"Well," thought I, "I must put on the
dissembler
a little, I
see.
see.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v21 - Rab to Rus
Bristed introduces us into what is a
curious world, when we reflect that he writes of the United
States of 1850-52. While his sketches show a touch of caricature,
they represent well enough the life of a fashionable set of New
York City. We see men working hard to get money for their
personal enjoyment; idlers who have come into a fortune; pretty
and stylish girls; women who preside gracefully at table and
converse with wit and intelligence. Bristed takes us among men
whose sole aim in life seemed to be to make a luck hit in
stock speculation; to compound a sherry cobbler; to be apt in
bar-room repartee; to drink the best brands of claret and cham-
pagne, and to expatiate on them in a knowing manner; to drive
a fast horse; to dance well, and to dress in the latest fashion.
We assist at a wedding "above Bleecker Street"; we are taken
to a country-house, and see a family dinner served at four o'clock,
where, although the only guest is a gentleman just from England,
and the viands are not remarkable, " champagne decanted and
## p. 12220 (#262) ##########################################
12220
JAMES FORD RHODES
a
iced to the freezing-point" followed Manzanilla sherry, and “
prime bottle of Latour and a swelling slender-necked decanter
of the old Vanderlyn Madeira" succeeded the champagne.
ted describes the fashionable life at "Oldport Springs," a dis-
guise for Saratoga. He speaks of a huge caravansary, a profuse
American breakfast, a promenade on the wide porticos, cigars
and ten-pins, the bar-room and billiards, lounging and gossip, a
bad dinner at three which the ladies dressed for, a drive after
dinner, dancing until two in the morning for men and women,
and gambling the rest of the night for the men.
The Upper Ten Thousand of 1850-60 lend themselves to
delineation somewhat better than the same class of our own
time. Those who did not go to Europe passed the summer at
Saratoga, Newport, or Sharon; and their watering-place life was
open to the public gaze. N. P. Willis's chapter on Manners at
Watering-Places' would read oddly enough if set forth by a
similar adviser of the fashionable world of our time. People of
reserve, who wished for no other than their city acquaintances,
were termed "absolute exclusives," and counseled to have a sum-
mer resort of their own; for the very purpose of most, in going
to Saratoga and Newport in the gay season, was to make new
acquaintances. Yet care should be taken to avoid too great pro-
miscuity in social intercourse. While young men who happened
to be strangers to the reigning set could of course become ac-
quainted with some of the "dandies" during "a game at billiards
or a chance fraternization over juleps in the bar-room," those
whose pleasure was not found in games or in drink might find
it difficult to get properly introduced; and young ladies who
were strangers would encounter the same obstacle. Therefore, in
order that desirable acquaintances might be easily made, Willis,
an authority whom society held in respect, proposed that a
"committee of introduction" should be named by the landlord of
each large hotel. These should act under a «< code of etiquette,"
which Willis proceeded to outline. Such action, he declared,
would delightfully harmonize and enliven our summer resorts.
It is hardly probable that the plan proposed by the literary
social leader of the day was systematically adopted. There was
little need of it, for entrance into watering-place society was not
difficult. Respectability and fairly good manners were of course
requisite; but these being presupposed, the important qualifica-
tion was wealth. "Wealth," wrote George William Curtis, "will
## p. 12221 (#263) ##########################################
JAMES FORD RHODES
12221
socially befriend a man at Newport or Saratoga better than at
any similar spot in the world. " Yet all was not garish. At
Newport, the votary of fashion could not be insensible to nature's
charm. At Saratoga, "youth, health, and beauty" reigned; "we
discriminate," the Lotus-Eater said, "the Arctic and Antarctic.
Bostonians, fair, still, and stately, with a vein of scorn in their
Saratoga enjoyment; and the languid, cordial, and careless South-
erners, far from precise in dress or style, but balmy in man-
ner as a bland Southern morning. We mark the crisp courtesy
of the New-Yorker, elegant in dress, exclusive in association, a
pallid ghost of Paris. " After the sectional excitement of 1850,
however, fewer Southerners came North. The repeal of the slave
sojournment laws of Pennsylvania and New York made the
bringing of their slaves with them as body-servants inconvenient.
The excitement about the Fugitive Slave Act, and the passage
of the Personal Liberty Laws, involved the risk of losing their
negroes; and after the most powerful Northern party made, in
1856, a political shibboleth of the declaration that slavery was
a relic of barbarism, it was still more disagreeable for South-
ern gentlemen accompanied by their servants to travel at the
North.
Newport, the leading watering-place in the country, was, in
the opinion of Curtis, the vantage-ground to study the fashionable
world. There he found wealth the touchstone; but he saw money
spent without taste and in vulgar display. We Americans, he
declared, had the money-getting, but not the "money-spending
genius. " If high society was "but the genial intercourse of the
highest intelligences with which we converse-the festival of Wit
and Beauty and Wisdom" — he saw none at Newport. "Fine
society," he moralizes, "is a fruit that ripens slowly. We Ameri-
cans fancy we can buy it. " The peripatetic observer was glad to
get to Nahant.
There he wrote: "You find no village, no dust,
no commotion. You encounter no crowds of carriages or of curi-
ous and gossiping people. No fast men in velvet coats are trot-
ting fast horses;" and in the evenings "there are no balls, no
hops, no concerts, no congregating under any pretense in hotel
parlors. " But by the early part of the decade of 1850-60 the
life in Newport had begun to change. Originally a Southern
resort, New-Yorkers commenced to divide their favors between it
and Saratoga. Cottages became the fashion. The hotel season
declined.
## p. 12222 (#264) ##########################################
12222
JAMES FORD RHODES
The fashionable people of New York generally went to
Europe. When De Tocqueville wrote his last volume on Amer-
ica, the rich American in Europe was characteristic; and between
1850 and 1860 crowds went over the sea for the summer. To
writers of books and writers for the magazines, there seemed
in the high American society much that was meretricious, and
certainly no real enjoyment. The "uncommon splendatiousness"
annoyed Thackeray. That Mammon had become the national
saint, and that as a consequence, dullness and gloom charac-
terized the elegant people, was undeniable. This led a witty
Frenchman to record that "the most cheerful place he could find
in one of the metropolitan cities was the public cemetery. " One
of our stanch admirers found our society "sometimes fatiguing ";
and another, who went frequently to dinner parties in, New York,
thought they were very stupid. Men talked of trade, and women
talked about dress, each other, and their troubles with servants.
Yet the people Lady Wortley met on the streets in New York
reminded her of Paris. The Americans were said to resemble
the French more than the English. The ladies in New York,
Thackeray wrote, "dress prodigiously fine,- taking for their
models the French actresses, I think, of the Boulevard theatres. "
He thought Boston, New York, and Philadelphia "not so civil-
ized as our London, but more so than Manchester and Liver-
pool. "
Bristed noted that only makeshift liveries could be seen in
the American metropolis. When liveries were first introduced,
there was a great outcry against them, which resulted in their
being adopted in a half-way manner. "They were hooted out
of Boston. " None but the greatest dandies at Saratoga put their
coachmen in uniform. In March 1853, however, the New York
Herald complained of the "alarming spread of flunkeyism," as
evidenced from the rich people setting up liveries for their
coachmen and their footmen. The dress of gentlemen in the
decade we are studying would in these days appear peculiar;
that of the ladies, grotesque. In Washington, where society
retained the tone imparted to it by President Madison and his
wife, Senators went to the Senate and Representatives to the
House, as late as 1853, dressed as if they were going to a party.
A reference to some of the topics on which Willis discourses
will afford us a glimpse of the life of the people to whom he
addressed himself. He complains of the "want of married belles
## p. 12223 (#265) ##########################################
JAMES FORD RHODES
12223
in American society," and decries the public opinion that obliges
a woman to give up "all active participation in society after the
birth of her first child. " He devotes a chapter to the considera-
tion of the question, "Should married ladies go into society with
their daughters? " In dilating upon The Usages of Society,' he
asks, "Ought young girls to be left by mothers to themselves?
Should those who have incomes of $5,000 vie with those who
have $25,000? In a business country, should socialities com-
mence near midnight and end near morning? Should very
young children be dressed as expensively as their mothers? "
To the Upper Ten Thousand of to-day-or if hi
or if high society
has increased proportionately to the growth of population, it must
be more nearly the upper thirty thousand-the highest social
class of 1850-60 would seem crude and garish. Extraordinary
has been the development of taste, the growth of refinement, the
improvement in manners since that time. When we take a
broader view, and consider the whole Northern people, limiting
our inquiry to men and women of American birth, we see simi-
lar betterment in their personal bearing. The testimony of for-
eign travelers regarding American manners differs; but whether
we rely on the favorable, the unfavorable, or the impartial opin-
ions, we arrive alike at the conclusion that there has been a
gain. Omitting a comparison regarding certain personal habits
and uncouth behavior, that disgusted many Europeans and made
the burden of much comment, we see in one particular an
improvement, denoting a rising out of provincialism. "For fifty
years," wrote De Tocqueville, "it has been impressed upon the
inhabitants of the United States that they form the only reli-
gious, enlightened, and free people. They see that with them,
up to the present, democratic institutions prosper, while meeting
with failure in the rest of the world: they have then an immense
opinion of themselves, and they are not far from believing that
they form a species apart from the human race. " Ampère notes
of Americans their "perpetual glorification" of their country;
and he cannot keep from thinking that it is a mortification for
them "not to be able to pretend that an American discovered
America. " But when we come to our own time, Bryce observes
that one finds nowadays from European travelers the "general
admission that the Americans are as pleasant to one another and
to strangers, as are the French or the Germans or the English.
