very kind of composition; but that will prove nothing more than the
old saying lately revived by the philosophers the most in fashion, "that
every earthly thing has two handles."

The business of Romance is, first, to excite the attention; and
secondly, to direct it to some useful, or at least innocent, end: Happy
the writer who attains both these points, like Richardson! and not
unfortunate, or undeserving praise, he who gains only the latter, and
furnishes out an entertainment for the reader!

Having, in some degree, opened my design, I beg leave to conduct my
reader back again, till he comes within view of The Castle of Otranto;
a work which, as already has been observed, is an attempt to unite the
various merits and graces of the ancient Romance and modern Novel.
To attain this end, there is required a sufficient degree of the
marvellous, to excite the attention; enough of the manners of real life,
to give an air of probability to the work; and enough of the pathetic,
to engage the heart in its behalf.

The book we have mentioned is excellent in the two last points, but
has a redundancy in the first; the opening excites the attention
very strongly; the conduct of the story is artful and judicious; the
characters are admirably drawn and supported; the diction polished and
elegant; yet, with all these brilliant advantages, it palls upon the
mind (though it does not upon the ear); and the reason is obvious, the
machinery is so violent, that it destroys the effect it is intended to
excite. Had the story been kept within the utmost verge of probability,
the effect had been preserved, without losing the least circumstance
that excites or detains the attention.

For instance; we can conceive, and allow of, the appearance of a ghost;
we can even dispense with an enchanted sword and helmet; but then they
must keep within certain limits of credibility: A sword so large as
to require an hundred men to lift it; a helmet that by its own weight
forces a passage through a court-yard into an arched vault, big enough
for a man to go through; a picture that walks out of its frame; a
skeleton ghost in a hermit's cowl:--When your expectation is wound up
to the highest pitch, these circumstances take it down with a witness,
destroy the work of imagination, and, instead of attention, excite
laughter. I was both surprised and vexed to find the enchantment
dissolved, which I wished might continue to the end of the book; and
several of