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by Samuel Johnson

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Title: The Works of Samuel Johnson in Nine Volumes
       Volume V: Miscellaneous Pieces

Author: Samuel Johnson

Release Date: April 3, 2004 [EBook #11768]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON V. 5 ***




Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Carol David and PG Distributed Proofreaders




Oxford English Classics

       *       *       *       *       *

DR. JOHNSON'S WORKS.

       *       *       *       *       *

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.


THE WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.

IN NINE VOLUMES.

VOLUME THE FIFTH.


MDCCCXXV.




CONTENTS OF THE FIFTH VOLUME.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

The plan of an English dictionary

Preface to the English dictionary

Advertisement to the fourth edition of the English dictionary

Preface to the octavo edition of the English dictionary

Observations on the tragedy of Macbeth

Proposals for printing the works of Shakespeare

Preface to Shakespeare

General observations on the plays of Shakespeare

Account of the Harleian library

Essay on the importance of small tracts

Preface to the catalogue of the Harleian library, vol. iii

Controversy between Crousaz and Warburton

Preliminary discourse to the London Chronicle

Introduction to the World Displayed

Preface to the Preceptor, containing a general plan of education

----to Rolt's dictionary

----to the translation of father Lobo's voyage to Abyssinia

An essay on epitaphs

Preface to an Essay on Milton's Use and Imitation of the Moderns in his
Paradise Lost

Letter to the Rev. Mr. Douglas, occasioned by his vindication of Milton,
&c. By William Lauder, A.M.

Testimonies concerning Mr. Lauder

Account of an attempt to ascertain the longitude

Considerations on the plans offered for the construction of Blackfriars
bridge

Some thoughts on agriculture, both ancient and modern; with an account
of the honour due to an English farmer

Further thoughts on agriculture

Considerations on the corn laws

A complete vindication of the licensers of the stage from the malicious
and scandalous aspersions of Mr. Brooke

Preface to the Gentleman's Magazine, 1738

An appeal to the publick. From the Gentleman's Magazine, March, 1739

Letter on fire-works

Proposals for printing, by subscription, Essays in Verse and Prose, by
Anna Williams

A project for the employment of authors

Preface to the Literary Magazine, 1756

A dissertation upon the Greek comedy, translated from Brumoy

General conclusion to Brumoy's Greek theatre

DEDICATIONS

Preface to Payne's New Tables of Interest

Thoughts on the coronation of his majesty king George the third

Preface to the Artists' Catalogue for 1762

OPINIONS ON QUESTIONS OF LAW

Considerations on the case of Dr. T[rapp]'s [Transcriber's note: sic]

On school chastisement

On vitious intromission

On lay patronage in the church of Scotland

On pulpit censure




THE PLAN
OF AN
ENGLISH DICTIONARY.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
PHILIP DORMER, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD,
One of his Majesty's principal Secretaries of State.


MY LORD,

When first I undertook to write an English Dictionary, I had no
expectation of any higher patronage than that of the proprietors of the
copy, nor prospect of any other advantage than the price of my labour. I
knew that the work in which I engaged is generally considered as
drudgery for the blind, as the proper toil of artless industry; a task
that requires neither the light of learning, nor the activity of genius,
but maybe successfully performed without any higher quality than that of
bearing burdens with dull patience, and beating the track of the
alphabet with sluggish resolution.

Whether this opinion, so long transmitted, and so widely propagated, had
its beginning from truth and nature, or from accident and prejudice;
whether it be decreed by the authority of reason or the tyranny of
ignorance, that, of all the candidates for literary praise, the unhappy
lexicographer holds the lowest place, neither vanity nor interest
incited me to inquire. It appeared that the province allotted me was, of
all the regions of learning, generally confessed to be the least
delightful, that it was believed to produce neither fruits nor flowers;
and that, after a long and laborious cultivation, not even the barren
laurel[1] had been found upon it.

Yet on this province, my Lord, I entered, with the pleasing hope, that,
as it was low, it likewise would be safe. I was drawn forward with the
prospect of employment, which, though not splendid, would be useful; and
which, though it could not make my life envied, would keep it innocent;
which would awaken no passion, engage me in no contention, nor throw in
my way any temptation to disturb the quiet of others by censure, or my
own by flattery.

I had read, indeed, of times, in which princes and statesmen thought it
part of their honour to promote the improvement of their native tongues;
and in which dictionaries were written under the protection of
greatness. To the patrons of such undertakings I willingly paid the
homage of believing that they, who were thus solicitous for the
perpetuity of their language, had reason to expect that their actions
would be celebrated by posterity, and that the eloquence which they
promoted would be employed in their praise. But I considered such acts
of beneficence as prodigies, recorded rather to raise wonder than
expectation; and, content with the terms that I had stipulated, had not
suffered my imagination to flatter me with any other encouragement, when
I found that my design had been thought by your Lordship of importance
sufficient to attract your favour.

How far this unexpected distinction can be rated among the happy
incidents of life, I am not yet able to determine. Its first effect has
been to make me anxious, lest it should fix the attention of the publick
too much upon me; and, as it once happened to an epick poet of France,
by raising the reputation of the attempt, obstruct the reception of the
work. I imagine what the world will expect from a scheme, prosecuted
under your Lordship's influence; and I know that expectation, when her
wings are once expanded, easily reaches heights which performance never
will attain; and when she has mounted the summit of perfection, derides
her follower, who dies in the pursuit.

Not, therefore, to raise expectation, but to repress it, I here lay
before your Lordship the plan of my undertaking, that more may not be
demanded than I intend; and that, before it is too far advanced to be
thrown into a new method, I may be advertised of its defects or
superfluities. Such informations I may justly hope, from the emulation
with which those, who desire the praise of elegance or discernment, must
contend in the promotion of a design that you, my Lord, have not thought
unworthy to share your attention with treaties and with wars.

In the first attempt to methodise my ideas I found a difficulty, which
extended itself to the whole work. It was not easy to determine by what
rule of distinction the words of this dictionary were to be chosen. The
chief intent of it is to preserve the purity, and ascertain the meaning
of our English idiom; and this seems to require nothing more than that
our language be considered, so far as it is our own; that the words and
phrases used in the general intercourse of life, or found in the works
of those whom we commonly style polite writers, be selected, without
including the terms of particular professions; since, with the arts to
which they relate, they are generally derived from other nations, and
are very often the same in all the languages of this part of the world.
This is, perhaps, the exact and pure idea of a grammatical dictionary;
but in lexicography, as in other arts, naked science is too delicate for
the purposes of life. The value of a work must be estimated by its use;
it is not enough that a dictionary delights the critick, unless, at the
same time, it instructs the learner; as it is to little purpose that an
engine amuses the philosopher by the subtilty of its mechanism, if it
requires so much knowledge in its application as to be of no advantage
to the common workman.

The title which I prefix to my work has long conveyed a very
miscellaneous idea, and they that take a dictionary into their hands,
have been accustomed to expect from it a solution of almost every
difficulty. If foreign words, therefore, were rejected, it could be
little regarded, except by criticks, or those who aspire to criticism;
and however it might enlighten those that write, would be all darkness
to them that only read. The unlearned much oftener consult their
dictionaries for the meaning of words, than for their structures or
formations; and the words that most want explanation are generally terms
of art; which, therefore, experience has taught my predecessors to
spread with a kind of pompous luxuriance over their productions.

The academicians of France, indeed, rejected terms of science in their
first essay, but found afterwards a necessity of relaxing the rigour of
their determination; and, though they would not naturalize them at once
by a single act, permitted them by degrees to settle themselves among
the natives, with little opposition; and it would surely be no proof of
judgment to imitate them in an errour which they have now retracted, and
deprive the book of its chief use, by scrupulous distinctions.

Of such words, however, all are not equally to be considered as parts of
our language; for some of them are naturalized and incorporated; but
others still continue aliens, and are rather auxiliaries than subjects.
This naturalization is produced either by an admission into common
speech, in some metaphorical signification, which is the acquisition of
a kind of property among us; as we say, the _zenith_ of advancement, the
_meridian_ of life, the _cynosure_[2] of neighbouring eyes; or it is the
consequence of long intermixture and frequent use, by which the ear is
accustomed to the sound of words, till their original is forgotten, as
in _equator, satellites_; or of the change of a foreign to an
English termination, and a conformity to the laws of the speech into
which they are adopted; as in _category, cachexy, peripneumony_.

