In the Eighteenth Century
about whom my Lord Chesterfield wrote some capital papers, when his dixonary was coming out, to patronise the fellow. I know they were capital. I've heard Harry Walpole say so, and he knows all about that kind of thing. Confound the impudent schoolmaster ! '
"' Hang him, he ought to stand in the pillory ! ' roars Jack.
" ' That fat man he's walking with is another of your writing fellows,—a printer,—his name is Richardson; he wrote Clarissa, you know.'
" • Great heavens ! my lord, is that the great Richardson ? Is that the man who wrote Clarissa ' ? called out Colonel Wolfe and Mr. Warrington, in a breath.
" Harry ran forward to look at the old gentleman toddling along the walk with a train of admiring ladies surrounding him.
" c Indeed, my very dear sir,' one was saying, 8 you are too great and good to live in such a world; but sure you were sent to teach it virtue.'
" * Ah, my Miss Mulso ! Who shall teach the teacher ? ' said the good, fat old man, raising a kind, round face skywards. ' Even he has his faults and errors! Even his age and experience does not prevent his stumbl—