The least agreeable feature to the visitors of former years, an
## p. 12224 (#266) ##########################################
12224
JAMES FORD RHODES
incessant vaunting of their own country and disparagement of
others, has disappeared; and the tinge of self-assertion which
the sense of equality used to give is now but faintly noticeable. "
With improvement in this respect, there is no longer evident,
as formerly, such extreme sensitiveness to the opinions of Euro-
peans, and especially of the English. Harriet Martineau thought
that the veneration in New England for Old England was greater
"than any one people ought to feel for any other. " It is unde-
niable that, mingled with the unrestrained curiosity with which
the American people ran headlong after the Prince of Wales on
the occasion of his visit to the United States in 1860, there was
a genuine enthusiasm and a kindly feeling for the country and
the sovereign that he represented.
With all our improvement, have we grown more interesting?
De Tocqueville was just when he wrote: "In the long run, how-
ever, the view of that society, so agitated, appears monotonous;
and after having contemplated for a while this ever-changing
picture, the spectator becomes weary. " Somewhere about 1870,
Lowell asked: "Did it never occur to you that somehow we are
not interesting except as a phenomenon? "
The people of the decade we are studying did not lack for
public amusements. In music, the era began with Jenny Lind
and ended with Adelina Patti. The impression made by the
Swedish Nightingale still remains fresh. On her arrival at New
York she was received like a queen. Triumphal arches of 'flow-
ers and evergreens were erected on the pier, where an enthusias-
tic crowd greeted her. The flag of Norway and Sweden floated
over her hotel. Barnum, her manager, kept up the interest in
the songstress by all sorts of clever advertising until the day of
the sale of the tickets for the first concert, when fabulous prices
were paid for seats. She sang at Castle Garden; and the
accounts of the pressing crowd that gathered outside on the
occasion of her first appearance, call to mind a national party
convention rather than a host assembled to do homage to the
greatest interpreter of the art of song. Her singing of operatic
selections struck lovers of music with amazement and delight;
but when she burst forth in one of her national airs, the great
audience was thrilled, and their hearts vibrated with emotions
that took them for the moment away from earth.
## p. 12225 (#267) ##########################################
12225
.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
(1689-1761)
T IS a remarkable fact that the writer who may fairly be
called the father of the modern analytic novel of society,
wrote his first and most famous book with a utilitarian
object in view, with no thought of making a novel,-and moreover,
was over fifty years of age when this story of 'Pamela' was penned.
By producing this piece of fiction, Richardson founded a school, and
gave a new impulse and direction to modern fiction.
Samuel Richardson was born in a Derbyshire village in 1689, and
got his only education at the local school. His father was a joiner.
When seventeen he was apprenticed to a
London printer, serving his seven years
faithfully. This employment was followed
by six years more of hard work as journey-
man. In 1719 he set up a Fleet Street
printing-office of his own, and wrote pref-
aces and dedications to the works of oth-
ers. It was in this way that 'Pamela' had
its origin; for Richardson in 1739 composed
a series of 'Familiar Letters,' to help those
too illiterate to write for themselves,- a
sort of Servant-Girl's Guide, and the novel
was a result.
Richardson was always a diligent worker,
a man of thrift and character, whose rise in
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
his profession was well earned. He widened the circle of his friends,
and married the daughter of his former employer. He extended his
business connections by printing the Daily Journal, the Daily Gazet-
teer, and the Briton. His friendship with the Duke of Wharton
was influential in his advancement. In 1754 he was appointed to the
important post of Master of the Stationers' Company. During his last
years he was an invalid, and passed much of his time at his country-
seat, reading from his own work to a circle of female admirers. Few
men have received more adulation of this sort than Richardson; and
while he had his share of amiable vanity, it is to his credit that he
remained in character unsophisticated, kind, and generous. He died
in his home July 4th, 1761.
XXI-765
## p. 12226 (#268) ##########################################
12226
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
As a boy at school Richardson amused his schoolmates by making
up extemporaneous romances; and when but thirteen years old, such
was his talent as a letter-writer that the village girls employed him
to write their love epistles. This is described amusingly in his
autobiography.
"As a bashful and not forward boy, I was an early favorite with all the
young women of taste and reading in the neighborhood. Half a dozen of
them, when met to work with their needles, used when they got a book they
liked, and thought I should, to borrow me to read to them; their mothers
sometimes with them: and both mothers and daughters used to be pleased
with the observations they put me upon making. I was not more than
thirteen when three of these young women, having a high opinion of my taci-
turnity, revealed to me their love secrets, in order to induce me to give them
copies to write after or correct, for answers to their lovers' letters; nor did
any of them ever know that I was the secretary of the others. I have been
directed to chide, and even repulse, when an offense was either taken or
given, at the very time that the heart of the chider or repulser was open
before me, overflowing with esteem and affection, and the fair repulser, dread-
ing to be taken at her word, directing this word or that expression to be
softened or changed. One, highly gratified with her lover's fervor and vows
of everlasting love, has said when I have asked her direction: 'I cannot
tell you what to write, but'- her heart on her lips-'you cannot write too
kindly. All her fear was only lest she should incur slight for her kindness. »
Excellent training this, it will be seen, for the future novelist and
portrayer of the soul feminine. 'Pamela,' which appeared in 1742,
can be recognized as the child of this youthful employ, and similar
experiences in maturity. It narrates the trials of a serving-maid of
that name, whose virtue is assailed by the son of the lady who em-
ploys her. Through a long series of temptations and efforts, includ-
ing an abduction, she refuses to yield; until finally, finding he can
get her in no other way, the quasi-hero condescends to marry her,
and is naïvely lauded by Richardson for the act. The novel's sub-
title, 'Virtue Rewarded,' expresses the author's feeling. Pamela's
hard-headed, practical valuation of her character as a purchasable
commodity, as well as the elegant rascality of the lover, give the
present-day reader a keen sense of the comparatively low state of
social morals in eighteenth-century England. But the story is full
of human interest; and one follows the long-suffering, and be it con-
fessed, long-winded Pamela, with genuine sympathy.
Having depicted the servant-girl type in his first story, Richardson
essayed in his second-'Clarissa, or the History of a Young Lady,'
which appeared half a dozen years later, in 1748-to draw with equal
accuracy the young woman of gentility, also in sore straits through
the love-passion. Clarissa is seduced and ruined by Lovelace — who
## p. 12227 (#269) ##########################################
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
12227
has given his name to the genus fine-gentleman profligate. Here
again, with certain allowances for the change in times and customs,
Richardson has succeeded in making a powerful tale, though a very
slow-moving one to the modern taste. The lachrymose dénouement
is an eighteenth-century prototype of a whole train of latter-day fic-
tion after it became fashionable to end a novel ill. In his final story,
'The History of Sir Charles Grandison' (1753), he turns from painting
heroines in order to limn a hero, with whom he most egregiously
fails. Sir Charles is an impossible prig and pattern-plate; the reader
cannot accept him as true, nor stomach him as in any wise admi-
rable. Surrounded by an adoring bevy of women, he struts about
like a turkey-cock, and is twice as ridiculous. In George Meredith's
'The Egoist,' Willoughby is Grandison, with the significant difference
that the later story-teller consciously satirizes the character, while
Richardson takes him in full seriousness. Of these three main works,
then, two are masterpieces when viewed in relation to their time
and the prior poor estate of English fiction. The third is a compara-
tive failure. All of them, it should be understood, are cast in the
epistolary form. Novels in the shape of letters have bred fast since,
and the device is now pretty well outworn; but in the middle of the
last century this way of telling a story had the charm of novelty.
It is a method lending itself well to Richardson's leisurely, at times
tedious, gait.
Richardson's popularity with the fair sex was immense after the
appearance of his novels; nor was this confined to one class. That
brilliant worldling, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, testifies that the
chambermaids of all nations wept over Pamela; while ladies of
quality knelt sobbing at Richardson's feet, begging him to spare
Clarissa. The situation is not without humor for us to-day; and
indeed the modern reader can afford to smile at the mawkish senti-
mentality and utilitarian morals of a book like 'Pamela. ' But the
story is epoch-making in English fiction. It does a new thing. A
girl of the lower class is painted at full length, as if she were worth
attention-painted sympathetically; and in this and the subsequent
stories the interest is made to depend upon the development of
character, rather than upon objective incident as in the case of De
Foe's 'Robinson Crusoe,' which came some twenty years earlier. In
this Richardson struck the modern note, and started the analytic
tendency, which has unceasingly dominated the modern novel since
his day. Hence Richardson's important place in the evolution of
fiction of our speech.