Of those which still continue in the state of aliens, and have made no
approaches towards assimilation, some seem necessary to be retained,
because the purchasers of the Dictionary will expect to find them. Such
are many words in the common law, as _capias, habeas corpus,
praemunire, nisi prius_: such are some terms of controversial
divinity, as _hypostasis_; and of physick, as the names of
diseases; and, in general, all terms which can be found in books not
written professedly upon particular arts, or can be supposed necessary
to those who do not regularly study them. Thus, when a reader not
skilled in physick happens in Milton upon this line,

               --pining atrophy,
  Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence,

he will, with equal expectation, look into his dictionary for the word
_marasmus_, as for _atrophy_, or  _pestilence_; and will
have reason to complain if he does not find it.

It seems necessary to the completion of a dictionary, designed not
merely for criticks, but for popular use, that it should comprise, in
some degree, the peculiar words of every profession; that the terms of
war and navigation should be inserted, so far as they can be required by
readers of travels, and of history; and those of law, merchandise, and
mechanical trades, so far as they can be supposed useful in the
occurrences of common life.

But there ought, however, to be some distinction made between the
different classes of words; and, therefore, it will be proper to print
those which are incorporated into the language in the usual character,
and those which are still to be considered as foreign, in the Italick
letter.

Another question may arise with regard to appellatives, or the names of
species. It seems of no great use to set down the words _horse, dog,
cat, willow, alder, daisy, rose_, and a thousand others, of which it
will be hard to give an explanation, not more obscure than the word
itself. Yet it is to be considered, that, if the names of animals be
inserted, we must admit those which are more known, as well as those
with which we are, by accident, less acquainted;  and if they are all
rejected, how will the reader be relieved from difficulties produced by
allusions to the crocodile, the chameleon, the ichneumon, and the
hyaena? If no plants are to be mentioned, the most pleasing part of
nature will be excluded, and many beautiful epithets be unexplained. If
only those which are less known are to be mentioned, who shall fix the
limits of the reader's learning? The importance of such explications
appears from the mistakes which the want of them has occasioned: had
Shakespeare had a dictionary of this kind, he had not made the
_woodbine_ entwine the _honeysuckle_; nor would Milton, with
such assistance, have disposed so improperly of his _ellops_ and
his _scorpion_.

Besides, as such words, like others, require that their accents should
be settled, their sounds ascertained, and their etymologies deduced,
they cannot be properly omitted in the Dictionary. And though the
explanations of some may be censured as trivial, because they are almost
universally understood, and those of others as unnecessary, because they
will seldom occur, yet it seems not proper to omit them; since it is
rather to be wished that many readers should find more than they expect,
than that one should miss what he might hope to find.

When all the words are selected and arranged, the first part of the work
to be considered is the orthography, which was long vague and uncertain;
which at last, when its fluctuation ceased, was in many cases settled
but by accident; and in which, according to your Lordship's observation,
there is still great uncertainty among the best criticks; nor is it easy
to state a rule by which we may decide between custom and reason, or
between the equiponderant authorities of writers alike eminent for
judgment and accuracy.

The great orthographical contest has long subsisted between etymology
and pronunciation. It has been demanded, on one hand, that men should
write as they speak; but, as it has been shown that this conformity
never was attained in any language, and that it is not more easy to
persuade men to agree exactly in speaking than in writing, it may be
asked, with equal propriety, why men do not rather speak as they write.
In France, where this controversy was at its greatest height, neither
party, however ardent, durst adhere steadily to their own rule; the
etymologist was often forced to spell with the people; and the advocate
for the authority of pronunciation found it sometimes deviating so
capriciously from the received use of writing, that he was constrained
to comply with the rule of his adversaries, lest he should lose the end
by the means, and be left alone by following the crowd.

When a question of orthography is dubious, that practice has, in my
opinion, a claim to preference which preserves the greatest number of
radical letters, or seems most to comply with the general custom of our
language. But the chief rule which I propose to follow is, to make no
innovation without a reason sufficient to balance the inconvenience of
change; and such reasons I do not expect often to find. All change is of
itself an evil, which ought not to be hazarded but for evident
advantage; and as inconstancy is in every case a mark of weakness, it
will add nothing to the reputation of our tongue. There are, indeed,
some who despise the inconveniencies of confusion, who seem to take
pleasure in departing from custom, and to think alteration desirable for
its own sake; and the reformation of our orthography, which these
writers have attempted, should not pass without its due honours, but
that I suppose they hold singularity its own reward, or may dread the
fascination of lavish praise.

The present usage of spelling, where the present usage can be
distinguished, will, therefore, in this work, be generally followed; yet
there will be often occasion to observe, that it is in itself
inaccurate, and tolerated rather than chosen; particularly when, by the
change of one letter or more, the meaning of a word is obscured, as in
_farrier_ for _ferrier_, as it was formerly written, from
_ferrum_, or  _fer_; in _gibberish_ for _gebrish_, the jargon of Geber,
and his chymical followers, understood by none but their own tribe. It
will be likewise sometimes proper to trace back the orthography of
different ages, and show by what gradations the word departed from its
original.

Closely connected with orthography is pronunciation, the stability of
which is of great importance to the duration of a language, because the
first change will naturally begin by corruptions in the living speech.
The want of certain rules for the pronunciation of former ages, has made
us wholly ignorant of the metrical art of our ancient poets; and since
those who study their sentiments regret the loss of their numbers, it is
surely time to provide that the harmony of the moderns may be more
permanent.

A new pronunciation will make almost a new speech; and, therefore, since
one great end of this undertaking is to fix the English language, care
will be taken to determine the accentuation of all polysyllables by
proper authorities, as it is one of those capricious phaenomena which
cannot be easily reduced to rules. Thus there is no antecedent reason
for difference of accent in the two words _dolorous_ and
_sonorous_; yet of the one Milton gives the sound in this line,

  He pass'd o'er many a region _dolorous_;

and that of the other in this,

  _Sonorous_ metal blowing martial sounds.

It may be likewise proper to remark metrical licenses, such as
contractions, _generous, gen'rous; reverend, rev'rend_; and
coalitions, as _region, question_.

But still it is more necessary to fix the pronunciation of
monosyllables, by placing with them words of correspondent sound, that
one may guard the other against the danger of that variation, which, to
some of the most common, has already happened; so that the words
_wound_ and _wind_, as they are now frequently pronounced,
will not rhyme to _sound_ and _mind_. It is to be remarked,
that many words written alike are differently pronounced, as
_flow_, and _brow_: which may be thus registered, _flow,
woe; brow, now_; or of which the exemplification may be generally
given by a distich: thus the words _tear_, or lacerate and
_tear_, the water of the eye, have the same letters, but may be
distinguished thus, _tear, dare; tear, peer_.

Some words have two sounds, which may be equally admitted, as being
equally defensible by authority. Thus _great_ is differently used:

  For Swift and him despised the farce of state,
  The sober follies of the wise and _great_.      POPE.

  As if misfortune made the throne her seat,
  And none could be unhappy but the _great_.      ROWE.

The care of such minute particulars may be censured as trifling; but
these particulars have not been thought unworthy of attention in more
polished languages.

The accuracy of the French, in stating the sounds of their letters, is
well known; and, among the Italians, Crescembeni has not thought it
unnecessary to inform his countrymen of the words which, in compliance
with different rhymes, are allowed to be differently spelt, and of which
the number is now so fixed, that no modern poet is suffered to increase
it.

When the orthography and pronunciation are adjusted, the etymology or
derivation is next to be considered, and the words are to be
distinguished according to the different classes, whether simple, as
_day, light_, or compound, as _day-light_; whether primitive,
as, to _act_, or derivative, as _action, actionable; active,
activity_. This will much facilitate the attainment of our language,
which now stands in our dictionaries a confused heap of words without
dependence, and without relation.

When this part of the work is performed, it will be necessary to inquire
how our primitives are to be deduced from foreign languages, which may
be often very successfully performed by the assistance of our own
etymologists. This search will give occasion to many curious
disquisitions, and sometimes, perhaps, to conjectures, which to readers
unacquainted with this kind of study, cannot but appear improbable and
capricious. But it may be reasonably imagined, that what is so much in
the power of men as language, will very often be capriciously conducted.
Nor are these disquisitions and conjectures to be considered altogether
as wanton sports of wit, or vain shows of learning; our language is well
known not to be primitive or self-originated, but to have adopted words
of every generation, and, either for the supply of its necessities, or
the increase of its copiousness, to have received additions from very
distant regions; so that in search of the progenitors of our speech, we
may wander from the tropick to the frozen zone, and find some in the
valleys of Palestine, and some upon the rocks of Norway.

