There's a great budget of Richardson correspondence that shows us how the leaven of such stories worked; letters from Miss Suffern and Miss Westcomb, and Mr. Dunallan, and a dozen others, all interlaced with his own; for it does not appear that the old gentleman ever refused the challenge of a letter, or grew tired of defending and illustrating his theories of literary art and of morals, which in his view were closely joined. The stories were published by himself--volume by volume, so that his correspondents had good chance to fire upon him--on the wing as it were: "Poor Clarissa," they say; "my heart bleeds for her, and what, {65} pray, is to become of her; and why don't you reform Lovelace, and sha'n't he marry Clarissa? And I do not believe there was ever such a man as Sir Charles in the world." The old gentleman enjoys this and writes back by the ream; has his own little sentiment of a sort too, even in the correspondence. Mme. Belfour wants to see him--"the delightful man"--without herself being observed; so entreats him to walk some day in the Park (St. James') at a given hour; and Richardson complies, giving these data for his picture:-- "I go through the Park, once or twice a week to my little retirement; but I will for a week together, be in it, every day three or four hours, till you tell me you have seen a person who answers to this description, namely, short--rather plump--fair wig, lightish cloth coat, all black besides; one hand generally in his bosom, the other a cane in it, which he leans upon under the skirts of his coat ... looking directly fore-right as passers-by would imagine, but observing all that stirs on either hand of him; hardly ever turning back, of a light brown complexion, smoothish faced and ruddy cheeked--looking about sixty-five, a regular even pace, a gray eye sometimes lively--very lively if he have hope of seeing a lady whom he loves and honors." {66} Then he writes to Miss Westbrook--an adopted daughter as he calls her:-- "You rally me on my fears for your safety, and yet I know you to be near a forest where lies a great wild bear: I am accused for these fears--I am accused for playing off a sheet-full of witticisms, which you, poor girl, can't tell what to do with. Witticism! Miss W. Very well, Miss W---- But I did not expect--but no matter;--what have I done with my handkerchief--I--I--I did not really expect; but no matter, Miss W----" A man who can put tears so easily, and for so little cause, into a letter, can put them by the barrelful in his books: and so he did, and made Europe weep. Rousseau and Diderot from over in France, philosophers as they professed to be, blubbered their admiring thanks for _Clarissa Harlowe_.