Again, it was in the spirit of parody and satire that Fielding,
his greater fellow novelist, began his career by writing 'Joseph An-
drews'; so that Richardson, in a sense, may be regarded as inspiring
## p. 12228 (#270) ##########################################
12228
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
the author of Tom Jones. ' The former's influence was felt largely
in foreign fiction, particularly in that of Germany and France.
Richardson's 'Life and Correspondence,' with a Memoir by Mrs. Bar-
bauld, appeared in 1804.
PAMELA IMMURED BY HER LOVER
From Pamela'
THURSDAY.
TH
HIS Completes a terrible week since my setting out, as I hoped.
to see you, my dear father and mother.
My impatience was great to walk in the garden, to see
if anything had offered answerable to my hopes; but this wicked
Mrs. Jewkes would not let me go without her, and said she
was not at leisure. We had a great many words about it: I told
her it was very hard I could not be trusted to walk by myself
in the garden for a little air, but must be dogged and watched
worse than a thief.
"I remember," said she, "your asking Mr. Williams if there
were any gentry in the neighborhood. This make me suspect
you want to go away to them, to tell your dismal story, as you
call it. "
«<
"Why," said I, are you afraid I should confederate with
them to commit a robbery upon my master? "
«< Maybe I am," said she; "for to rob him of yourself would
be the worst that could happen to him, in his opinion. "
"And pray," said I, walking on, "how came I to be his prop-
erty? what right has he to me, but such as a thief may plead to
stolen goods? "
>>>
"Why, was ever the like heard!
says she.
"This is down-
right rebellion, I protest! Well, well, lambkin" (which the fool-
ish woman often calls me), "if I was in his place, he should not
have his property in you so long questionable. »
"Why, what would you do," said I, "if you were he? »
"Not stand shill-I shall-I, as he does, but put you and him-
self both out of pain. "
"Why, Jezebel," said I (I could not help it), "would you ruin
me by force ? »
Upon this she gave me a deadly slap upon the shoulder.
"Take that," said she: "whom do you call Jezebel? "
## p. 12229 (#271) ##########################################
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
12229
I was so surprised (for you never beat me, my dear father and
mother, in your lives), that I was like one thunder-struck, and
looked round as if I wanted somebody to help me; but alas, I
had nobody! and said, rubbing my shoulder, "Is this also in
your instructions? Alas for me! am I to be beaten too? " And
so I fell a-crying, and threw myself upon the grass-walk we were
upon.
Said she in a great pet, "I won't be called such names,
I'll assure you. Marry come up! I see you have a spirit: you
must and shall be kept under. I'll manage such little provoking
things as you, I warrant ye! Come, come: we'll go indoors, and
I'll lock you up; you shall have no shoes, nor anything else, if
this be the case. "
I did not know what to do. . This was a cruel thing to me: I
blamed myself for my free speech; for now I had given her some
pretense for severity, and had by my pertness ruined the only
project I had left.
The gardener saw the scene: but she called to him, "Well,
Jacob, what do you stare at? Pray mind what you are upon. "
And away he walked to another quarter, out of sight.
"Well," thought I, "I must put on the dissembler a little, I
see. »
She took my hand roughly. "Come, get up," said she, "and
come in a' doors. I'll Jezebel you, I will! »
"Why, dear Mrs. Jewkes-" said I.
"None of your dears and your coaxing," said she: "why not
Jezebel again? "
She was in a passion, I saw; and I was out of my wits. I
have often heard women blamed for their tongues. I wished
mine had been shorter.
"But I can't go in," said I; "indeed I can't. "
"Why," said she, "can't you? I'll warrant I can take such a
thin body as you under my arm, and carry you in, if you won't
walk. You don't know my strength. ".
"Yes, but I do," said I, "too well; and will you not use me
worse when I come in? " So I arose; and she muttered to herself
all the way,—she to be a Jezebel with me, that had used me so
well, and such like.
When I came near the house, I said, sitting down upon a
bench, "Well, I will not go in until you say you forgive me,
## p. 12230 (#272) ##########################################
12230
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Mrs. Jewkes. If you will forgive me calling you that name, I
will forgive your beating me. "
She sat down by me, and seemed in a great pucker, and said,
"Well, come, I will forgive you this time;" and so kissed me as
a mark of reconciliation.
"But pray," said I, "tell me where I am to walk or go, and
give me what liberty you can; and when I know the most you
can favor me with, you shall see I will be as content as I can,
and not ask you for more. "
"Aye," said she, "this is something like: I wish I could give
you all the liberty you desire; for you must think it no pleasure
to me to tie you to my petticoat, as it were, and not let you
stir without me. But people that will do their duties must have
some trouble; and what I do is to serve as good a master as
lives. »
"Yes," said I, "to every one but me. "
"He loves you too well, to be sure," said she; "that's the
reason! so you ought to bear it. Come," said she, "don't let
the servant see you have been crying, nor tell her any tales;
for you won't tell them fairly, I'm sure. I'll send her to
you, and you shall take another walk in the garden, if you will:
maybe it will get you a stomach for your dinner; for you don't
eat enough to keep life and soul together. You are a beauty to
the bone, or you could not look so well as you do, with so
little stomach, so little rest, and so much pining and whining
for nothing at all. "
"Well," thought I, "say what thou wilt, so I can be rid of
thy bad tongue and company; and I hope to find some opportu-
nity now to come at my sunflower. " But I walked the other way
to take that in my return, to avoid suspicion.
I forced my discourse to the maid, but it was all upon gen-
eral things; for I found she is asked after everything I say or do.
When I came near the place, as I had been devising, I said,
"Pray step to the gardener, and ask him to gather a salad for
me to dinner. »
She called out, "Jacob! "
Said I, "He can't hear you so far off: and pray tell him I
should like a cucumber too, if he has one. "
When she had stepped about a bowshot from me, I popt
down, and whipt my fingers under the upper tile; and pulled out
## p. 12231 (#273) ##########################################
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
12231
a letter without direction, and thrust it into my bosom, trem-
bling for joy. She was with me before I could secure it; and I
was in such a taking that I feared I should discover myself.
"You seem frightened, madam," said she.
"Why," said I, with a lucky thought, (alas! your poor daugh.
ter will make an intriguer by-and-by; but I hope an innocent
one! ) "I stooped to smell at the sunflower, and a great nasty
worm ran into the ground, that startled me; for I can't abide
worms. "
Said she, "Sunflowers don't smell. "
"So I find," I replied. And then we walked in.
Mrs. Jewkes said, "Well, you have made haste now. You
shall go another time. "
I went to my closet, locked myself in, and opening my letter,
found in it these words:-
-:
I am infinitely concerned in your distress. I most heartily wish it
may be in my power to serve and save so much innocence, beauty,
and merit. My whole dependence is upon Mr. B. , and I have a near
view of being provided for by his favor to me. But yet I would
sooner forfeit all my hopes in him (trusting to God for the rest) than
not assist you, if possible. I never looked upon Mr. B. in the light
he now appears in. I am entirely of opinion you should, if possible,
get out of his hands, and especially as you are in very bad ones in
Mrs. Jewkes's.
We have here the widow Lady Jones; mistress of a good fortune,
and a woman of virtue, I believe. We have also Sir Simon Darn-
ford, and his lady, who is a good woman; and they have two daugh-
ters, virtuous young ladies. All the rest are but middling people,
and traders, at best. I will try, if you please, either Lady Jones or
Lady Darnford, if they'll permit you to take refuge with them. I see
no probability of keeping myself concealed in this matter, but will,
as I said, risk all things to serve you; for never saw I sweetness and
innocence like yours: your hard case has attached me entirely to
you; for I well know, as you so happily express, if I can serve you
in this case, I shall thereby perform all the acts of religion in one.
As to Lady Davers, I will convey a letter, if you please; but it
must not be from our post-house, I give you caution: for the man
owes all his bread to Mr. B. , and his place too; and I believe, from
something that dropped from him over a can of ale, has his instruc-
tions. You don't know how you are surrounded: all which confirms
me in your opinion that no honor is meant you, let what will be
professed; and I am glad you want no caution on that head.
## p. 12232 (#274) ##########################################
12232
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Give me leave to say, that I had heard much in your praise, but
I think greatly short of what you deserve, both as to person and
mind: my eyes convince me of the one, your letter of the other.
For fear of losing the present lucky opportunity, I am longer than
otherwise I should be. But I will not enlarge any further than to
assure you that I am, to the best of my power, your faithful friend
and servant,
ARTHUR WILLIAMS.
I will come once every morning, and once every evening, after
school-time, to look for your letters. I'll come in, and return with-
out going into the house if I see the coast clear; otherwise, to avoid
suspicion, I'll come in.
I instantly, in answer to this pleasing letter, wrote as fol-
lows:-
Reverend Sir:
Oh, how suited to your function and your character is your kind
letter! God bless you for it! I now think I am beginning to be
happy. I should be very sorry to have you suffer on my account;
but I hope it will be made up to you a hundredfold by that God
whom you so faithfully serve.