Beside the derivation of particular words, there is likewise an
etymology of phrases. Expressions are often taken from other languages;
some apparently, as to _run a risk, courir un risque_; and some even
when we do not seem to borrow their words; thus, to _bring about_, or
accomplish, appears an English phrase, but in reality our native word
_about_ has no such import, and is only a French expression, of which we
have an example in the common phrase _venir ą bout d'une affaire_.

In exhibiting the descent of our language, our etymologists seem to have
been too lavish of their learning, having traced almost every word
through various tongues, only to show what was shown sufficiently by the
first derivation. This practice is of great use in synoptical lexicons,
where mutilated and doubtful languages are explained by their affinity
to others more certain and extensive, but is generally superfluous in
English etymologies. When the word is easily deduced from a Saxon
original, I shall not often inquire further, since we know not the
parent of the Saxon dialect; but when it is borrowed from the French, I
shall show whence the French is apparently derived. Where a Saxon root
cannot be found, the defect may be supplied from kindred languages,
which will be generally furnished with much liberality by the writers of
our glossaries; writers who deserve often the highest praise, both of
judgment and industry, and may expect at least to be mentioned with
honour by me, whom they have freed from the greatest part of a very
laborious work, and on whom they have imposed, at worst, only the easy
task of rejecting superfluities.

By tracing in this manner every word to its original, and not admitting,
but with great caution, any of which no original can be found, we shall
secure our language from being overrun with _cant_, from being crowded
with low terms, the spawn of folly or affectation, which arise from no
just principles of speech, and of which, therefore, no legitimate
derivation can be shown.

When the etymology is thus adjusted, the analogy of our language is next
to be considered; when we have discovered whence our words are derived,
we are to examine by what rules they are governed, and how they are
inflected through their various terminations. The terminations of the
English are few, but those few have hitherto remained unregarded by the
writers of our dictionaries. Our substantives are declined only by the
plural termination, our adjectives admit no variation but in the degrees
of comparison, and our verbs are conjugated by auxiliary words, and are
only changed in the preter tense.

To our language may be, with great justness, applied the observation of
Quintilian, that speech was not formed by an analogy sent from heaven.
It did not descend to us in a state of uniformity and perfection, but
was produced by necessity, and enlarged by accident, and is, therefore,
composed of dissimilar parts, thrown together by negligence, by
affectation, by learning or by ignorance.

Our inflections, therefore, are by no means constant, but admit of
numberless irregularities, which in this Dictionary will be diligently
noted. Thus _fox_ makes in the plural _foxes_, but _ox_ makes _oxen_.
_Sheep_ is the same in both numbers. Adjectives are sometimes compared
by changing the last syllable, as _proud, prouder, proudest_; and
sometimes by particles prefixed, as _ambitious, more_ ambitious, _most_
ambitious. The forms of our verbs are subject to great variety; some end
their preter tense in _ed_, as I _love_, I _loved_, I have _loved_;
which may be called the regular form, and is followed by most of our
verbs of southern original. But many depart from this rule, without
agreeing in any other, as I _shake_, I _shook_, I have _shaken_ or
_shook_, as it is sometimes written in poetry; I _make_, I _made_, I
have _made_; I _bring_, I _brought_; I _wring_, I _wrung_; and many
others, which, as they cannot be reduced to rules, must be learned from
the dictionary rather than the grammar.

The verbs are likewise to be distinguished according to their qualities,
as actives from neuters; the neglect of which has already introduced
some barbarities in our conversation, which, if not obviated by just
animadversions, may in time creep into our writings.

Thus, my Lord, will our language be laid down, distinct in its minutest
subdivisions, and resolved into its elemental principles. And who upon
this survey can forbear to wish, that these fundamental atoms of our
speech might obtain the firmness and immutability of the primogenial and
constituent particles of matter, that they might retain their substance
while they alter their appearance, and be varied and compounded, yet not
destroyed?

But this is a privilege which words are scarcely to expect: for, like
their author, when they are not gaining strength, they are generally
losing it. Though art may sometimes prolong their duration, it will
rarely give them perpetuity; and their changes will be almost always
informing us, that language is the work of man, of a being from whom
permanence and stability cannot be derived.

Words having been hitherto considered as separate and unconnected, are
now to be likewise examined as they are ranged in their various
relations to others by the rules of syntax or construction, to which I
do not know that any regard has been yet shown in English dictionaries,
and in which the grammarians can give little assistance. The syntax of
this language is too inconstant to be reduced to rules, and can be only
learned by the distinct consideration of particular words as they are
used by the best authors. Thus, we say, according to the present modes
of speech, The soldier died _of_ his wounds, and the sailor perished
_with_ hunger; and every man acquainted with our language would be
offended with a change of these particles, which yet seem originally
assigned by chance, there being no reason to be drawn from grammar why a
man may not, with equal propriety, be said to die _with_ a wound or
perish _of_ hunger.

Our syntax, therefore, is not to be taught by general rules, but by
special precedents; and in examining whether Addison has been with
justice accused of a solecism in this passage,

  The poor inhabitant--
  Starves in the midst of nature's bounty curst,
  And in the loaden vineyard _dies for thirst_--.

it is not in our power to have recourse to any established laws of
speech; but we must remark how the writers of former ages have used the
same word, and consider whether he can be acquitted of impropriety, upon
the testimony of Davies, given in his favour by a similar passage:

  She loaths the wat'ry glass wherein she gaz'd,
  And shuns it still, although for thirst she dye.

When the construction of a word is explained, it is necessary to pursue
it through its train of phraseology, through those forms where it is
used in a manner peculiar to our language, or in senses not to be
comprised in the general explanations; as from the verb _make_ arise
these phrases, to _make love_, to _make an end_, to _make way_; as, he
_made way_ for his followers, the ship _made way_ before the wind; to
_make a bed_, to _make merry_, to _make a mock_, to _make presents_, to
_make a doubt_, to _make out an assertion_, to _make good_ a breach, to
_make good_ a cause, to _make nothing_ of an attempt, to _make
lamentation_, to _make a merit_, and many others which will occur in
reading with that view, and which only their frequency hinders from
being generally remarked.

The great labour is yet to come, the labour of interpreting these words
and phrases with brevity, fulness, and perspicuity; a task of which the
extent and intricacy is sufficiently shown by the miscarriage of those
who have generally attempted it. This difficulty is increased by the
necessity of explaining the words in the same language; for there is
often only one word for one idea; and though it be easy to translate the
words _bright, sweet, salt, bitter_, into another language, it is not
easy to explain them.

With regard to the interpretation, many other questions have required
consideration. It was some time doubted whether it be necessary to
explain the things implied by particular words; as under the term
_baronet_, whether, instead of this explanation, _a title of honour next
in degree to that of baron_, it would be better to mention more
particularly the creation, privileges, and rank of baronets; and
whether, under the word _barometer_, instead of being satisfied with
observing that it is _an instrument to discover the weight of the air_,
it would be fit to spend a few lines upon its invention, construction,
and principles. It is not to be expected, that with the explanation of
the one the herald should be satisfied, or the philosopher with that of
the other; but since it will be required by common readers, that the
explications should be sufficient for common use; and since, without
some attention to such demands, the Dictionary cannot become generally
valuable, I have determined to consult the best writers for explanations
real as well as verbal; and, perhaps, I may at last have reason to say,
after one of the augmenters of Furetier, that my book is more learned
than its author.

In explaining the general and popular language, it seems necessary to
sort the several senses of each word, and to exhibit first its natural
and primitive signification; as,

To _arrive_, to reach the shore in a voyage: he _arrived_ at a safe
harbour.

Then to give its consequential meaning, to _arrive_, to reach any place,
whether by land or sea; as, he _arrived_ at his country-seat.

Then its metaphorical sense, to obtain any thing desired; as, he
_arrived_ at a peerage.

Then to mention any observation that arises from the comparison of one
meaning with another; as, it may be remarked of the word _arrive_, that,
in consequence of its original and etymological sense, it cannot be
properly applied but to words signifying something desirable; thus we
say, a man _arrived_ at happiness; but cannot say, without a mixture of
irony, he _arrived_ at misery.

