Quite early in that century into which these royal people found their way, there lived over beyond Temple Bar, near to St. Bride's Church, in the City of London, a mild-mannered, round-faced, prim little man who was printer and bookseller--in both which callings he showed great sagacity and prudence. He was moreover very companionable, especially with bookish ladies, who often dropped in upon him--he loving to talk; and to talk much about himself, and his doings, and the characters he put in his books. For this was Samuel Richardson[7]--the very great man as many people thought him--who had written _Pamela_, _Clarissa Harlowe_, and _Sir Charles Grandison_. It is doubtful if he knew Pope or Swift or Berkeley; he was never of the "Spectator set." Pope we know read his {63} _Pamela_ and said there was as much good in it as in twenty sermons: yet I do not think he meant to compliment it--or the sermons. Neither did Bookseller Richardson know people in high position, except Hon. Mr. Onslow the Speaker, who gave him some of the public printing to do and put him in way of business by which he grew rich for these times and had a fine large house out by Hammersmith, where he kept a little court of his own in summer weather; the courtiers being worthy women, to whom he would read his books, or correspondence relating to them, by the hour. Possibly you have not read his novels; but I am sure your grandmothers or great-grandmothers have read some of them, and wept over them. He was not learned; was the son of a country carpenter, and in his early days was known for an easy letter-writing faculty he had; and he used to be set upon by sighing maidens--who were suffering under a prevalent contagious affection of young years--to write their love-letters for them; and so at last, in busy London, when his head was streaked with gray, he began to put together books of letters--written as if {64} some suffering or wishful one had whispered them all in his ear. There was no machinery, no plot, no classicism, no style--but sentiment in abundance and vast prolixity, and ever-recurring villanies, and "pillows bedew'd with tears." The particularity and fulness of his descriptions were something wonderful; every button on a coat, every ring on the fingers, every tint of a ribbon, every ruffle on a cap, every ruffle of emotion, every dimple in a cheek is pictured, and then--the "pillows bedew'd with tears."