Any way you think best I shall be pleased with; for I know not
the persons, nor in what manner to apply to them.
I should think, sir, if either of these ladies would give me leave,
I might get out by. favor of your key. As it is impossible, watched
as I am, to know when it can be, suppose, sir, you could get one
made by it, and put it the next opportunity under the sunflower.
If, sir, I had this key, I could, if these ladies would not shelter me,
run away anywhere: and if I was once out of the house, they could
have no pretense to force me in again; for I have done no harm,
and hope to make my story good to any impassionate body: by this
way you need not be known. Torture should not wring it from me,
I assure you.
I inclose you a letter of a deceitful wretch (for I can intrust you
with anything), poor John Arnold. Perhaps by his means something
may be discovered; for he seems willing to atone for his treach-
ery to me by the intimation of future services. I leave the hint to
you to improve upon. I am, Reverend Sir, your forever obliged and
faithful servant.
I hope, sir, by your favor, I could send a little packet now and
then to my poor father and mother. I have about five or six guin-
eas: shall I put half in your hands, to defray the charge of a man
and horse, or any other incidents?
## p. 12233 (#275) ##########################################
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
12233
I am just come off from a walk in the garden, and have
deposited my letter: we took a turn in the garden to angle, as
Mrs. Jewkes had promised me. She baited the hook, I held it,
and soon hooked a lovely carp.
"I'll try my fortune," said she, and took the rod.
"Do," answered I; "and I will plant life, if I can, while you
are destroying it. I have some horse-beans, and will go and
stick them in one of the borders, to see how long they will be
coming up; and I will call them my garden. "
So you see, dear father and mother, that this furnishes me
with a good excuse to look after my garden another time; and
if the mold should look a little fresh, it won't be so much sus-
pected: she mistrusted nothing of this; and I went and stuck
in here and there my beans, for about the length of six yards,
on each side of the sunflower, and easily deposited my letter.
And not a little proud am I of this. Sure something will do at
last.
FRIDAY, SATURDAY.
I HAVE just now told of a trick of mine; now I'll tell you a
trick of this wicked woman's.
She came up to me and said, "I have a bill I cannot change
till to-morrow, and a tradesman wants his money sadly; I don't
love to turn poor tradesmen away without their money: have
you any about you? "
"I have a little," replied I: "how much will do? "
"Oh," said she, "I want eight pounds. "
"Alack! " said I, "I have only between five and six. "
"Lend me that," said she, "till to-morrow. ”
I did so, and she went down-stairs; and when she came up,
she laughed and said, "Well, I have paid the tradesman. ”
"I hope," said I, "you'll give it me to-morrow. "
At this she laughing said, "To tell the truth, lambkin, I didn't
want it. I only feared your making bad use of it: and now I
can trust Nan with you a little oftener, especially as I have got
the key of your portmanteau; so that you can neither corrupt
her with money nor fine things. "
And now I have not five shillings left to support me, if I
can get away.
The more I think of this, the more I regret it,
and blame myself.
## p. 12234 (#276) ##########################################
12234
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
This night the postman brought a letter for Mrs. Jewkes, in
which one was inclosed for me; she brought it up to me, and
said, "Well, my good master don't forget us: he has sent you a
letter; and see what he writes to me. "
that he hoped her fair charge was well, happy,
So she read
and contented. "Aye, to be sure," said I, "I can't but choose! "
That he did not doubt her care and kindness to me; that I was
dear to him, and she could not use me too well; and the like.
"There's a master," said she: "sure you will love and pray for
him! "
I desired her to read the rest. "No," said she, "but I won't. "
"Then," said I, "are there any orders for taking my shoes away,
and for beating me? " "No," said she, "nor about Jezebel nei-
ther. " "Well," returned I, "I cry truce; for I have no mind to
be beat again. " "I thought," said she,
"I thought," said she, "we had forgiven one
another. "
My letter is as follows:-
—
My dear Pamela:
I begin to repent already that I have bound myself, by prom-
ise, not to see you till you give me leave; for I think the time very
tedious. Can you place so much confidence in me as to invite me
down? Assure yourself that your generosity shall not be thrown
away upon me. I would press this, as I am uneasy for your uneasi-
ness; for Mrs. Jewkes acquaints me that you take your restraint very
heavily, and neither eat, drink, nor rest well. I have too great an
interest in your health, not to wish to shorten the time of this trial;
which will be the consequence of my coming down to you. John too
has intimated to me your concern, with a grief that hardly gave him
leave for utterance,- a grief that a little alarmed my tenderness for
you. I will only say one thing: that if you will give me leave to
attend you at the hall (consider who it is that requests this from you
as a favor), I solemnly declare that you shall have cause to be pleased
with this obliging mark of your confidence and consideration for
me. If I find Mrs. Jewkes has not behaved to you with the respect
due to one I so tenderly love, I will put it entirely in your power to
discharge her the house, if you think proper; and Mrs. Jervis, of
who else you please, shall attend you in her place. This I say on a
hint John gave me, as if you resented something from that quarter.
Dearest Pamela, answer favorably this earnest request of one that can-
not live without you, and on whose honor to you, you may absolutely
depend; and so much the more, as you place a confidence in it. I
am, and assuredly ever will be, your faithful and affectionate, etc.
## p. 12235 (#277) ##########################################
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
12235
You will be glad, I know, to hear that your father and mother
are well, and easy upon your last letter. That gave me a pleasure
I am resolved you shall not repent. Mrs. Jewkes will convey to me
your answer.
I but slightly read this letter for the present, to give way to
one I had hopes of finding by this time from Mr. Williams.
took an evening turn, as I called it, in Mrs. Jewkes's company;
and walking by the place, I said, "Do you think, Mrs. Jewkes,
any of my beans can have struck since yesterday? "
She laughed and said, "You are a poor gardener, but I love
to see you divert yourself. " She passing on, I found my good
friend had provided for me; and slipping it in my bosom (for
her back was towards me) - "Here," said I (having a bean in
my hand), "is one of them; but it has not stirred. " "No, to be
sure," said she; and then turned upon me a most wicked jest,
unbecoming the mouth of a woman, about planting, etc. When
I came in I went to my closet, and read as follows:
I am sorry to inform you that I have had a repulse from Lady
Jones. She is concerned at your case, she says, but don't like to
make herself enemies.
I applied to Lady Darnford, and told, in the most pathetic manner,
your sad story, and showed her your more pathetic letter. I found
her well disposed: but she would advise with Sir Simon, who is
not a man of an extraordinary character for virtue; for he said to
his lady in my presence, "Why, what is all this, my dear, but that
our neighbor has a mind to his mother's waiting-maid! And if he
takes care she wants for nothing, I don't see any great injury will
be done to her. He hurts no family by this. " (So, my dear father
and mother, it seems poor people's honesty is to go for nothing. )
"And I think, Mr. Williams, you of all men should not engage in
this affair, against your friend and patron. "
I have hinted your case to Mr. Peters, the minister of this parish;
but I am concerned to say that he imputed selfish views to me, as if
I would make an interest in your affections by my zeal.
I represented the different circumstances of your affair: that other
women lived evilly by their own consent; but to serve you was to
save an innocence that had but few examples. I then showed him
your letter.
He said it was prettily written; he was sorry for you; and that
your good intentions ought to be encouraged. "But what," said he,
"would you have me do, Mr. Williams? »
## p. 12236 (#278) ##########################################
12236
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
"Why, suppose, sir," said I, "you give her shelter in your house
with your spouse and niece, till she can get to her friends? "
"What, and embroil myself with a man of Mr. B. 's power and
fortune? No! not I, I assure you. "
I am greatly concerned for you, I assure you; but am not dis-
couraged by this ill success, let what will come of it, if I can serve
you.
I don't hear as yet that Mr. B. is coming. I am glad of your hint
as to that unhappy fellow John Arnold. Something perhaps will
strike out from that, which may be useful. As to your packets,
if you seal them up and lay them in the usual place, if you find it
not suspected, I will watch an opportunity to convey them; but if
they are large, you had best be very cautious. This evil woman, I
find, mistrusts me.
I have just heard that the gentleman is dying, whose living Mr.
B. has promised me. I have almost a scruple to take it, as I am
acting so contrary to his desire; but I hope he'll one day thank me
for it.
I believe when we hear he is coming, it will be best to make use
of the key, which I shall soon procure you: I can borrow a horse for
you, to wait within half a mile of the back door, over the pasture,
and will contrive by myself, or somebody, to have you conducted
some miles distant, to one of the villages thereabouts; so don't be
discomforted, I beseech you.
I am, Mrs. Pamela, your faithful friend, etc.
I made a thousand sad reflections upon the former part of this
honest gentleman's kind letter; and but for the hopes he gave
me at last, should have given up my case as quite desperate. I
then wrote to thank him most gratefully for his kind endeavors;
and that I would wait the happy event I might hope for from
his kind assistance in the key and the horse.
I had no time to take a copy of this letter, I was so watched.