_Ground_, the earth, generally as opposed to the air or water. He swam
till he reached _ground_. The bird fell to the _ground_.

Then follows the accidental or consequential signification in which
_ground_ implies any thing that lies under another; as, he laid colours
upon a rough _ground_. The silk had blue flowers on a red _ground_.

Then the remoter or metaphorical signification; as, the _ground_ of his
opinion was a false computation. The _ground_ of his work was his
father's manuscript.

After having gone through the natural and figurative senses, it will be
proper to subjoin the poetical sense of each word, where it differs from
that which is in common use; as _wanton_, applied to any thing of which
the motion is irregular without terrour; as,

  In _wanton_ ringlets curl'd her hair.

To the poetical sense may succeed the familiar; as of _toast_, used to
imply the person whose health is drunk; as,

  The wise man's passion, and the vain man's _toast_.    POPE.

The familiar may be followed by the burlesque; as of _mellow_, applied
to good fellowship:

  In all thy humours, whether grave or _mellow_.     ADDISON.

Or of _bite_, used for _cheat_:

 --More a dupe than wit,
  Sappho can tell you how this man was _bit_.     POPE.

And, lastly, may be produced the peculiar sense, in which a word is
found in any great author: as _faculties_, in Shakespeare, signifies the
powers of authority:

 --This Duncan
  Has borne his _faculties_ so meek, has been
  So clear in his great office, that, &c.

The signification of adjectives may be often ascertained by uniting them
to substantives; as, _simple swain, simple sheep_. Sometimes the sense
of a substantive may be elucidated by the epithets annexed to it in good
authors; as, the _boundless ocean_, the _open lawns_: and where such
advantage can be gained by a short quotation, it is not to be omitted.

The difference of signification in words generally accounted synonymous,
ought to be carefully observed; as in _pride, haughtiness, arrogance_:
and the strict and critical meaning ought to be distinguished from that
which is loose and popular; as in the word _perfection_, which, though
in its philosophical and exact sense it can be of little use among human
beings, is often so much degraded from its original signification, that
the academicians have inserted in their work, _the perfection of a
language_, and, with a little more licentiousness, might have prevailed
on themselves to have added the _perfection of a dictionary_.

There are many other characters of words which it will be of use to
mention. Some have both an active and passive signification; as
_fearful_, that which gives or which feels terrour; a _fearful prodigy_,
a _fearful hare_. Some have a personal, some a real meaning; as, in
opposition to _old_, we use the adjective _young_ of animated beings,
and new of other things. Some are restrained to the sense of praise, and
others to that of disapprobation; so commonly, though not always, we
_exhort_ to good actions, we _instigate_ to ill; we _animate, incite_
and _encourage_ indifferently to good or bad. So we usually _ascribe_
good, but _impute_ evil; yet neither the use of these words, nor,
perhaps, of any other in our licentious language, is so established as
not to be often reversed by the correctest writers. I shall, therefore,
since the rules of style, like those of law, arise from precedents often
repeated, collect the testimonies on both sides, and endeavour to
discover and promulgate the decrees of custom, who has so long
possessed, whether by right or by usurpation, the sovereignty of words.

It is necessary, likewise, to explain many words by their opposition to
others; for contraries are best seen when they stand together. Thus the
verb _stand_ has one sense, as opposed to _fall_, and another, as
opposed to _fly_; for want of attending to which distinction, obvious as
it is, the learned Dr. Bentley has squandered his criticism to no
purpose, on these lines of Paradise Lost:

         --In heaps
  Chariot and charioteer lay overturn'd,
  And fiery foaming steeds. What _stood, recoil'd_
  O'erwearied, through the faint Satanic host,
  Defensive scarce, or with pale fear surpris'd,
  _Fled_ ignominious.--

"Here," says the critick, "as the sentence is now read, we find that
what _stood, fled_:" and, therefore, he proposes an alteration, which he
might have spared, if he had consulted a dictionary, and found that
nothing more was affirmed than, that those _fled_ who did not _fall_.

In explaining such meanings as seem accidental and adventitious, I shall
endeavour to give an account of the means by which they were introduced.
Thus, to _eke out_ any thing, signifies to lengthen it beyond its just
dimensions, by some low artifice; because the word _eke_ was the usual
refuge of our old writers, when they wanted a syllable. And _buxom_,
which means only _obedient_, is now made, in familiar phrases, to stand
for _wanton_; because in an ancient form of marriage, before the
Reformation, the bride promised complaisance and obedience, in these
terms: "I will be bonair and _buxom_ in bed and at board."

I know well, my Lord, how trifling many of these remarks will appear,
separately considered, and how easily they may give occasion to the
contemptuous merriment of sportive idleness, and the gloomy censures of
arrogant stupidity; but dulness it is easy to despise, and laughter it
is easy to repay. I shall not be solicitous what is thought of my work,
by such as know not the difficulty or importance of philological
studies; nor shall think those that have done nothing, qualified to
condemn me for doing little. It may not, however, be improper to remind
them, that no terrestrial greatness is more than an aggregate of little
things; and to inculcate, after the Arabian proverb, that drops added to
drops constitute the ocean.

There remains yet to be considered the distribution of words into their
proper classes, or that part of lexicography which is strictly critical.

The popular part of the language, which includes all words not
appropriated to particular sciences, admits of many distinctions and
subdivisions; as, into words of general use; words employed chiefly in
poetry; words obsolete; words which are admitted only by particular
writers, yet not in themselves improper; words used only in burlesque
writing; and words impure and barbarous.

Words of general use will be known by having no sign of particularity,
and their various senses will be supported by authorities of all ages.

The words appropriated to poetry will be distinguished by some mark
prefixed, or will be known by having no authorities but those of poets.

Of antiquated or obsolete words, none will be inserted, but such as are
to be found in authors, who wrote since the accession of Elizabeth, from
which we date the golden age of our language; and of these many might be
omitted, but that the reader may require, with an appearance of reason,
that no difficulty should be left unresolved in books which he finds
himself invited to read, as confessed and established models of style.
These will be likewise pointed out by some note of exclusion, but not of
disgrace.

The words which are found only in particular books, will be known by the
single name of him that has used them; but such will be omitted, unless
either their propriety, elegance or force, or the reputation of their
authors, affords some extraordinary reason for their reception.

Words used in burlesque and familiar compositions, will be likewise
mentioned with their proper authorities; such as _dudgeon_, from Butler,
and _leasing_, from Prior; and will be diligently characterised by marks
of distinction. Barbarous, or impure, words and expressions, may be
branded with some note of infamy, as they are carefully to be eradicated
wherever they are found; and they occur too frequently, even in the best
writers: as in Pope,

 --_in_ endless error _hurl'd_.
  '_Tis these_ that early taint the female soul.

In Addison:

  Attend to what a _lesser_ muse indites.

And in Dryden:

  A dreadful quiet felt, and _worser_ far
  Than arms.--

If this part of the work can be well performed, it will be equivalent to
the proposal made by Boileau to the academicians, that they should
review all their polite writers, and correct such impurities as might be
found in them, that their authority might not contribute, at any distant
time, to the depravation of the language.

With regard to questions of purity or propriety, I was once in doubt
whether I should not attribute too much to myself, in attempting to
decide them, and whether my province was to extend beyond the
proposition of the question, and the display of the suffrages on each
side; but I have been since determined, by your Lordship's opinion, to
interpose my own judgment, and shall, therefore, endeavour to support
what appears to me most consonant to grammar and reason. Ausonius
thought that modesty forbad him to plead inability for a task to which
Cęsar had judged him equal:

  Cur me posse negem posse quod ille putat?

And I may hope, my Lord, that since you, whose authority in our language
is so generally acknowledged, have commissioned me to declare my own
opinion, I shall be considered as exercising a kind of vicarious
jurisdiction, and that the power which might have been denied to my own
claim, will be readily allowed me as the delegate of your Lordship.

In citing authorities, on which the credit of every part of this work
must depend, it will be proper to observe some obvious rules; such as of
preferring writers of the first reputation to those of an inferiour
rank; of noting the quotations with accuracy; and of selecting, when it
can be conveniently done, such sentences, as, besides their immediate
use, may give pleasure or instruction, by conveying some elegance of
language, or some precept of prudence or piety.

