le dunce. And that a lady
reading to her maid, whilst she curled her hair, the seventh volume of
Clarissa, the poor girl let fall such a shower of tears that they wetted
her mistress's head so much, she had to send her out of the room to
compose herself. Upon the maid being asked the cause of her grief, she
said, "Oh, madam, to see such goodness and innocence in such distress,"
and her lady rewarded her with a crown for the answer.

January the 9th (1749-50) has arrived--the tantalizing Lady Bradshaigh,
the unknown Mrs. Belfour has been in London six weeks, and the novelist
begins "not to know what to think" of his fair correspondent's wish to
see him. "May be so," he writes,

"But with such a desire to be in town three weeks; on the 16th
December to be in sight of my dwelling, and three weeks more to
elapse, yet I neither to see or hear of the lady; it cannot be that
she has so strong a desire."

Let any one imagine the ridiculousness of the situation of "dear, good,
excellent Mr. Richardson" at this time. He had, he confesses,

"Such a desire to see one who had seen the King, that" (he speaking
of himself, says) "though prevented by indisposition from going to my
little retirement on the Saturday, that I had the pleasure of your
letter, I went into the Park on Sunday (it being a very fine day) in
hopes of seeing such a lady as you describe, contenting myself with
dining as I walked, on a sea biscuit which I had put in my pocket, my
family at home, all the time, knowing not what was become of me.--A
Quixotte!

"Last Saturday, being a fine warm day, in my way to North End, I
walked backwards and forwards in the Mall, till past your friend's
time of being there (she preparing, possibly, for the Court, being
Twelfth Night!) and I again was disappointed."

On the 28th January, nineteen days after this was written, Lady
Bradshaigh, in a letter full of satirical banter, which, however, it may
be questionable if Richardson did not receive as replete with the highest
compliments to his genius, says,

"Indeed, Sir, I resolved, if ever I came to town, to find out your
haunts, if possible, and I have not 'said anything that is not,' nor
am at all naughty in this respect, for I give you my word, endeavours
have not been wanting. You never go to public places. I knew not
where to look for you (without making myself known) except in the