[…] and at the same time to Instruct”, aesthetic considerations – “to draw Characters justly” – and, most importantly, moral teaching (3). The promises of the preface are shown to be fulfilled in the (untitled) afterword, where the ‘editor’ summarises the most important lessons that the reader should take to heart: “HAVING thus brought this little History to a happy Period, the Reader will indulge us in a few brief Observations, which naturally result from it; and which will serve as so many Applications, of its most material Incidents, to the Minds of the Youth of both Sexes” (500). Similar didactic framings begin and conclude his later novels, Clarissa and Grandison. Indeed, it is a commonplace of modern criticism that Richardson’s listings fall far short of the complexity of the novels; at worst, they may be seen to detract from the merit of the ‘works themselves’. Discussions of his art have long involved assessments of the degree of consciousness he had regarding the effect of his writing. In her monograph Desire and Truth, Patricia Meyer SpacksSpacks, Patricia Meyer chooses, significantly, an assessment of Richardson’s “achievement” to illustrate “the possible contrast between novelists’ claims and readers’ perceptions” (235). She opens her afterword with a quote by Carol KayKay, Carol, summarising a familiar view of this novelist’s abilities: “The convincing account of learning morality [in Pamela] […] is a more moving, more interesting account than Richardson was ever able to summarize. The list of lessons at the end of Pamela, like so many of Richardson’s efforts to define his achievement, wretchedly betrays it” (Kay 160). In a slightly earlier article, Janet ButlerButler, Janet outlines persuasively the importance of the garden as a symbol in Clarissa, but implies that this happened without, and even against, Richardson’s intention. For her, Richardson the conscious artist “fell short” of his intention which, apparently, can be divorced from his “unerring instinct” as a storyteller (535).1 And more recently, TaylorTaylor, E. Derek has noted that “[c]ritics have become understandably wary of Richardson’s frustrating tendency in his comments on his novels to simplify his own complexity beyond recognition; Richardson at times proves a hapless Richardson scholar” (Reason and Religion 10).
On one level, such criticism is quite justified. If no-one ever read Richardson’s novels for their plot,2 surely it is even more the case (one is tempted to claim) that no-one read them for their short lists of moral observations. The complex moral dilemmas faced by the main characters put into sharp relief the reductive quality of the rules that the ‘editor’ distils from them, as Richardson’s debates with his readers demonstrate. Nevertheless, Richardson eventually published an entire volume of such observations, A Collection of the Moral and Instructive Sentiments, Maxims, Cautions, and Reflexions, Contained in the Histories of Pamela, Clarissa, and Sir Charles Grandison (EavesEaves, T.C. Duncan and Ben D. Kimpel & Kimpel 420), and it is unlikely that he did so without encouragement.3 Moreover, these teachings form an integral part, not only of Richardson’s professed aims as “a properly didactic, propagandist writer” who speaks up for his beliefs (EagletonEagleton, Terry 24), but also of his novels’ power and aesthetics. KeymerKeymer, Tom has suggested that, at least in Clarissa, Richardson attempted to educate his readers’ understanding precisely by setting before them moral dilemmas which cannot be reduced to simple rules. By “mak[ing] reading not simple but problematic”, he ensures “that the reader’s activity in addressing the resulting difficulties will itself be a source of instruction” (Richardson’s Clarissa 68). As readers try to make sense of the different characters’ versions of events, they learn something about themselves, life, and morality. The text, then, is complex because of, not despite, its didactic purpose. The lists at the end of Richardson’s novels may, thus, be a less exciting – and less useful – means of instruction than that used within the narratives themselves, but they belong, nonetheless, to the same continuum of intention and method.