It has been asked, on some occasions, who shall judge the judges? And
since, with regard to this design, a question may arise by what
authority the authorities are selected, it is necessary to obviate it,
by declaring that many of the writers whose testimonies will be alleged,
were selected by Mr. Pope; of whom I may be justified in affirming, that
were he still alive, solicitous as he was for the success of this work,
he would not be displeased that I have undertaken it.

It will be proper that the quotations be ranged according to the ages of
their authors; and it will afford an agreeable amusement, if to the
words and phrases which are not of our own growth, the name of the
writer who first introduced them can be affixed; and if, to words which
are now antiquated, the authority be subjoined of him who last admitted
them. Thus, for _scathe_ and _buxom_, now obsolete, Milton may be cited:

 --The mountain oak
  Stands _scath'd_ to heaven.--
 --He with broad sails
  Winnow'd the _buxom_ air.--

By this method every word will have its history, and the reader will be
informed of the gradual changes of the language, and have before his
eyes the rise of some words, and the fall of others. But observations so
minute and accurate are to be desired, rather than expected; and if use
be carefully supplied, curiosity must sometimes bear its
disappointments.

This, my Lord, is my idea of an English dictionary; a dictionary by
which the pronunciation of our language may be fixed, and its attainment
facilitated; by which its purity may be preserved, its use ascertained,
and its duration lengthened. And though, perhaps, to correct the
language of nations by books of grammar, and amend their manners by
discourses of morality, may be tasks equally difficult, yet, as it is
unavoidable to wish, it is natural likewise to hope, that your
Lordship's patronage may not be wholly lost; that it may contribute to
the preservation of ancient, and the improvement of modern writers; that
it may promote the reformation of those translators, who, for want of
understanding the characteristical difference of tongues, have formed a
chaotick dialect of heterogeneous phrases; and awaken to the care of
purer diction some men of genius, whose attention to argument makes them
negligent of style, or whose rapid imagination, like the Peruvian
torrents, when it brings down gold, mingles it with sand.

When I survey the Plan which I have laid before you, I cannot, my Lord,
but confess, that I am frighted at its extent, and, like the soldiers of
Cęsar, look on Britain as a new world, which it is almost madness to
invade. But I hope, that though I should not complete the conquest, I
shall, at least, discover the coast, civilize part of the inhabitants,
and make it easy for some other adventurer to proceed further, to reduce
them wholly to subjection, and settle them under laws.

We are taught by the great Roman orator, that every man should propose
to himself the highest degree of excellence, but that he may stop with
honour at the second or third: though, therefore, my performance should
fall below the excellence of other dictionaries, I may obtain, at least,
the praise of having endeavoured well; nor shall I think it any reproach
to my diligence, that I have retired without a triumph, from a contest
with united academies, and long successions of learned compilers. I
cannot hope, in the warmest moments, to preserve so much caution through
so long a work, as not often to sink into negligence, or to obtain so
much knowledge of all its parts, as not frequently to fail by ignorance.
I expect that sometimes the desire of accuracy will urge me to
superfluities, and sometimes the fear of prolixity betray me to
omissions; that in the extent of such variety, I shall be often
bewildered, and, in the mazes of such intricacy, be frequently
entangled; that in one part refinement will be subtilized beyond
exactness, and evidence dilated in another beyond perspicuity. Yet I do
not despair of approbation from those who, knowing the uncertainty of
conjecture, the scantiness of knowledge, the fallibility of memory, and
the unsteadiness of attention, can compare the causes of errour with the
means of avoiding it, and the extent of art with the capacity of man:
and whatever be the event of my endeavours, I shall not easily regret an
attempt, which has procured me the honour of appearing thus publickly,

MY LORD,

Your Lordship's most obedient,
and most humble servant,

SAM. JOHNSON.[3]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Lord Orrery, in a letter to Dr. Birch, mentions this as one of the
    very few inaccuracies in this admirable address, the _laurel_ not
    being _barren_ in any sense, but bearing fruits and flowers.
    Boswell's Life, vol. i. p. 160. EDIT. 1804.

[2] Milton.

[3] Written in the year 1747.




PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH DICTIONARY.

It is the fate of those, who toil at the lower employments of life, to
be rather driven by the fear of evil, than attracted by the prospect of
good; to be exposed to censure, without hope of praise; to be disgraced
by miscarriage, or punished for neglect, where success would have been
without applause, and diligence without reward.

Among these unhappy mortals is the writer of dictionaries; whom mankind
have considered, not as the pupil, but the slave of science, the pioneer
of literature, doomed only to remove rubbish and clear obstructions from
the paths, through which Learning and Genius press forward to conquest
and glory, without bestowing a smile on the humble drudge that
facilitates their progress. Every other author may aspire to praise; the
lexicographer can only hope to escape reproach, and even this negative
recompense has been yet granted to very few.

I have, notwithstanding this discouragement, attempted a Dictionary of
the English language, which, while it was employed in the cultivation of
every species of literature, has itself been hitherto neglected;
suffered to spread, under the direction of chance, into wild exuberance;
resigned to the tyranny of time and fashion; and exposed to the
corruptions of ignorance, and caprices of innovation.

When I took the first survey of my undertaking, I found our speech
copious without order, and energetick without rules: wherever I turned
my view, there was perplexity to be disentangled, and confusion to be
regulated; choice was to be made out of boundless variety, without any
established principle of selection; adulterations were to be detected,
without a settled test of purity; and modes of expression to be rejected
or received, without the suffrages of any writers of classical
reputation or acknowledged authority.

Having, therefore, no assistance but from general grammar, I applied
myself to the perusal of our writers; and, noting whatever might be of
use to ascertain or illustrate any word or phrase, accumulated in time
the materials of a dictionary, which, by degrees, I reduced to method,
establishing to myself, in the progress of the work, such rules as
experience and analogy suggested to me: experience, which practice and
observation were continually increasing; and analogy, which, though in
some words obscure, was evident in others.

In adjusting the ORTHOGRAPHY, which has been to this time unsettled and
fortuitous, I found it necessary to distinguish those irregularities
that are inherent in our tongue, and, perhaps, coeval with it, from
others, which the ignorance or negligence of later writers has produced.
Every language has its anomalies, which, though inconvenient, and in
themselves once unnecessary, must be tolerated among the imperfections
of human things; and which require only to be registered, that they may
not be increased, and ascertained, that they may not be confounded: but
every language has likewise its improprieties and absurdities, which it
is the duty of the lexicographer to correct or proscribe.

As language was at its beginning merely oral, all words of necessary or
common use were spoken, before they were written; and while they were
unfixed by any visible signs, must have been spoken with great
diversity, as we now observe those, who cannot read, catch sounds
imperfectly, and utter them negligently. When this wild and barbarous
jargon was first reduced to an alphabet, every penman endeavoured to
express, as he could, the sounds which he was accustomed to pronounce or
to receive, and vitiated in writing such words as were already vitiated
in speech. The powers of the letters, when they were applied to a new
language, must have been vague and unsettled, and, therefore, different
hands would exhibit the same sound by different combinations.

From this uncertain pronunciation arise, in a great part, the various
dialects of the same country, which will always be observed to grow
fewer and less different, as books are multiplied; and from this
arbitrary representation of sounds by letters proceeds that diversity of
spelling, observable in the Saxon remains, and, I suppose, in the first
books of every nation, which perplexes or destroys analogy, and produces
anomalous formations, that being once incorporated, can never be
afterwards dismissed or reformed.

Of this kind are the derivatives _length_ from _long_, _strength_ from
_strong_, _darling_ from _dear_, _breadth_ from _broad_, from _dry_,
_drought_, and from _high_, _height_, which Milton, in zeal for analogy,
writes _highth_: "Quid te exempta juvat spinis de pluribus una?" to
change all would be too much, and to change one is nothing.

This uncertainty is most frequent in the vowels, which are so
capriciously pronounced, and so differently modified, by accident or
affectation, not only in every province, but in every mouth, that to
them, as is well known to etymologists, little regard is to be shown in
the deduction of one language from another.

Such defects are not errours in orthography, but spots of barbarity
impressed so deep in the English language, that criticism can never wash
them away: these, therefore, must be permitted to remain untouched: but
many words have likewise been altered by accident, or depraved by
ignorance, as the pronunciation of the vulgar has been weakly followed;
and some still continue to be variously written, as authors differ in
their care or skill: of these it was proper to inquire the true
orthography, which I have always considered as depending on their
derivation, and have, therefore, referred them to their original
languages: thus I write _enchant_, _enchantment_, _enchanter_, after the
French, and _incantation_ after the Latin; thus _entire_ is chosen
rather than _intire_, because it passed to us not from the Latin
_integer_, but from the French _entier_.

