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 its readers have confessed the same disappointment to me:
The beauties are so numerous, that we cannot bear the defects, but want
it to be perfect in all respects.

In the course of my observations upon this singular book, it seemed to
me that it was possible to compose a work upon the same plan, wherein
these defects might be avoided; and the keeping, as in painting, might
be preserved.

But then I began to fear it might happen to me as to certain