eristically
that he will place Richardson's works on the same shelf with those of
Moses, Homer, Euripides, and other favourite writers; he even goes so
far as to excuse Clarissa's belief in Christianity on the ground of her
youthful innocence. To continue in the paradoxical vein, we might ask
how the quiet tradesman could create the character which has stood ever
since for a type of the fine gentleman of the period; or how from the
most prosaic of centuries should spring one of the most poetical of
feminine ideals? We can hardly fancy a genuine hero with a pigtail, or a
heroine in a hoop and high-heeled shoes, nor believe that persons who
wore those articles of costume could possess any very exalted virtues.
Perhaps our grandchildren may have the same difficulty about the race
which wears crinolines and chimney-pot hats.

It is a fact, however, that our grandfathers, in spite of their belief
in pigtails, and in Pope's poetry, and other matters that have gone out
of fashion, had some very excellent qualities, and even some genuine
sentiment, in their compositions. Indeed, now that their peculiarities
have been finally packed away in various lumber-rooms, and the revolt
against the old-fashioned school of thought and manners has become
triumphant instead of militant, we are beginning to see the picturesque
side of their character. They have gathered something of the halo that
comes with the lapse of years; and social habits that looked prosaic
enough to contemporaries, and to the generation which had to fight
against them, have gained a touch of romance. Richardson's characters
wear a costume and speak a language which are indeed queer and
old-fashioned, but are now far enough removed from the present to have a
certain piquancy; and it is becoming easier to recognise the real genius
which created them, as the active aversion to the forms in which it was
necessarily clothed tends to disappear. The wigs and the high-heeled
shoes are not without a certain pleasing quaintness; and when we have
surmounted this cause of disgust, we can see more plainly what was the
real power which men of the most opposite schools in art have
recognised. Readers whose appetite for ancient fiction is insufficient
to impel them to a perusal of 'Clarissa' may yet find some amusement in
turning over the curious collection of letters published with a life by
Mrs. Barbauld in 1804. Nowhere can we find a more vivid picture of the
social stratum to whi