Of many words it is difficult to say, whether they were immediately
received from the Latin or the French, since at the time when we had
dominions in France, we had Latin service in our churches. It is,
however, my opinion, that the French generally supplied us; for we have
few Latin words, among the terms of domestick use, which are not French;
but many French, which are very remote from Latin.

Even in words of which the derivation is apparent, I have been often
obliged to sacrifice uniformity to custom; thus I write, in compliance
with a numberless majority, _convey_ and _inveigh_, _deceit_ and
_receipt_, _fancy_ and _phantom_; sometimes the derivative varies from
the primitive, as _explain_ and _explanation_, _repeat_ and
_repetition_.

Some combinations of letters, having the same power, are used
indifferently without any discoverable reason of choice, as in _choak_,
_choke_; _soap_, _sape_; _fewel_, _fuel_, and many others; which I have
sometimes inserted twice, that those, who search for them under either
form, may not search in vain.

In examining the orthography of any doubtful word, the mode of spelling
by which it is inserted in the series of the Dictionary, is to be
considered as that to which I give, perhaps, not often rashly, the
preference. I have left, in the examples, to every author his own
practice unmolested, that the reader may balance suffrages, and judge
between us: but this question is not always to be determined by reputed
or by real learning: some men, intent upon greater things, have thought
little on sounds and derivations; some, knowing in the ancient tongues,
have neglected those in which our words are commonly to be sought. Thus
Hammond writes _fecibleness_ for _feasibleness_, because, I suppose, he
imagined it derived immediately from the Latin; and some words, such as
_dependant, dependent, dependance, dependence_, vary their final
syllable, as one or another language is present to the writer.

In this part of the work, where caprice has long wantoned without
control, and vanity sought praise by petty reformation, I have
endeavoured to proceed with a scholar's reverence for antiquity, and a
grammarian's regard to the genius of our tongue. I have attempted few
alterations, and among those few, perhaps, the greater part is from the
modern to the ancient practice; and, I hope, I may be allowed to
recommend to those, whose thoughts have been, perhaps, employed too
anxiously on verbal singularities, not to disturb, upon narrow views, or
for minute propriety, the orthography of their fathers. It has been
asserted, that for the law to be _known_, is of more importance than to
be _right_. "Change," says Hooker, "is not made without inconvenience,
even from worse to better." There is in constancy and stability a
general and lasting advantage, which will always overbalance the slow
improvements of gradual correction. Much less ought our written language
to comply with the corruptions of oral utterance, or copy that which
every variation of time or place makes different from itself, and
imitate those changes which will again be changed, while imitation is
employed in observing them.

This recommendation of steadiness and uniformity does not proceed from
an opinion, that particular combinations of letters have much influence
on human happiness; or that truth may not be successfully taught by
modes of spelling fanciful and erroneous: I am not yet so lost in
lexicography, as to forget that _words are the daughters of earth, and
that things are the sons of heaven_. Language is only the instrument of
science, and words are but the signs of ideas: I wish, however, that the
instrument might be less apt to decay, and that signs might be
permanent, like the things which they denote.

In settling the orthography, I have not wholly neglected the
pronunciation, which I have directed, by printing an accent upon the
acute or elevated syllable. It will sometimes be found, that the accent
is placed, by the author quoted, on a different syllable from that
marked in the alphabetical series; it is then to be understood, that
custom has varied, or that the author has, in my opinion, pronounced
wrong. Short directions are sometimes given, where the sound of letters
is irregular; and if they are sometimes omitted, defect in such minute
observations will be more easily excused, than superfluity.

In the investigation both of the orthography and signification of words,
their ETYMOLOGY was necessarily to be considered, and they were,
therefore, to be divided into primitives and derivatives. A primitive
word is that which can be traced no further to any English root; thus
_circumspect, circumvent, circumstance, delude, concave_, and
_complicate_, though compounds in the Latin, are to us primitives.
Derivatives are all those that can be referred to any word in English of
greater simplicity.

The derivatives I have referred to their primitives, with an accuracy
sometimes needless; for who does not see that _remoteness_ comes from
_remote, lovely_ from _love, concavity_ from _concave_, and
_demonstrative_ from _demonstrate_? But this grammatical exuberance the
scheme of my work did not allow me to repress. It is of great
importance, in examining the general fabrick of a language, to trace one
word from another, by noting the usual modes of derivation and
inflection; and uniformity must be preserved in systematical works,
though sometimes at the expense of particular propriety.

Among other derivatives, I have been careful to insert and elucidate the
anomalous plurals of nouns and preterites of verbs, which in the
Teutonick dialects are very frequent, and, though familiar to those who
have always used them, interrupt and embarrass the learners of our
language.

The two languages from which our primitives have been derived are the
Roman and Teutonick: under the Roman I comprehend the French and
provincial tongues; and under the Teutonick range the Saxon, German, and
all their kindred dialects. Most of our polysyllables are Roman, and our
words of one syllable are very often Teutonick.

In assigning the Roman original, it has, perhaps, sometimes happened
that I have mentioned only the Latin, when the word was borrowed from
the French; and, considering myself as employed only in the illustration
of my own language, I have not been very careful to observe whether the
Latin word be pure or barbarous, or the French elegant or obsolete.

For the Teutonick etymologies, I am commonly indebted to Junius and
Skinner, the only names which I have forborne to quote when I copied
their books; not that I might appropriate their labours or usurp their
honours, but that I might spare a perpetual repetition by one general
acknowledgment. Of these, whom I ought not to mention but with the
reverence due to instructers and benefactors, Junius appears to have
excelled in extent of learning, and Skinner in rectitude of
understanding. Junius was accurately skilled in all the northern
languages; Skinner probably examined the ancient and remoter dialects
only by occasional inspection into dictionaries; but the learning of
Junius is often of no other use than to show him a track, by which he
may deviate from his purpose, to which Skinner always presses forward by
the shortest way. Skinner is often ignorant, but never ridiculous:
Junius is always full of knowledge, but his variety distracts his
judgment, and his learning is very frequently disgraced by his
absurdities.

The votaries of the northern muses will not, perhaps, easily restrain
their indignation, when they find the name of Junius thus degraded by a
disadvantageous comparison; but whatever reverence is due to his
diligence, or his attainments, it can be no criminal degree of
censoriousness to charge that etymologist with want of judgment, who can
seriously derive _dream_ from _drama_, because _life is a drama, and a
drama is a dream_; and who declares with a tone of defiance, that no man
can fail to derive _moan_ from [Greek: monos], (monos,) _single_ or
_solitary_, who considers that grief naturally loves to be alone[1].

Our knowledge of the northern literature is so scanty, that of words
undoubtedly Teutonick, the original is not always to be found in any
ancient language; and I have, therefore, inserted Dutch or German
substitutes, which I consider not as radical, but parallel, not as the
parents, but sisters of the English.

The words, which are represented as thus related by descent or
cognation, do not always agree in sense; for it is incident to words, as
to their authors, to degenerate from their ancestors, and to change
their manners when they change their country. It is sufficient, in
etymological inquiries, if the senses of kindred words be found such as
may easily pass into each other, or such as may both be referred to one
general idea.

The etymology, so far as it is yet known, was easily found in the
volumes, where it is particularly and professedly delivered; and, by
proper attention to the rules of derivation, the orthography was soon
adjusted. But to COLLECT the WORDS of our language was a task of greater
difficulty: the deficiency of dictionaries was immediately apparent; and
when they were exhausted, what was yet wanting must be sought by
fortuitous and unguided excursions into books, and gleaned as industry
should find, or chance should offer it, in the boundless chaos of a
living speech. My search, however, has been either skilful or lucky; for
I have much augmented the vocabulary.

As my design was a dictionary, common or appellative, I have omitted all
words which have relation to proper names; such as _Arian, Socinian,
Calvinist, Benedictine, Mahometan_; but have retained those-of a more
general nature, as _Heathen, Pagan_.

Of the terms of art I have received such as could be
found either in books of science or technical dictionaries; and have
often inserted, from philosophical writers, words which are supported,
perhaps, only by a single authority, and which, being not admitted into
general use, stand yet as candidates or probationers, and must depend
for their adoption on the suffrage of futurity.

