himself. I sympathize entirely with your estimate of its dulness; yet,
dull as it is, it is worth wading through to understand the kind of
literature which could flutter the dove-cotes of the last century in a
generation earlier than the one that was moved to tears by the wearisome
dramas of Hannah More.

There is only one character in the whole of "Sir Charles Grandison" where
Richardson is in the least like himself--in the least like the Richardson
of "Pamela" and "Clarissa." This character is Miss Charlotte Grandison,
the sister of Sir Charles, and later (after many vicissitudes) the wife
of Lord G. Miss Grandison's conduct falls infinitely beneath the high
standard attained to by the rest of Sir Charles's chosen friends. She is
petulant and loves to tease; is uncertain of what she wants; she is
lively and sarcastic, and, worse than all, abandons the rounded periods
of her brother and Miss Byron for free, not to say slang, expressions.
"Hang ceremony!" she often exclaims, with much reason, while "What a
deuce!" is her favourite expletive.

The conscientious reader heaves a sigh of relief when this young lady and
her many indiscretions appear on the scene; when Miss Grandison, like
Nature, "takes the pen from Richardson and writes for him." But I gather
that you, my dear Miss Somerville, never got far enough to make her
acquaintance, and therefore are still ignorant of the singular qualities
of her brother, Sir Charles--Richardson's idea of a perfect man, for both
brother and sister are introduced at almost the same moment.

Now it is nearly as difficult to realize that Sir Charles is a young man
of twenty-six, as it is to feel that his antithesis, the adorable Pepys
of the "Diary," was of that precise age. Sir Charles might be borne with
good-naturedly for a short time as an old gentleman who had become