A Writer who, abounding with bold Fictions and Imaginations, amuses the Readers for a matter of a dozen Volumes with Incidents, work’d up artfully and importantly, and who nevertheless in the Close of his Book entertains his Reader’s Imagination with nothing but Rapes, Duels, Sighs, Despair, and Tears[14]; has not the Talent of instructing, nor can he attain to Perfection; for he possesses but the least part of his Art.  An Author who pleases without instructing, does not please long; for he sees his Book grow mouldy in the Bookseller’s Shop, and his Works have the Fate of sorry Sermons and cold Panegyric.

Heretofore Romances were nothing more than a Rhapsody of tragical Adventures, which captivated the the Imagination and distracted the Heart[15].  ’Twas pleasant enough to read them, but nothing more was got by it than feeding the Mind with Chimaeras, which were often hurtful.  The Youth greedily swallow’d all the wild and gigantic Ideas of those fabulous Heroes, and when their Genius’s were accustomed to enormous Imaginations, they had no longer a Relish for the Probable.  For some time past this manner of Thinking has been chang’d:  Good Taste is again return’d; the Reasonable has succeeded in the place of the Supernatural; and instead of a Number of Incidents with which the least Facts were overcharg’d, a plain lively Narration is required, such as is supported by Characters that give us the Utile Dulci.

Some Authors have wrote in this Taste, and have advanced more or less towards Perfection, in proportion as they have copy’d Nature[16].

There are others who carry Things to Extremity; for, by affecting to appear natural, they become low and creeping, and have neither the Talent of pleasing nor of instructing[17].

Some have had recourse to insipid Allegory[18], thinking to please by a new Taste; but their Works dy’d in their Birth, and were so little read that they escaped Criticism.

If the bad Authors were but to reflect on the Talents and Qualifications necessary for a good Romance, Works of this kind would no longer be their Refuge.  A Man who is press’d both by Hunger and Thirst, sets about writing a Book, and tho’ he has not Knowledge enough to write History, nor Genius for Works of Morality, he stains a couple of Quires of Paper with a Heap of ill-digested Adventures, which he relates without Taste, and without Genius, and carries his Work to a Bookseller, who, were he oblig’d to buy it by Weight, and to give him but twice the Cost of the Paper, wou’d pay more for it than the Worth of it.  Perhaps there is as much need for Wit, an Acquaintance with Mankind, and the Knowledge of the Passions, to compose a Romance as to write a History.  The only Qualification to paint Manners and Customs, is a long Experience; and a Man must have examin’d the various Characters very closely, to be able to describe them to a Nicety.