les
will be bound in honour to marry Clementina, she begins to pine; 'she
visibly falls away; and her fine complexion fades;' her friends 'watch
in silent love every turn of her mild and patient eye, every change of
her charming countenance; for they know too well to what to impute the
malady which has approached the best of hearts; they know that the cure
cannot be within the art of the physician.' When Clementina fears that
the scruples of her relatives will separate her from Sir Charles, she
takes the still more decided step of going mad; and some of her madness
would be very touching, if it were not a trifle too much after the
conventional pattern of the mad women in Sheridan's 'Critic.' Whilst
these two ladies are breaking their hearts about Sir Charles they do
justice to each other's merits. Harriet will never be happy unless she
knows that the admirable Clementina has reconciled herself to the loss
of her adored; when Clementina finds herself finally separated from her
lover, she sincerely implores Sir Charles to marry her more fortunate
rival. Never was there such a display of fine feeling and utter absence
of jealousy. Meanwhile a lovely ward of Sir Charles finds it necessary
to her peace of mind to be separated from her guardian; and another
beautiful, but rather less admirable, Italian actually follows him to
England to persuade him to accept her hand. Four ladies--all of them
patterns of physical, moral, and intellectual excellence--are breaking
their hearts; and though they are so excellent that they overcome their
natural jealousy, they can scarcely look upon any other man after having
known this model of all his sex. Indeed, every woman who approaches him
falls desperately in love with him, unless she is his sister or old
enough to be his grandmother. The plot of the novel depends upon an
attraction for the fair sex which is apparently irresistible; and the
men, if they are virtuous, rejoice to sit admiringly at his feet, and if
they are vicious retire abashed from his presence, to entreat his good
advice when they are upon their deathbeds.

All this is easy enough. A novelist can make his women fall in love with
his hero as easily as, with a stroke of the pen, he can endow him with
fifty thousand a year, or bestow upon him every virtue under heaven.
Neither has he any difficulty in making him the finest dancer in
England, or giving him such marvellous skill with the small-sword that
he can avoid the sin