But when I had it in my bosom I was easy. And so I went to
seek out Mrs. Jewkes, and told her I would hear her advice upon
the letter I had received from my master; which point of confi-
dence in her pleased her not a little.
curious world, when we reflect that he writes of the United
States of 1850-52. While his sketches show a touch of caricature,
they represent well enough the life of a fashionable set of New
York City. We see men working hard to get money for their
personal enjoyment; idlers who have come into a fortune; pretty
and stylish girls; women who preside gracefully at table and
converse with wit and intelligence. Bristed takes us among men
whose sole aim in life seemed to be to make a luck hit in
stock speculation; to compound a sherry cobbler; to be apt in
bar-room repartee; to drink the best brands of claret and cham-
pagne, and to expatiate on them in a knowing manner; to drive
a fast horse; to dance well, and to dress in the latest fashion.
We assist at a wedding "above Bleecker Street"; we are taken
to a country-house, and see a family dinner served at four o'clock,
where, although the only guest is a gentleman just from England,
and the viands are not remarkable, " champagne decanted and
## p. 12220 (#262) ##########################################
12220
JAMES FORD RHODES
a
iced to the freezing-point" followed Manzanilla sherry, and “
prime bottle of Latour and a swelling slender-necked decanter
of the old Vanderlyn Madeira" succeeded the champagne.
ted describes the fashionable life at "Oldport Springs," a dis-
guise for Saratoga. He speaks of a huge caravansary, a profuse
American breakfast, a promenade on the wide porticos, cigars
and ten-pins, the bar-room and billiards, lounging and gossip, a
bad dinner at three which the ladies dressed for, a drive after
dinner, dancing until two in the morning for men and women,
and gambling the rest of the night for the men.
The Upper Ten Thousand of 1850-60 lend themselves to
delineation somewhat better than the same class of our own
time. Those who did not go to Europe passed the summer at
Saratoga, Newport, or Sharon; and their watering-place life was
open to the public gaze. N. P. Willis's chapter on Manners at
Watering-Places' would read oddly enough if set forth by a
similar adviser of the fashionable world of our time. People of
reserve, who wished for no other than their city acquaintances,
were termed "absolute exclusives," and counseled to have a sum-
mer resort of their own; for the very purpose of most, in going
to Saratoga and Newport in the gay season, was to make new
acquaintances. Yet care should be taken to avoid too great pro-
miscuity in social intercourse. While young men who happened
to be strangers to the reigning set could of course become ac-
quainted with some of the "dandies" during "a game at billiards
or a chance fraternization over juleps in the bar-room," those
whose pleasure was not found in games or in drink might find
it difficult to get properly introduced; and young ladies who
were strangers would encounter the same obstacle. Therefore, in
order that desirable acquaintances might be easily made, Willis,
an authority whom society held in respect, proposed that a
"committee of introduction" should be named by the landlord of
each large hotel. These should act under a «< code of etiquette,"
which Willis proceeded to outline. Such action, he declared,
would delightfully harmonize and enliven our summer resorts.
It is hardly probable that the plan proposed by the literary
social leader of the day was systematically adopted. There was
little need of it, for entrance into watering-place society was not
difficult. Respectability and fairly good manners were of course
requisite; but these being presupposed, the important qualifica-
tion was wealth. "Wealth," wrote George William Curtis, "will
## p. 12221 (#263) ##########################################
JAMES FORD RHODES
12221
socially befriend a man at Newport or Saratoga better than at
any similar spot in the world. " Yet all was not garish. At
Newport, the votary of fashion could not be insensible to nature's
charm. At Saratoga, "youth, health, and beauty" reigned; "we
discriminate," the Lotus-Eater said, "the Arctic and Antarctic.
Bostonians, fair, still, and stately, with a vein of scorn in their
Saratoga enjoyment; and the languid, cordial, and careless South-
erners, far from precise in dress or style, but balmy in man-
ner as a bland Southern morning. We mark the crisp courtesy
of the New-Yorker, elegant in dress, exclusive in association, a
pallid ghost of Paris. " After the sectional excitement of 1850,
however, fewer Southerners came North. The repeal of the slave
sojournment laws of Pennsylvania and New York made the
bringing of their slaves with them as body-servants inconvenient.
The excitement about the Fugitive Slave Act, and the passage
of the Personal Liberty Laws, involved the risk of losing their
negroes; and after the most powerful Northern party made, in
1856, a political shibboleth of the declaration that slavery was
a relic of barbarism, it was still more disagreeable for South-
ern gentlemen accompanied by their servants to travel at the
North.
Newport, the leading watering-place in the country, was, in
the opinion of Curtis, the vantage-ground to study the fashionable
world. There he found wealth the touchstone; but he saw money
spent without taste and in vulgar display. We Americans, he
declared, had the money-getting, but not the "money-spending
genius. " If high society was "but the genial intercourse of the
highest intelligences with which we converse-the festival of Wit
and Beauty and Wisdom" — he saw none at Newport. "Fine
society," he moralizes, "is a fruit that ripens slowly. We Ameri-
cans fancy we can buy it. " The peripatetic observer was glad to
get to Nahant.
There he wrote: "You find no village, no dust,
no commotion. You encounter no crowds of carriages or of curi-
ous and gossiping people. No fast men in velvet coats are trot-
ting fast horses;" and in the evenings "there are no balls, no
hops, no concerts, no congregating under any pretense in hotel
parlors. " But by the early part of the decade of 1850-60 the
life in Newport had begun to change. Originally a Southern
resort, New-Yorkers commenced to divide their favors between it
and Saratoga. Cottages became the fashion. The hotel season
declined.
## p. 12222 (#264) ##########################################
12222
JAMES FORD RHODES
The fashionable people of New York generally went to
Europe. When De Tocqueville wrote his last volume on Amer-
ica, the rich American in Europe was characteristic; and between
1850 and 1860 crowds went over the sea for the summer. To
writers of books and writers for the magazines, there seemed
in the high American society much that was meretricious, and
certainly no real enjoyment. The "uncommon splendatiousness"
annoyed Thackeray. That Mammon had become the national
saint, and that as a consequence, dullness and gloom charac-
terized the elegant people, was undeniable. This led a witty
Frenchman to record that "the most cheerful place he could find
in one of the metropolitan cities was the public cemetery. " One
of our stanch admirers found our society "sometimes fatiguing ";
and another, who went frequently to dinner parties in, New York,
thought they were very stupid. Men talked of trade, and women
talked about dress, each other, and their troubles with servants.
Yet the people Lady Wortley met on the streets in New York
reminded her of Paris. The Americans were said to resemble
the French more than the English. The ladies in New York,
Thackeray wrote, "dress prodigiously fine,- taking for their
models the French actresses, I think, of the Boulevard theatres. "
He thought Boston, New York, and Philadelphia "not so civil-
ized as our London, but more so than Manchester and Liver-
pool. "
Bristed noted that only makeshift liveries could be seen in
the American metropolis. When liveries were first introduced,
there was a great outcry against them, which resulted in their
being adopted in a half-way manner. "They were hooted out
of Boston. " None but the greatest dandies at Saratoga put their
coachmen in uniform. In March 1853, however, the New York
Herald complained of the "alarming spread of flunkeyism," as
evidenced from the rich people setting up liveries for their
coachmen and their footmen. The dress of gentlemen in the
decade we are studying would in these days appear peculiar;
that of the ladies, grotesque. In Washington, where society
retained the tone imparted to it by President Madison and his
wife, Senators went to the Senate and Representatives to the
House, as late as 1853, dressed as if they were going to a party.
A reference to some of the topics on which Willis discourses
will afford us a glimpse of the life of the people to whom he
addressed himself. He complains of the "want of married belles
## p. 12223 (#265) ##########################################
JAMES FORD RHODES
12223
in American society," and decries the public opinion that obliges
a woman to give up "all active participation in society after the
birth of her first child. " He devotes a chapter to the considera-
tion of the question, "Should married ladies go into society with
their daughters? " In dilating upon The Usages of Society,' he
asks, "Ought young girls to be left by mothers to themselves?
Should those who have incomes of $5,000 vie with those who
have $25,000? In a business country, should socialities com-
mence near midnight and end near morning? Should very
young children be dressed as expensively as their mothers? "
To the Upper Ten Thousand of to-day-or if hi
or if high society
has increased proportionately to the growth of population, it must
be more nearly the upper thirty thousand-the highest social
class of 1850-60 would seem crude and garish. Extraordinary
has been the development of taste, the growth of refinement, the
improvement in manners since that time. When we take a
broader view, and consider the whole Northern people, limiting
our inquiry to men and women of American birth, we see simi-
lar betterment in their personal bearing. The testimony of for-
eign travelers regarding American manners differs; but whether
we rely on the favorable, the unfavorable, or the impartial opin-
ions, we arrive alike at the conclusion that there has been a
gain. Omitting a comparison regarding certain personal habits
and uncouth behavior, that disgusted many Europeans and made
the burden of much comment, we see in one particular an
improvement, denoting a rising out of provincialism. "For fifty
years," wrote De Tocqueville, "it has been impressed upon the
inhabitants of the United States that they form the only reli-
gious, enlightened, and free people. They see that with them,
up to the present, democratic institutions prosper, while meeting
with failure in the rest of the world: they have then an immense
opinion of themselves, and they are not far from believing that
they form a species apart from the human race. " Ampère notes
of Americans their "perpetual glorification" of their country;
and he cannot keep from thinking that it is a mortification for
them "not to be able to pretend that an American discovered
America. " But when we come to our own time, Bryce observes
that one finds nowadays from European travelers the "general
admission that the Americans are as pleasant to one another and
to strangers, as are the French or the Germans or the English.