To apply general rules to specific cases, or to deduce moral imperatives from behaviour instinctively recognized as good and attractive, is an important part of the novels’ action, and a challenge put to characters and readers alike. The clearest example of the process occurs in Pamela, after Mr. B. has explained to the heroine the peculiarities of his temper (when he is angry, he must be left to himself) as well as given her instructions for her behaviour as a wife (she must show proper submission to his will). Pamela first relates the conversation word by word. In a next step, she summarises it: “Let me see: What are the Rules I am to observe from this awful Lecture?” (448; ‘awful’ generally signifies ‘awe-inspiring’ rather than ‘terrible’, although the modern reader may be inclined to read this differently). The “lecture” boils down to 48 rules, upon some of which Pamela comments. Frequently, her commentary draws attention to Mr. B.’s authoritarian stance, and sometimes to his intention of being a good husband nevertheless; occasionally, her remarks highlight the similarity of his rules to those set out in conduct books: his thought that bad wives encourage seducers “is a fine Lesson” (450).
Frequently, the heroines need to adjust their behaviour in ‘critical’ cases where the best course of action is far from obvious. Thus, Clarissa ponders the question whether she is justified in continuing her correspondence with Anna Howe against Mrs. Howe’s prohibition; her eventual decision to do so is endorsed by Anna’s reliable if unexciting suitor Mr. Hickman, “who pretends to a little casuistry in such nice matters” (548). When Harriet Byron, heroine of Grandison, hears of the Grandison sisters’ similar dilemma (cf. introduction), her response includes not only sympathy, but moral judgment. While acknowledging the complexity of the situation, she attempts to reduce it to a simpler rule: that sisters should “be more nice, more delicate” in their behaviour than brothers (1:322; Sir Charles, obeying his father, does not write back). All of Richardson’s important characters, including the villain Lovelace, regularly compare specific occurrences to general rules or canonical writings, so that their letters provide a commentary on various aspects of (moral) life. Indeed, as Leah PricePrice, Leah has noted, Richardson’s heroines are “anthologist[s]”, most notably Clarissa, who “keeps a commonplace book like Pamela, compiles religious extracts like Clementina, and excerpts letters like Harriet” (13, 14). In each case, the selection and condensation of materials does not deny the complexity of the source or the ability of the heroine to understand it. Instead, it shows that the women are good readers, and able to draw the “inferences” that Richardson wished from his readers. The interrelationship between the general and the specific is perhaps best exemplified in the early part of Clarissa. The heroine, “having the strictest notions of filial duty” (37), agrees with virtually every other character on the basic definition of a daughter’s duty to her parents. What is at issue in the conflict about her marriage are the application of such rules and the relative weight of varying duties. What makes the beginning of the novel claustrophobic – and, possibly, harder to bear than Clarissa’s later ordeal at the hands of Lovelace – is the apparently indissoluble conflict between theoretical and practical duty.
Richardson’s nuanced fictional treatment of moral dilemmas is innovative. However, the moral system underlying it, which I here call the ‘system of duty’, is not.4 I will here discuss in some detail two works professedly dealing with the individual’s duties as a Christian: The Whole Duty of Man, anonymously published in 1658 and attributed to Richard AllestreeAllestree, Richard, and Fifteen Sermons Upon Social Duties by Patrick DelanyDelany, Patrick, correspondent of Richardson, Church of Ireland Dean, published in 1744. Delany’s sermons lend themselves to such comparison by temporal proximity to Richardson’s writings as well as by the fact that Richardson printed several of his works – including, according to John CarrollCarroll, John, the Fifteen Sermons (Richardson, Selected Letters 23). “[B]y 1739 […], Delany was assuring [Richardson] of his life-long friendship” (EavesEaves, T.C. Duncan and Ben D. Kimpel & Kimpel 173). The Whole Duty of Man, on the other hand, was a “ubiquitous conduct manual” which remained popular throughout the 18th century (KeymerKeymer, Tom, Richardson’s Clarissa 26).5 Richardson refers to it with approval in Pamela (see below). Hester MulsoMulso, Hester, correspondent of Richardson also testifies to its importance, albeit in a different way, namely by indignantly rejecting it as a guide to social duties.6 In fact, both these writers, especially Allestree, occupied conservative positions. Allestree, a royalist, published his best-known work shortly before the Restoration