciled to relations unworthy of her, nobly resisting the attacks of an intrepid lover, overcoming her persecutors, and bafiling the wicked designs formed against her honour; marrying her Lovelace, and that on her own terms; educating properly, and instructing her own children ; what, however useful, however pleasing the lesson, had I done more than I had done in Pamela ? And it is hoped, that there are many mothers, many wives, who, though they have not been called upon to many trials, thus meritoriously employ themselves in their families.
And as to reforming and marrying Lovelace, and the example to be given by it, what but this that follows, would it have been, instead of the amiable one your good nature and humanity point out ? “Here,” says another Lovelace, “may I pass the flower and prime of my youth, in forming and pursuing the most insidious enterprises. As many of the daughters and sisters of worthy families as I can seduce, may I seduce-scores perhaps in different climates; and on their weakness build my profligate notions of the whole sex. I may at last meet with, and attempt, a Clarissa, a lady of peerless virtue. I may try her, vex her, plague and torment her worthy heart. I may fit up all my batteries against her virtue; and if I find her proof against all my machinations, and myself tired with rambling, I may then reward that virtue; I may graciously extend my hand-she may give me hers, and rejoice, and thank heaven for my condescension in her favour. The Almighty, I may suppose, at the same time,
Ι to be as ready with his mercy, foregoing his justice on my past crimes, as if my nuptials with this meritorious fair one were to atone for the numerous distresses and ruins I have occasioned in other families: and all the good-natured, the worthy, the humane part of the world, forgiving me too, because I am a handsome and a humorous fellow, will clap their hands with joy, and cry out,
Happy, happy, happy pair !
None but the rake deserves the fair!" There cannot be a more pernicious notion, than that which is so commonly received, that a reformed rake makes the best husband. This notion it was my intent to combat and expose, as I mentioned so early as in the preface to my first volume. And how could I have answered this end, had I pursued the plan your benevolent heart wishes I had pursued ? Indeed, indeed, madam, reformation is not, cannot, be an easy, a sudden thing, in a man long immersed in vice. The temptation to it, as from sex to sex, so natural; constitution, as in such a character as Lovelace, so promotive ; a love of intrigue so predominant ; so great a self-admirer; so much admired by others; and was it not nature that I proposed to follow ?
You suppose me, madam, to be one who can believe that there is felicity in marriage. Indeed I honour the state ; I have reason to do so. I have been twice married, and both times happily. But as to Clarissa, whom you wish to be joined to a man of her own reforming, “new modelled,” as you say, "and by her made perfect as herself," let me say, if I had designed her to shine in the married life, I would have given her a man whose reflections upon his past life
that I was another Pygmalion ?) But yet I had to show, for example sake, a young lady struggling nobly with the greatest difficulties, and triumphing from the best motives, in the course of distresses, the tenth part of which would have sunk even manly hearts; yet tenderly educated, born to affluence, naturally meek, although, where an exertion of spirit was necessary, manifesting herself to be a true heroine.
And what, madam, is the temporary happiness we are so fond of? What the long life we are so apt to covet ?
The more irksome these reflections are to the young, the gay, and the healthy, the more necessary are they to be inculcated.
A verse may find him who a sermon flies,
And turn delight into a sacrifice. Of this nature is my design. Religion never was at so low an ebb as at present. And if my work must be supposed of the novel kind, I was willing to try if a religious novel would do good.
And did you not perceive that in the very first letter of Lovelace, all those seeds of wickedness were thick sown, which
1 At his elbow is the elbow of the chair he wrote in. It was fitted, as the picture shows, with an ink-bottle. The portrait was by Pygmalion's friend Highmore.
• From George, Herbert's “Temple." The “Church Porch," lines 5, 6.
: Dryden. “Alexander's Feast," with "rake" for "brave,"
TO MRS. BELFOUR.
should have sat easier upon him; both for his sake, and for the sake of her pious heart, than those of a wicked man could do, who had been the ruin of many innocents before he became hers. Great abatements to a well-founded happiness surely in these reflections! I would not have confirmed the pernicious notions above-mentioned of the reformed rake.
A man who knows so much of his duty, as he is supposed to know, and who is, nevertheless, wicked upon principle, must be an abandoned man; and even should he reform, an uneasy, and therefore an unhappy one.
But why, as I asked in my former, is death painted in such shocking lights, when it is the common lot? If it is become so terrible to human nature, it is time to familiarize it to us. Hence another of my great ends, as I have hinted. “ Don't we lead back," says Clarissa, on a certain occasion, which had shocked those about her, “ a starting steed to the object he is apt to start at, in order to familiarize him to it, and cure his starting?"