The least agreeable feature to the visitors of former years, an
## p. 12224 (#266) ##########################################
12224
JAMES FORD RHODES
incessant vaunting of their own country and disparagement of
others, has disappeared; and the tinge of self-assertion which
the sense of equality used to give is now but faintly noticeable. "
With improvement in this respect, there is no longer evident,
as formerly, such extreme sensitiveness to the opinions of Euro-
peans, and especially of the English. Harriet Martineau thought
that the veneration in New England for Old England was greater
"than any one people ought to feel for any other. " It is unde-
niable that, mingled with the unrestrained curiosity with which
the American people ran headlong after the Prince of Wales on
the occasion of his visit to the United States in 1860, there was
a genuine enthusiasm and a kindly feeling for the country and
the sovereign that he represented.
With all our improvement, have we grown more interesting?
De Tocqueville was just when he wrote: "In the long run, how-
ever, the view of that society, so agitated, appears monotonous;
and after having contemplated for a while this ever-changing
picture, the spectator becomes weary. " Somewhere about 1870,
Lowell asked: "Did it never occur to you that somehow we are
not interesting except as a phenomenon? "
The people of the decade we are studying did not lack for
public amusements. In music, the era began with Jenny Lind
and ended with Adelina Patti. The impression made by the
Swedish Nightingale still remains fresh. On her arrival at New
York she was received like a queen. Triumphal arches of 'flow-
ers and evergreens were erected on the pier, where an enthusias-
tic crowd greeted her. The flag of Norway and Sweden floated
over her hotel. Barnum, her manager, kept up the interest in
the songstress by all sorts of clever advertising until the day of
the sale of the tickets for the first concert, when fabulous prices
were paid for seats. She sang at Castle Garden; and the
accounts of the pressing crowd that gathered outside on the
occasion of her first appearance, call to mind a national party
convention rather than a host assembled to do homage to the
greatest interpreter of the art of song. Her singing of operatic
selections struck lovers of music with amazement and delight;
but when she burst forth in one of her national airs, the great
audience was thrilled, and their hearts vibrated with emotions
that took them for the moment away from earth.
## p. 12225 (#267) ##########################################
12225
.
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
(1689-1761)
T IS a remarkable fact that the writer who may fairly be
called the father of the modern analytic novel of society,
wrote his first and most famous book with a utilitarian
object in view, with no thought of making a novel,-and moreover,
was over fifty years of age when this story of 'Pamela' was penned.
By producing this piece of fiction, Richardson founded a school, and
gave a new impulse and direction to modern fiction.
Samuel Richardson was born in a Derbyshire village in 1689, and
got his only education at the local school. His father was a joiner.
When seventeen he was apprenticed to a
London printer, serving his seven years
faithfully. This employment was followed
by six years more of hard work as journey-
man. In 1719 he set up a Fleet Street
printing-office of his own, and wrote pref-
aces and dedications to the works of oth-
ers. It was in this way that 'Pamela' had
its origin; for Richardson in 1739 composed
a series of 'Familiar Letters,' to help those
too illiterate to write for themselves,- a
sort of Servant-Girl's Guide, and the novel
was a result.
Richardson was always a diligent worker,
a man of thrift and character, whose rise in
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
his profession was well earned. He widened the circle of his friends,
and married the daughter of his former employer. He extended his
business connections by printing the Daily Journal, the Daily Gazet-
teer, and the Briton. His friendship with the Duke of Wharton
was influential in his advancement. In 1754 he was appointed to the
important post of Master of the Stationers' Company. During his last
years he was an invalid, and passed much of his time at his country-
seat, reading from his own work to a circle of female admirers. Few
men have received more adulation of this sort than Richardson; and
while he had his share of amiable vanity, it is to his credit that he
remained in character unsophisticated, kind, and generous. He died
in his home July 4th, 1761.
XXI-765
## p. 12226 (#268) ##########################################
12226
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
As a boy at school Richardson amused his schoolmates by making
up extemporaneous romances; and when but thirteen years old, such
was his talent as a letter-writer that the village girls employed him
to write their love epistles. This is described amusingly in his
autobiography.
"As a bashful and not forward boy, I was an early favorite with all the
young women of taste and reading in the neighborhood. Half a dozen of
them, when met to work with their needles, used when they got a book they
liked, and thought I should, to borrow me to read to them; their mothers
sometimes with them: and both mothers and daughters used to be pleased
with the observations they put me upon making. I was not more than
thirteen when three of these young women, having a high opinion of my taci-
turnity, revealed to me their love secrets, in order to induce me to give them
copies to write after or correct, for answers to their lovers' letters; nor did
any of them ever know that I was the secretary of the others. I have been
directed to chide, and even repulse, when an offense was either taken or
given, at the very time that the heart of the chider or repulser was open
before me, overflowing with esteem and affection, and the fair repulser, dread-
ing to be taken at her word, directing this word or that expression to be
softened or changed. One, highly gratified with her lover's fervor and vows
of everlasting love, has said when I have asked her direction: 'I cannot
tell you what to write, but'- her heart on her lips-'you cannot write too
kindly. All her fear was only lest she should incur slight for her kindness. »
Excellent training this, it will be seen, for the future novelist and
portrayer of the soul feminine. 'Pamela,' which appeared in 1742,
can be recognized as the child of this youthful employ, and similar
experiences in maturity. It narrates the trials of a serving-maid of
that name, whose virtue is assailed by the son of the lady who em-
ploys her. Through a long series of temptations and efforts, includ-
ing an abduction, she refuses to yield; until finally, finding he can
get her in no other way, the quasi-hero condescends to marry her,
and is naïvely lauded by Richardson for the act. The novel's sub-
title, 'Virtue Rewarded,' expresses the author's feeling. Pamela's
hard-headed, practical valuation of her character as a purchasable
commodity, as well as the elegant rascality of the lover, give the
present-day reader a keen sense of the comparatively low state of
social morals in eighteenth-century England. But the story is full
of human interest; and one follows the long-suffering, and be it con-
fessed, long-winded Pamela, with genuine sympathy.
Having depicted the servant-girl type in his first story, Richardson
essayed in his second-'Clarissa, or the History of a Young Lady,'
which appeared half a dozen years later, in 1748-to draw with equal
accuracy the young woman of gentility, also in sore straits through
the love-passion. Clarissa is seduced and ruined by Lovelace — who
## p. 12227 (#269) ##########################################
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
12227
has given his name to the genus fine-gentleman profligate. Here
again, with certain allowances for the change in times and customs,
Richardson has succeeded in making a powerful tale, though a very
slow-moving one to the modern taste. The lachrymose dénouement
is an eighteenth-century prototype of a whole train of latter-day fic-
tion after it became fashionable to end a novel ill. In his final story,
'The History of Sir Charles Grandison' (1753), he turns from painting
heroines in order to limn a hero, with whom he most egregiously
fails. Sir Charles is an impossible prig and pattern-plate; the reader
cannot accept him as true, nor stomach him as in any wise admi-
rable. Surrounded by an adoring bevy of women, he struts about
like a turkey-cock, and is twice as ridiculous. In George Meredith's
'The Egoist,' Willoughby is Grandison, with the significant difference
that the later story-teller consciously satirizes the character, while
Richardson takes him in full seriousness. Of these three main works,
then, two are masterpieces when viewed in relation to their time
and the prior poor estate of English fiction. The third is a compara-
tive failure. All of them, it should be understood, are cast in the
epistolary form. Novels in the shape of letters have bred fast since,
and the device is now pretty well outworn; but in the middle of the
last century this way of telling a story had the charm of novelty.
It is a method lending itself well to Richardson's leisurely, at times
tedious, gait.
Richardson's popularity with the fair sex was immense after the
appearance of his novels; nor was this confined to one class. That
brilliant worldling, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, testifies that the
chambermaids of all nations wept over Pamela; while ladies of
quality knelt sobbing at Richardson's feet, begging him to spare
Clarissa. The situation is not without humor for us to-day; and
indeed the modern reader can afford to smile at the mawkish senti-
mentality and utilitarian morals of a book like 'Pamela. ' But the
story is epoch-making in English fiction. It does a new thing. A
girl of the lower class is painted at full length, as if she were worth
attention-painted sympathetically; and in this and the subsequent
stories the interest is made to depend upon the development of
character, rather than upon objective incident as in the case of De
Foe's 'Robinson Crusoe,' which came some twenty years earlier. In
this Richardson struck the modern note, and started the analytic
tendency, which has unceasingly dominated the modern novel since
his day. Hence Richardson's important place in the evolution of
fiction of our speech.
