of the interest, which, confined to three persons, is kept up throughout six volumes, without episode, romantic adventure, or anything malicious either in the persons or actions.  Diderot complimented Richardson on the prodigious variety of his portraits and the multiplicity of his persons.  In fact, Richardson has the merit of having well characterized them all; but with respect to their number, he has that in common with the most insipid writers of novels who attempt to make up for the sterility of their ideas by multiplying persons and adventures.  It is easy to awaken the attention by incessantly presenting unheard of adventures and new faces, which pass before the imagination as the figures in a magic lanthorn do before the eye; but to keep up that attention to the same objects, and without the aid of the wonderful, is certainly more difficult; and if, everything else being equal, the simplicity of the subject adds to the beauty of the work, the novels of Richardson, superior in so many other respects, cannot in this be compared to mine.  I know it is already forgotten, and the cause of its being so; but it will be taken up again.  All my fear was that, by an extreme simplicity, the narrative would be fatiguing, and that it was not sufficiently interesting to engage the attention throughout the whole.  I was relieved from this apprehension by a circumstance which alone was more flattering to my pride than all the compliments made me upon the work.

It appeared at the beginning of the carnival; a hawker carried it to the Princess of Talmont—­[It was not the princess, but some other lady, whose name I do not know.]—­on the evening of a ball night at the opera.  After supper the Princess dressed herself for the ball, and until the hour of going there, took up the new novel.  At midnight she ordered the horses to be put into the carriage, and continued to read.  The servant returned to tell her the horses were put to; she made no answer.  Her people perceiving she forgot herself, came to tell her it was two o’clock.  “There is yet no hurry,” replied the princess, still reading on.  Some time afterwards, her watch having stopped, she rang to know the hour.  She was told it was four o’clock.  “That being the case,” she said, “it is too late to go to the ball; let the horses be taken off.”  She undressed herself and passed the rest of the night in reading.

Ever since I came to the knowledge of this circumstance, I have had a constant desire to see the lady, not only to know from herself whether or not what I have related be exactly true, but because I have always thought it impossible to be interested in so lively a manner in the happiness of Julia, without having that sixth and moral sense with which so few hearts are endowed, and without which no person whatever can understand the sentiments of mine.