llow, as if already iced over by death. Her hands, white as the lily,
with her meandering veins more transparently blue than ever I had seen
even hers, hanging lifelessly, one before her, the other grasped by the
right hand of the kindly widow, whose tears bedewed the sweet face which
her motherly bosom supported, though unfelt by the fair sleeper; and
either insensibly to the good woman, or what she would not disturb her
to wipe off or to change her posture. Her aspect was sweetly calm and
serene; and though she started now and then, yet her sleep seemed easy;
her breath indeed short and quick, but tolerably free, and not like that
of a dying person.' Allowing for the queer grammar, this is surely a
touching and simple picture. The epistolary method, though it has its
dangers, lends itself well to heighten our interest. Where the object is
rather to appeal to our sympathies than to give elaborate analyses of
character, or complicated narratives of incident, it is as well to let
the persons speak for themselves. A hero cannot conveniently say, like
Sir Charles Grandison, 'See how virtuous and brave and modest I am;' nor
is it easy to make a story clear when it has to be broken up and
distributed amongst people speaking from different points of view; it is
hard to make the testimonies of the different witnesses fit into each
other neatly. But a cry of agony can come from no other quarter so
effectively as from the sufferer's own mouth. 'Clarissa Harlowe' is in
fact one long lamentation, passing gradually from a tone of indignant
complaint to one of despair, and rising at the end to Christian
resignation. So prolonged a performance in every key of human misery is
indeed painful from its monotony; and we may admit that a limited
selection from the correspondence, passing through more rapid
gradations, would be more effective. We might be spared some of the
elaborate speculations upon various phases of the affair which pass away
without any permanent effect. Richardson seems to be scarcely content
even with drawing his characters as large as life; he wishes to apply a
magnifying-glass. Yet, even in this incessant repetition there is a
certain element of power. We are forced to drain every drop in the cup,
and to appreciate every ingredient which adds bitterness to its flavour.
We are annoyed and wearied at times; but as we read we not only wonder
at the number of variations performed upon one tune, but feel that he
has succee