Again, it was in the spirit of parody and satire that Fielding,
his greater fellow novelist, began his career by writing 'Joseph An-
drews'; so that Richardson, in a sense, may be regarded as inspiring
## p. 12228 (#270) ##########################################
12228
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
the author of Tom Jones. ' The former's influence was felt largely
in foreign fiction, particularly in that of Germany and France.
Richardson's 'Life and Correspondence,' with a Memoir by Mrs. Bar-
bauld, appeared in 1804.
PAMELA IMMURED BY HER LOVER
From Pamela'
THURSDAY.
TH
HIS Completes a terrible week since my setting out, as I hoped.
to see you, my dear father and mother.
My impatience was great to walk in the garden, to see
if anything had offered answerable to my hopes; but this wicked
Mrs. Jewkes would not let me go without her, and said she
was not at leisure. We had a great many words about it: I told
her it was very hard I could not be trusted to walk by myself
in the garden for a little air, but must be dogged and watched
worse than a thief.
"I remember," said she, "your asking Mr. Williams if there
were any gentry in the neighborhood. This make me suspect
you want to go away to them, to tell your dismal story, as you
call it. "
«<
"Why," said I, are you afraid I should confederate with
them to commit a robbery upon my master? "
«< Maybe I am," said she; "for to rob him of yourself would
be the worst that could happen to him, in his opinion. "
"And pray," said I, walking on, "how came I to be his prop-
erty? what right has he to me, but such as a thief may plead to
stolen goods? "
>>>
"Why, was ever the like heard!
says she.
"This is down-
right rebellion, I protest! Well, well, lambkin" (which the fool-
ish woman often calls me), "if I was in his place, he should not
have his property in you so long questionable. »
"Why, what would you do," said I, "if you were he? »
"Not stand shill-I shall-I, as he does, but put you and him-
self both out of pain. "
"Why, Jezebel," said I (I could not help it), "would you ruin
me by force ? »
Upon this she gave me a deadly slap upon the shoulder.
"Take that," said she: "whom do you call Jezebel? "
## p. 12229 (#271) ##########################################
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
12229
I was so surprised (for you never beat me, my dear father and
mother, in your lives), that I was like one thunder-struck, and
looked round as if I wanted somebody to help me; but alas, I
had nobody! and said, rubbing my shoulder, "Is this also in
your instructions? Alas for me! am I to be beaten too? " And
so I fell a-crying, and threw myself upon the grass-walk we were
upon.
Said she in a great pet, "I won't be called such names,
I'll assure you. Marry come up! I see you have a spirit: you
must and shall be kept under. I'll manage such little provoking
things as you, I warrant ye! Come, come: we'll go indoors, and
I'll lock you up; you shall have no shoes, nor anything else, if
this be the case. "
I did not know what to do. . This was a cruel thing to me: I
blamed myself for my free speech; for now I had given her some
pretense for severity, and had by my pertness ruined the only
project I had left.
The gardener saw the scene: but she called to him, "Well,
Jacob, what do you stare at? Pray mind what you are upon. "
And away he walked to another quarter, out of sight.
"Well," thought I, "I must put on the dissembler a little, I
see. »
She took my hand roughly. "Come, get up," said she, "and
come in a' doors. I'll Jezebel you, I will! »
"Why, dear Mrs. Jewkes-" said I.
"None of your dears and your coaxing," said she: "why not
Jezebel again? "
She was in a passion, I saw; and I was out of my wits. I
have often heard women blamed for their tongues. I wished
mine had been shorter.
"But I can't go in," said I; "indeed I can't. "
"Why," said she, "can't you? I'll warrant I can take such a
thin body as you under my arm, and carry you in, if you won't
walk. You don't know my strength. ".
"Yes, but I do," said I, "too well; and will you not use me
worse when I come in? " So I arose; and she muttered to herself
all the way,—she to be a Jezebel with me, that had used me so
well, and such like.
When I came near the house, I said, sitting down upon a
bench, "Well, I will not go in until you say you forgive me,
## p. 12230 (#272) ##########################################
12230
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Mrs. Jewkes. If you will forgive me calling you that name, I
will forgive your beating me. "
She sat down by me, and seemed in a great pucker, and said,
"Well, come, I will forgive you this time;" and so kissed me as
a mark of reconciliation.
"But pray," said I, "tell me where I am to walk or go, and
give me what liberty you can; and when I know the most you
can favor me with, you shall see I will be as content as I can,
and not ask you for more. "
"Aye," said she, "this is something like: I wish I could give
you all the liberty you desire; for you must think it no pleasure
to me to tie you to my petticoat, as it were, and not let you
stir without me. But people that will do their duties must have
some trouble; and what I do is to serve as good a master as
lives. »
"Yes," said I, "to every one but me. "
"He loves you too well, to be sure," said she; "that's the
reason! so you ought to bear it. Come," said she, "don't let
the servant see you have been crying, nor tell her any tales;
for you won't tell them fairly, I'm sure. I'll send her to
you, and you shall take another walk in the garden, if you will:
maybe it will get you a stomach for your dinner; for you don't
eat enough to keep life and soul together. You are a beauty to
the bone, or you could not look so well as you do, with so
little stomach, so little rest, and so much pining and whining
for nothing at all. "
"Well," thought I, "say what thou wilt, so I can be rid of
thy bad tongue and company; and I hope to find some opportu-
nity now to come at my sunflower. " But I walked the other way
to take that in my return, to avoid suspicion.
I forced my discourse to the maid, but it was all upon gen-
eral things; for I found she is asked after everything I say or do.
When I came near the place, as I had been devising, I said,
"Pray step to the gardener, and ask him to gather a salad for
me to dinner. »
She called out, "Jacob! "
Said I, "He can't hear you so far off: and pray tell him I
should like a cucumber too, if he has one. "
When she had stepped about a bowshot from me, I popt
down, and whipt my fingers under the upper tile; and pulled out
## p. 12231 (#273) ##########################################
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
12231
a letter without direction, and thrust it into my bosom, trem-
bling for joy. She was with me before I could secure it; and I
was in such a taking that I feared I should discover myself.
"You seem frightened, madam," said she.
"Why," said I, with a lucky thought, (alas! your poor daugh.
ter will make an intriguer by-and-by; but I hope an innocent
one! ) "I stooped to smell at the sunflower, and a great nasty
worm ran into the ground, that startled me; for I can't abide
worms. "
Said she, "Sunflowers don't smell. "
"So I find," I replied. And then we walked in.
Mrs. Jewkes said, "Well, you have made haste now. You
shall go another time. "
I went to my closet, locked myself in, and opening my letter,
found in it these words:-
-:
I am infinitely concerned in your distress. I most heartily wish it
may be in my power to serve and save so much innocence, beauty,
and merit. My whole dependence is upon Mr. B. , and I have a near
view of being provided for by his favor to me. But yet I would
sooner forfeit all my hopes in him (trusting to God for the rest) than
not assist you, if possible. I never looked upon Mr. B. in the light
he now appears in. I am entirely of opinion you should, if possible,
get out of his hands, and especially as you are in very bad ones in
Mrs. Jewkes's.
We have here the widow Lady Jones; mistress of a good fortune,
and a woman of virtue, I believe. We have also Sir Simon Darn-
ford, and his lady, who is a good woman; and they have two daugh-
ters, virtuous young ladies. All the rest are but middling people,
and traders, at best. I will try, if you please, either Lady Jones or
Lady Darnford, if they'll permit you to take refuge with them. I see
no probability of keeping myself concealed in this matter, but will,
as I said, risk all things to serve you; for never saw I sweetness and
innocence like yours: your hard case has attached me entirely to
you; for I well know, as you so happily express, if I can serve you
in this case, I shall thereby perform all the acts of religion in one.
As to Lady Davers, I will convey a letter, if you please; but it
must not be from our post-house, I give you caution: for the man
owes all his bread to Mr. B. , and his place too; and I believe, from
something that dropped from him over a can of ale, has his instruc-
tions. You don't know how you are surrounded: all which confirms
me in your opinion that no honor is meant you, let what will be
professed; and I am glad you want no caution on that head.
## p. 12232 (#274) ##########################################
12232
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
Give me leave to say, that I had heard much in your praise, but
I think greatly short of what you deserve, both as to person and
mind: my eyes convince me of the one, your letter of the other.
For fear of losing the present lucky opportunity, I am longer than
otherwise I should be. But I will not enlarge any further than to
assure you that I am, to the best of my power, your faithful friend
and servant,
ARTHUR WILLIAMS.
I will come once every morning, and once every evening, after
school-time, to look for your letters. I'll come in, and return with-
out going into the house if I see the coast clear; otherwise, to avoid
suspicion, I'll come in.
I instantly, in answer to this pleasing letter, wrote as fol-
lows:-
Reverend Sir:
Oh, how suited to your function and your character is your kind
letter! God bless you for it! I now think I am beginning to be
happy. I should be very sorry to have you suffer on my account;
but I hope it will be made up to you a hundredfold by that God
whom you so faithfully serve.
Any way you think best I shall be pleased with; for I know not
the persons, nor in what manner to apply to them.
