The machinery upon which the discourse is suspended, is of the slightest and most inartificial texture, bearing every mark of haste, and possessing not the slightest claim to merit.  Events there are none; and scarcely a character of any interest.  The book is intended to convey religious advice; and no more labour appears to have been bestowed upon the story, than was merely sufficient to throw it out of the dry, didactic form.  Lucilla is totally uninteresting; so is Mr. Stanley; Dr. Barlow still worse; and Caelebs a mere clod or dolt.  Sir John and Lady Belfield are rather more interesting—­and for a very obvious reason, they have some faults;—­they put us in mind of men and women;—­they seem to belong to one common nature with ourselves.  As we read, we seem to think we might act as such people act, and therefore we attend; whereas imitation is hopeless in the more perfect characters which Mrs. Moore has set before us; and therefore, they inspire us with very little interest.

There are books however of all kinds; and those may not be unwisely planned which set before us very pure models.  They are less probable, and therefore less amusing than ordinary stories; but they are more amusing than plain, unfabled precept.  Sir Charles Grandison is less agreeable than Tom Jones; but it is more agreeable than Sherlock and Tillotson; and teaches religion and morality to many who would not seek it in the productions of these professional writers.

But, making every allowance for the difficulty of the task which Mrs. Moore has prescribed to herself, the book abounds with marks of negligence and want of skill; with representations of life and manners which are either false or trite.

Temples to friendship and virtue must be totally laid aside, for many years to come, in novels.  Mr. Lane, of the Minerva Press, has given them up long since; and we were quite surprised to find such a writer as Mrs. Moore busied in moral brick and mortar.  Such an idea, at first, was merely juvenile; the second time a little nauseous; but the ten thousandth time, it is quite intolerable.  Caelebs, upon his first arrival in London, dines out,—­meets with a bad dinner,—­supposes the cause of that bad dinner to be the erudition of the ladies of the house,—­talks to them upon learned subjects, and finds them as dull and ignorant as if they had piqued themselves upon all the mysteries of housewifery.  We humbly submit to Mrs. Moore, that this is not humorous, but strained and unnatural.  Philippics against frugivorous children after dinner, are too common.  Lady Melbury has been introduced into every novel for these four years last past.  Peace to her ashes!...