None but a Man who was at that Juncture, or had been formerly, in Love cou'd, with so much Truth and Delicacy, have painted all the Motions of the Soul. Genius, Wit, and Learning cannot draw Pictures so much to the Life, it being a Point to which the Heart alone can attain. When I say the Heart, I mean a tender Heart, and one that is in such Situations. The following is the Character of a Prude in Love. Being not to be depended upon in her Proceedings, she was a perpetual Mixture of Tenderness and Severity: She seem'd to yield only to be the more obstinate in her Opposition. If she thought she had, by what she said, disposed me to entertain any sort of Hopes, being on the Watch how to disappoint me, she presently resum'd that Air which had made me so often tremble, and left me nothing to trust to but a melancholy Uncertainty. One cannot help being struck with the Truth and Nature which, prevail in this Character. Without an Acquaintance with the World, and a perfect Knowledge of Mankind, 'tis impossible to attain to this Point. 'Tis difficult to distinguish the different Forms, and, as one may say, the internal Motives of different Characters. A mean Writer does only take a Sketch of 'em; but a good Author paints them, sets them plainly in Sight, and exposes them as they really are.
A Romance is consider'd in no other Light than as a Work composed only for Amusement; but something else ought to be the Scope of it: For every Book that has not the Useful as well as the Agreeable, does not deserve the Esteem of good Judges. The Heart ought to be instructed at the same time as the Mind is amused; and this is the Quality with which the greatest Men have render'd their Writings famous.
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 Chimæras, 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.
How can an Author, whose common Vocation is staining of Paper, and spending his whole Time in a Coffee-house or in a Garret, give a just Definition of a Prince, a Courtier, or a fine Lady? He never sees those Persons but as he walks the Streets; and I can scarce think that the Mud with which he is often dash'd by their Equipages, communicates to him any Share of their Sentiments. Yet there is not a wretched Author but makes a Duke and Dutchess speak as he fancies. But when a Man of Fashion comes to cast his Eye on these ridiculous Performances, he is perfectly surpriz'd to see the Conversation of Margaret the Hawker, retail'd by the Name of the Dutchess of ——, or the Marchioness of ——. Yet be these Books ever so bad, abundance of 'em are sold; for many People, extravagantly fond of Novelty, who only judge of Things superficially, buy those Works, tho' by the Perusal of 'em they acquire a Taste as remote from a happy Talent of Writing, as the Authors themselves are.
Don't fear, dear Isaac, that I shall ever send thee a Collection of such paultry Books. Be a Man ever so fond at Constantinople of Romances and Histories of Gallantry, 'tis expected they should serve not only for Pleasure but for Edification.