I should think, sir, if either of these ladies would give me leave,
I might get out by. favor of your key. As it is impossible, watched
as I am, to know when it can be, suppose, sir, you could get one
made by it, and put it the next opportunity under the sunflower.
If, sir, I had this key, I could, if these ladies would not shelter me,
run away anywhere: and if I was once out of the house, they could
have no pretense to force me in again; for I have done no harm,
and hope to make my story good to any impassionate body: by this
way you need not be known. Torture should not wring it from me,
I assure you.
I inclose you a letter of a deceitful wretch (for I can intrust you
with anything), poor John Arnold. Perhaps by his means something
may be discovered; for he seems willing to atone for his treach-
ery to me by the intimation of future services. I leave the hint to
you to improve upon. I am, Reverend Sir, your forever obliged and
faithful servant.
I hope, sir, by your favor, I could send a little packet now and
then to my poor father and mother. I have about five or six guin-
eas: shall I put half in your hands, to defray the charge of a man
and horse, or any other incidents?
## p. 12233 (#275) ##########################################
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
12233
I am just come off from a walk in the garden, and have
deposited my letter: we took a turn in the garden to angle, as
Mrs. Jewkes had promised me. She baited the hook, I held it,
and soon hooked a lovely carp.
"I'll try my fortune," said she, and took the rod.
"Do," answered I; "and I will plant life, if I can, while you
are destroying it. I have some horse-beans, and will go and
stick them in one of the borders, to see how long they will be
coming up; and I will call them my garden. "
So you see, dear father and mother, that this furnishes me
with a good excuse to look after my garden another time; and
if the mold should look a little fresh, it won't be so much sus-
pected: she mistrusted nothing of this; and I went and stuck
in here and there my beans, for about the length of six yards,
on each side of the sunflower, and easily deposited my letter.
And not a little proud am I of this. Sure something will do at
last.
FRIDAY, SATURDAY.
I HAVE just now told of a trick of mine; now I'll tell you a
trick of this wicked woman's.
She came up to me and said, "I have a bill I cannot change
till to-morrow, and a tradesman wants his money sadly; I don't
love to turn poor tradesmen away without their money: have
you any about you? "
"I have a little," replied I: "how much will do? "
"Oh," said she, "I want eight pounds. "
"Alack! " said I, "I have only between five and six. "
"Lend me that," said she, "till to-morrow. ”
I did so, and she went down-stairs; and when she came up,
she laughed and said, "Well, I have paid the tradesman. ”
"I hope," said I, "you'll give it me to-morrow. "
At this she laughing said, "To tell the truth, lambkin, I didn't
want it. I only feared your making bad use of it: and now I
can trust Nan with you a little oftener, especially as I have got
the key of your portmanteau; so that you can neither corrupt
her with money nor fine things. "
And now I have not five shillings left to support me, if I
can get away.
The more I think of this, the more I regret it,
and blame myself.
## p. 12234 (#276) ##########################################
12234
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
This night the postman brought a letter for Mrs. Jewkes, in
which one was inclosed for me; she brought it up to me, and
said, "Well, my good master don't forget us: he has sent you a
letter; and see what he writes to me. "
that he hoped her fair charge was well, happy,
So she read
and contented. "Aye, to be sure," said I, "I can't but choose! "
That he did not doubt her care and kindness to me; that I was
dear to him, and she could not use me too well; and the like.
"There's a master," said she: "sure you will love and pray for
him! "
I desired her to read the rest. "No," said she, "but I won't. "
"Then," said I, "are there any orders for taking my shoes away,
and for beating me? " "No," said she, "nor about Jezebel nei-
ther. " "Well," returned I, "I cry truce; for I have no mind to
be beat again. " "I thought," said she,
"I thought," said she, "we had forgiven one
another. "
My letter is as follows:-
—
My dear Pamela:
I begin to repent already that I have bound myself, by prom-
ise, not to see you till you give me leave; for I think the time very
tedious. Can you place so much confidence in me as to invite me
down? Assure yourself that your generosity shall not be thrown
away upon me. I would press this, as I am uneasy for your uneasi-
ness; for Mrs. Jewkes acquaints me that you take your restraint very
heavily, and neither eat, drink, nor rest well. I have too great an
interest in your health, not to wish to shorten the time of this trial;
which will be the consequence of my coming down to you. John too
has intimated to me your concern, with a grief that hardly gave him
leave for utterance,- a grief that a little alarmed my tenderness for
you. I will only say one thing: that if you will give me leave to
attend you at the hall (consider who it is that requests this from you
as a favor), I solemnly declare that you shall have cause to be pleased
with this obliging mark of your confidence and consideration for
me. If I find Mrs. Jewkes has not behaved to you with the respect
due to one I so tenderly love, I will put it entirely in your power to
discharge her the house, if you think proper; and Mrs. Jervis, of
who else you please, shall attend you in her place. This I say on a
hint John gave me, as if you resented something from that quarter.
Dearest Pamela, answer favorably this earnest request of one that can-
not live without you, and on whose honor to you, you may absolutely
depend; and so much the more, as you place a confidence in it. I
am, and assuredly ever will be, your faithful and affectionate, etc.
## p. 12235 (#277) ##########################################
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
12235
You will be glad, I know, to hear that your father and mother
are well, and easy upon your last letter. That gave me a pleasure
I am resolved you shall not repent. Mrs. Jewkes will convey to me
your answer.
I but slightly read this letter for the present, to give way to
one I had hopes of finding by this time from Mr. Williams.
took an evening turn, as I called it, in Mrs. Jewkes's company;
and walking by the place, I said, "Do you think, Mrs. Jewkes,
any of my beans can have struck since yesterday? "
She laughed and said, "You are a poor gardener, but I love
to see you divert yourself. " She passing on, I found my good
friend had provided for me; and slipping it in my bosom (for
her back was towards me) - "Here," said I (having a bean in
my hand), "is one of them; but it has not stirred. " "No, to be
sure," said she; and then turned upon me a most wicked jest,
unbecoming the mouth of a woman, about planting, etc. When
I came in I went to my closet, and read as follows:
I am sorry to inform you that I have had a repulse from Lady
Jones. She is concerned at your case, she says, but don't like to
make herself enemies.
I applied to Lady Darnford, and told, in the most pathetic manner,
your sad story, and showed her your more pathetic letter. I found
her well disposed: but she would advise with Sir Simon, who is
not a man of an extraordinary character for virtue; for he said to
his lady in my presence, "Why, what is all this, my dear, but that
our neighbor has a mind to his mother's waiting-maid! And if he
takes care she wants for nothing, I don't see any great injury will
be done to her. He hurts no family by this. " (So, my dear father
and mother, it seems poor people's honesty is to go for nothing. )
"And I think, Mr. Williams, you of all men should not engage in
this affair, against your friend and patron. "
I have hinted your case to Mr. Peters, the minister of this parish;
but I am concerned to say that he imputed selfish views to me, as if
I would make an interest in your affections by my zeal.
I represented the different circumstances of your affair: that other
women lived evilly by their own consent; but to serve you was to
save an innocence that had but few examples. I then showed him
your letter.
He said it was prettily written; he was sorry for you; and that
your good intentions ought to be encouraged. "But what," said he,
"would you have me do, Mr. Williams? »
## p. 12236 (#278) ##########################################
12236
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
"Why, suppose, sir," said I, "you give her shelter in your house
with your spouse and niece, till she can get to her friends? "
"What, and embroil myself with a man of Mr. B. 's power and
fortune? No! not I, I assure you. "
I am greatly concerned for you, I assure you; but am not dis-
couraged by this ill success, let what will come of it, if I can serve
you.
I don't hear as yet that Mr. B. is coming. I am glad of your hint
as to that unhappy fellow John Arnold. Something perhaps will
strike out from that, which may be useful. As to your packets,
if you seal them up and lay them in the usual place, if you find it
not suspected, I will watch an opportunity to convey them; but if
they are large, you had best be very cautious. This evil woman, I
find, mistrusts me.
I have just heard that the gentleman is dying, whose living Mr.
B. has promised me. I have almost a scruple to take it, as I am
acting so contrary to his desire; but I hope he'll one day thank me
for it.
I believe when we hear he is coming, it will be best to make use
of the key, which I shall soon procure you: I can borrow a horse for
you, to wait within half a mile of the back door, over the pasture,
and will contrive by myself, or somebody, to have you conducted
some miles distant, to one of the villages thereabouts; so don't be
discomforted, I beseech you.
I am, Mrs. Pamela, your faithful friend, etc.
I made a thousand sad reflections upon the former part of this
honest gentleman's kind letter; and but for the hopes he gave
me at last, should have given up my case as quite desperate. I
then wrote to thank him most gratefully for his kind endeavors;
and that I would wait the happy event I might hope for from
his kind assistance in the key and the horse.
I had no time to take a copy of this letter, I was so watched.
But when I had it in my bosom I was easy. And so I went to
seek out Mrs. Jewkes, and told her I would hear her advice upon
the letter I had received from my master; which point of confi-
dence in her pleased her not a little.