Who but the persons concerned should choose for themselves what would make them happy? If Clarissa think not an early death an evil, but on the contrary, after an exemplary preparation, looks upon it as her consummating perfection, who shall grudge it her? who shall punish her with life? “ There is no inquisition in the grave,” as she quotes, "whether we have lived ten or an hundred years, and the day of death is better than the day of our birth.”
With regard to such catastrophes in general as accounted unhappy, let me refer you, madam, to what an excellent judge, and sound Christian, Mr. Addison I mean, has written in his Spectator. Vol. I., No. 40.1
But, after all, it is the execution must either condemn or acquit me. I am, however, discouraged and mortified at what you tell me, that you cannot think of accepting of the volumes when completed, if the catastrophe be not as you wish.
I am pained for your apprehended pain, were you to read to the end; and the more so, I own, that I have lost my aim, and judge wrongly from my own heart and eyes, if there are not scenes to come that will affect so tender a heart as yours.
That fifth volume is finished; I will send it directed to Mrs. Belfour (I must not dare to hope for the honour of a more welcome address) to the bookseller at Exeter. And if you will favour me with a letter upon it-yet you must take care how you favour me too-men are naturally encroachers. And it would be difficult in me to deny myself the hope of such a correspondent to the end of my life. I love Miss Howe next to Clarissa ; and I see very evidently in your letters that you are the twin sister of that lady. And indeed I adore your spirit and your earnestness, And am, Madam, with the greatest respect, Your most sincere admirer and humble servant,
Indeed, my dear madam, I could not think of leaving my heroine short of heaven: nor that I should do well if I punished not so premeditated a violation, and thereby made pity on her account, and terror on his, join to complete my great end, for the sake of example and warning.
“ You make a wide difference," you are pleased to tell me, “ between an extreme distress and acts of the utmost horror.” Those acts, madam, may be called acts of horror by tender spirits, which only ought to be called acts of terror and warning. The catastrophe of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet may be truly called horrid. Are not these reflections of Juliet, just before she took the opiate which was to lay her asleep till Romeo came to find her among the tombs of her ancestors, as well as the expedient itself, truly horrid ?
-How, if, when I am laid into the tomb
As with a club, dash out my desp'rate brains ? I hope I have everywhere avoided all rant, horror, indecent images, inflaming descriptions, even when rake writes to rake. Terror, and fear, and pity, are essentials in a tragic performance.
But, dear good madam, why should you run away from, or not care to trust yourself with your own humanity, when your choice, or perhaps but your complaisance, led you to be present at the representations of those scenes, which must have been mismanaged, if they did not soften and mend the heart? If warning and example be not meant in public representations, as well as entertainment and diversion, what wretched performances, what mere kill-time amusements must they be to thinking minds !
A good comedy is a fine performance. But how few are there that can be called good ? Even those that are tolerable are so mixed with indecent levities (at which footmen have a right to insult, by their roars, their ladies in the boxes), that a modest young creature hardly knows how to bear the offence to her ears in the representation, joined with the insults given by the eyes of the young fellows she is surrounded by. These indecencies would be unnaturally shocking in tragedy, as every one feels in the tragic comedy more especially. But true tragedy we must not bear.
“How often,” say you (and I repeat your words with concern), “ have I been forced to talk all the ridiculous things I could think of, in order to conceal my weakness.” Proud as I should be of the honour of being in your company, I should be sorry to be very near you, madam, on such occasions, unless I was very indifferent about the representation I went to see.
You say, “ that you are not affected in the same sensible manner by distresses in unnatural heroics, as you are when they appear purely in nature; where the distresses come nearer one's self.” This is exceedingly well said. This was one of the principal reasons of writing the History of Clarissa.
The Orphan, perhaps, owes its success more to this consideration than to any other. Its characters are all of a private family; though in high, yet not in princely life.
As to the questions which you repeatedly urge, whether Mr. Lovelace might not have been made a penitent, &c., &c., all these might have been answered in the affirmative.
But let us suppose the story to end, as you, madam, would have it; what of extraordinary would there be in it? After
This is a later letter from Richardson in reply to the continued pleadings of his unknown correspondent:
1 Writing of tragedies, Addison quotes Aristotle in this paper, and says, he observes “that those which ended unhappily had always pleased the people and carried away the prize, in the public disputes of the stage, from those that ended happily. Terror and commiseration leave a pleasing anguish in the mind, and fix the audience in such a serious composure of thought as is much more lasting and delightful than any little transient starts of joy and satisfaction. Accordingly we find that more of our English tragedies have suc. ceeded in which the favourites of the audience sink under their calamities, than those in which they recover themselves out of them." --Spectator, No. 40.