The words which our authors have introduced by their knowledge of
foreign languages, or ignorance of their own, by vanity or wantonness,
by compliance with fashion or lust of innovation, I have registered as
they occurred, though commonly only to censure them, and warn others
against the folly of naturalizing useless foreigners to the injury of
the natives.

I have not rejected any by design, merely because they were unnecessary
or exuberant; but have received those which by different writers have
been differently formed, as _viscid_, and _viscidity, viscous_, and
_viscosity_. Compounded or double words I have seldom noted, except when
they obtain a signification different from that which the components
have in their simple state. Thus _highwayman, woodman_, and
_horsecourser_, require an explanation; but of _thieflike_ or
_coachdriver_, no notice was needed, because the primitives contain the
meaning of the compounds.

Words arbitrarily formed by a constant and settled analogy, like
diminutive adjectives in _ish_, as _greenish, bluish_; adverbs in _ly_,
as _dully, openly_; substantives in _ness_, as _vileness, faultiness_;
were less diligently sought, and sometimes have been omitted, when I had
no authority that invited me to insert them; not that they are not
genuine and regular offsprings of English roots, but, because their
relation to the primitive being always the same, their significations
cannot be mistaken.

The verbal nouns in _ing_, such as the _keeping_ of the _castle_, the
_leading_ of the _army_, are always neglected, or placed only to
illustrate the sense of the verb, except when they signify things as
well as actions, and have, therefore, a plural number, as _dwelling,
living_; or have an absolute and abstract signification, as _colouring,
painting, learning_.

The participles are likewise omitted, unless, by signifying rather habit
or quality than action, they take the nature of adjectives; as a
_thinking_ man, a man of prudence; a _pacing_ horse, a horse that can
pace: these I have ventured to call _participial adjectives_. But
neither are these always inserted, because they are commonly to be
understood without any danger of mistake, by consulting the verb.

Obsolete words are admitted, when they are found in authors not
obsolete, or when they have any force or beauty that may deserve
revival.

As composition is one of the chief characteristicks of a language, I
have endeavoured to make some reparation for the universal negligence of
my predecessors, by inserting great numbers of compounded words, as may
be found under _after, fore, new, night, fair_, and many more. These,
numerous as they are, might be multiplied, but that use and curiosity
are here satisfied, and the frame of our language and modes of our
combination amply discovered.

Of some forms of composition, such as that by which _re_ is prefixed to
note _repetition_, and _un_ to signify _contrariety_ or _privation_, all
the examples cannot be accumulated, because the use of these particles,
if not wholly arbitrary, is so little limited, that they are hourly
affixed to new words, as occasion requires, or is imagined to require
them.

There is another kind of composition more frequent in our language than,
perhaps, in any other, from which arises to foreigners the greatest
difficulty. We modify the signification of many verbs by a particle
subjoined; as to _come off_, to escape by a fetch; to _fall on_, to
attack; to _fall off_, to apostatize; to _break off_, to stop abruptly;
to _bear out_, to justify; to _fall in_, to comply; to _give over_, to
cease; to _set off_, to embellish; to _set in_, to begin a continual
tenour; to _set out_, to begin a course or journey; to _take off_, to
copy; with innumerable expressions of the same kind, of which some
appear wildly irregular, being so far distant from the sense of the
simple words, that no sagacity will be able to trace the steps by which
they arrived at the present use. These I have noted with great care; and
though I cannot flatter myself that the collection is complete, I
believe I have so far assisted the students of our language, that this
kind of phraseology will be no longer insuperable; and the combinations
of verbs and particles, by chance omitted, will be easily explained by
comparison with those that may be found.

Many words yet stand supported only by the name of Bailey, Ainsworth,
Philips, or the contracted Dict, for _Dictionaries_ subjoined; of these
I am not always certain, that they are read in any book but the works of
lexicographers. Of such I have omitted many, because I had never read
them; and many I have inserted, because they may, perhaps, exist, though
they have escaped my notice: they are, however, to be yet considered as
resting only upon the credit of former dictionaries. Others, which I
considered as useful, or know to be proper, though I could not at
present support them by authorities, I have suffered to stand upon my
own attestation, claiming the same privilege with my predecessors, of
being sometimes credited without proof.

The words, thus selected and disposed, are grammatically considered;
they are referred to the different parts of speech; traced, when they
are irregularly inflected, through their various terminations; and
illustrated by observations, not, indeed, of great or striking
importance, separately considered, but necessary to the elucidation of
our language, and hitherto neglected or forgotten by English
grammarians.

That part of my work on which I expect malignity most frequently to
fasten is, the _Explanation_; in which I cannot hope to satisfy those,
who are, perhaps, not inclined to be pleased, since I have not always
been able to satisfy myself. To interpret a language by itself is very
difficult; many words cannot be explained by synonymes, because the idea
signified by them has not more than one appellation; nor by paraphrase,
because simple ideas cannot be described. When the nature of things is
unknown, or the notion unsettled and indefinite, and various in various
minds, the words by which such notions are conveyed, or such things
denoted, will be ambiguous and perplexed. And such is the fate of
hapless lexicography, that not only darkness, but light, impedes and
distresses it; things may be not only too little, but too much known, to
be happily illustrated. To explain, requires the use of terms less
abstruse than that which is to be explained, and such terms cannot
always be found; for as nothing can be proved but by supposing something
intuitively known, and evident without proof, so nothing can be defined
but by the use of words too plain to admit a definition.

Other words there are, of which the sense is too subtile and evanescent
to be fixed in a paraphrase; such are all those which are by the
grammarians termed expletives, and, in dead languages, are suffered to
pass for empty sounds, of no other use than to fill a verse, or to
modulate a period, but which are easily perceived in living tongues to
have power and emphasis, though it be sometimes such as no other form of
expression can convey.

My labour has likewise been much increased by a class of verbs too
frequent in the English language, of which the signification is so loose
and general, the use so vague and indeterminate, and the senses detorted
so widely from the first idea, that it is hard to trace them through the
maze of variation, to catch them on the brink of utter inanity, to
circumscribe them by any limitations, or interpret them by any words of
distinct and settled meaning; such are _bear, break, come, cast, fall,
get, give, do, put, set, go, run, make, take, turn, throw_. If of these
the whole power is not accurately delivered, it must be remembered, that
while our language is yet living, and variable by the caprice of every
one that speaks it, these words are hourly shifting their relations, and
can no more be ascertained in a dictionary, than a grove, in the
agitation of a storm, can be accurately delineated from its picture in
the water. The particles are among all nations applied with so great
latitude, that they are not easily reducible under any regular scheme of
explication: this difficulty is not less, nor, perhaps, greater, in
English, than in other languages. I have laboured them with diligence, I
hope with success; such at least as can be expected in a task, which no
man, however learned or sagacious, has yet been able to perform.

Some words there are which I cannot explain, because I do not understand
them; these might have been omitted very often with little
inconvenience, but I would not so far indulge my vanity, as to decline
this confession; for when Tully owns himself ignorant whether _lessus_,
in the twelve tables, means a _funeral song_, or _mourning garment_; and
Aristotle doubts whether [Greek: oureus] in the Iliad, signifies a
_mule_, or _muleteer_, I may surely, without shame, leave some
obscurities to happier industry, or future information.

The rigour of interpretative lexicography requires that _the
explanation_, and _the word explained, should be always reciprocal_;
this I have always endeavoured, but could not always attain. Words are
seldom exactly synonymous; a new term was not introduced, but because
the former was thought inadequate: names, therefore, have often many
ideas, but few ideas have many names. It was then necessary to use the
proximate word, for the deficiency of single terms can very seldom be
supplied by circumlocution; nor is the inconvenience great of such
mutilated interpretations, because the sense may easily be collected
entire from the examples.

In every word of extensive use, it was requisite to mark the progress of
its meaning, and show by what gradations of intermediate sense it has
passed from its primitive to its remote and accidental signification; so
that every foregoing explanation should tend to that which follows, and
the series be regularly concatenated from the first notion to the last.

This is specious, but not always practicable; kindred senses may be so
interwoven, that the perplexity cannot be disentangled, nor any reason
be assigned why one should be ranged before the other. When the radical
idea branches out into parallel ramifications, how can a consecutive
series be formed of senses in their nature collateral? The shades of
meaning sometimes pass imperceptibly into each other, so that though on
one side they apparently differ, yet it is impossible to mark the point
of contact. Ideas of the same race, though not exactly alike, are
sometimes so little different, that no words can express the
dissimilitude, though the mind easily perceives it, when they are
exhibited together; and sometimes there is such a confusion of
acceptations, that discernment is wearied and distinction puzzled, and
perseverance herself hurries to an end, by crowding together what she
cannot separate.

These complaints of difficulty will, by those that have never considered
words beyond their popular use, be thought only the jargon of a man
willing to magnify his labours, and procure veneration to his studies by
involution and obscurity. But every art is obscure to those that have
not learned it: this uncertainty of terms, and commixture of ideas, is
well known to those who have joined philosophy with grammar; and, if I
have not expressed them very clearly, it must be remembered that I am
speaking of that which words are insufficient to explain.

The original sense of words is often driven out of use by their
metaphorical acceptations, yet must be inserted for the sake of a
regular origination. Thus I know not whether _ardour_ is used for
_material heat_, or whether _flagrant_, in English, ever signifies the
same with _burning_; yet such are the primitive ideas of these words,
which are, therefore, set first, though without examples, that the
figurative senses may be commodiously deduced.

Such is the exuberance of signification which many words have obtained,
that it was scarcely possible to collect all their senses; sometimes the
meaning of derivatives must be sought in the mother term, and sometimes
deficient explanations of the primitive may be supplied in the train of
derivation. In any case of doubt or difficulty, it will be always proper
to examine all the words of the same race; for some words are slightly
passed over to avoid repetition; some admitted easier and clearer
explanation than others; and all will be better understood, as they are
considered in greater variety of structures and relations.

All the interpretations of words are not written with the same skill, or
the same happiness: things, equally easy in themselves, are not all
equally easy to any single mind. Every writer of a long work commits
errours, where there appears neither ambiguity to mislead, nor obscurity
to confound him: and, in a search like this, many felicities of
expression will be casually overlooked, many convenient parallels will
be forgotten, and many particulars will admit improvement from a mind
utterly unequal to the whole performance.

But many seeming faults are to be imputed rather to the nature of the
undertaking, than the negligence of the performer. Thus some
explanations are unavoidably reciprocal or circular, as _hind, the
female of the stag_; _stag, the male of the hind_: sometimes easier
words are changed into harder, as _burial_ into _sepulture_, or
_interment_, _drier_ into _desiccative_, _dryness_ into _siccity_ or
_aridity_, _fit_ into _paroxysm_; for the easiest word, whatever it be,
can never be translated into one more easy. But easiness and difficulty
are merely relative; and, if the present prevalence of our language
should invite foreigners to this Dictionary, many will be assisted by
those words, which now seem only to increase or produce obscurity. For
this reason I have endeavoured frequently to join a Teutonick and Roman
interpretation, as to _cheer_, to _gladden_ or _exhilarate_, that every
learner of English may be assisted by his own tongue.

The solution of all difficulties, and the supply of all defects, must be
sought in the examples, subjoined to the various senses of each word,
and ranged according to the time of their authors.

When I first collected these authorities, I was desirous that every
quotation should be useful to some other end than the illustration of a
word; I, therefore, extracted from philosophers principles of science;
from historians remarkable facts; from chymists complete processes; from
divines striking exhortations; and from poets beautiful descriptions.
Such is design, while it is yet at a distance from execution. When the
time called upon me to range this accumulation of elegance and wisdom
into an alphabetical series, I soon discovered that the bulk of my
volumes would fright away the student, and was forced to depart from my
scheme of including all that was pleasing or useful in English
literature, and reduce my transcripts very often to clusters of words,
in which scarcely any meaning is retained: thus to the weariness of
copying, I was condemned to add the vexation of expunging. Some passages
I have yet spared, which may relieve the labour of verbal searches, and
intersperse with verdure and flowers the dusty deserts of barren
philology.

The examples, thus mutilated, are no longer to be con sidered as
conveying the sentiments or doctrine of their authors; the word, for the
sake of which they are inserted, with all its appendant clauses, has
been carefully preserved; but it may sometimes happen, by hasty
detruncation, that the general tendency of the sentence may be changed:
the divine may desert his tenets, or the philosopher his system.

Some of the examples have been taken from writers who were never
mentioned as masters of elegance, or models of style; but words must be
sought where they are used; and in what pages, eminent for purity, can
terms of manufacture or agriculture be found? Many quotations serve no
other purpose, than that of proving the bare existence of words, and
are, therefore, selected with less scrupulousness than those which are
to teach their structures and relations.

My purpose was to admit no testimony of living authors, that I might not
be misled by partiality, and that none of my contemporaries might have
reason to complain; nor have I departed from this resolution, but when
some performance of uncommon excellence excited my veneration, when my
memory supplied me from late books with an example that was wanting, or
when my heart, in the tenderness of friendship, solicited admission for
a favourite name.

So far have I been from any care to grace my pages with modern
decorations, that I have studiously endeavoured to collect examples and
authorities from the writers before the Restoration, whose works I
regard as _the wells of English undefiled_, as the pure sources of
genuine diction. Our language, for almost a century, has, by the
concurrence of many causes, been gradually departing from its original
Teutonick character, and deviating towards a Gallick structure and
phraseology[2], from which it ought to be our endeavour to recall it, by
making our ancient volumes the ground-work of style, admitting among the
additions of later times only such as may supply real deficiencies, such
as are readily adopted by the genius of our tongue, and incorporate
easily with our native idioms.

But as every language has a time of rudeness antecedent to perfection,
as well as of false refinement and declension, I have been cautious lest
my zeal for antiquity might drive me into times too remote, and crowd my
book with words now no longer understood. I have fixed Sidney's work for
the boundary, beyond which I make few excursions. From the authors which
rose in the time of Elizabeth, a speech might be formed adequate to all
the purposes of use and elegance. If the language of theology were
extracted from Hooker and the translation of the Bible; the terms of
natural knowledge from Bacon; the phrases of policy, war, and navigation
from Raleigh; the dialect of poetry and fiction from Spenser and Sidney;
and the diction of common life from Shakespeare, few ideas would be lost
to mankind, for want of English words, in which they might be expressed.

It is not sufficient that a word is found, unless it be so combined as
that its meaning is apparently determined by the tract and tenour of the
sentence; such passages I have, therefore, chosen, and when it happened
that any author gave a definition of a term, or such an explanation as
is equivalent to a definition, I have placed his authority as a
supplement to my own, without regard to the chronological order, that is
otherwise observed.

Some words, indeed, stand unsupported by any authority, but they are
commonly derivative nouns or adverbs, formed from their primitives by
regular and constant analogy, or names of things seldom occurring in
books, or words of which I have reason to doubt the existence.

There is more danger of censure from the multiplicity than paucity of
examples; authorities will sometimes seem to have been accumulated
without necessity or use, and, perhaps, some will be found, which might,
without loss, have been omitted. But a work of this kind is not hastily
to be charged with superfluities: those quotations, which to careless or
unskilful perusers appear only to repeat the same sense, will often
exhibit, to a more accurate examiner, diversities of significations, or,
at least, afford different shades of the same meaning: one will show the
word applied to persons, another to things; one will express an ill,
another a good, and a third a neutral sense; one will prove the
expression genuine from an ancient author; another will show it elegant
from a modern: a doubtful authority is corroborated by another of more
credit; an ambiguous sentence is ascertained by a passage clear and
determinate: the word, how often soever repeated, appears with new
associates, and in different combinations, and every quotation
contributes something to the stability or enlargement of the language.
When words are used equivocally, I receive them in either sense; when
they are metaphorical, I adopt them in their primitive acceptation.

I have sometimes, though rarely, yielded to the temptation of exhibiting
a genealogy of sentiments, by showing how one author copied the thoughts
and diction of another: such quotations are, indeed, little more than
repetitions, which might justly be censured, did they not gratify the
mind, by affording a kind of intellectual history.

The various syntactical structures occurring in the examples have been
carefully noted; the license or negligence, with which many words have
been hitherto used, has made our style capricious and indeterminate;
when the different combinations of the same word are exhibited together,
the preference is readily given to propriety, and I have often
endeavoured to direct the choice.

Thus I have laboured, by settling the orthography, displaying the
analogy, regulating the structures, and ascertaining the signification
of English words, to perform all the parts of a faithful lexicographer:
but I have not always executed my own scheme, or satisfied my own
expectations. The work, whatever proofs of diligence and attention it
may exhibit, is yet capable of many improvements: the orthography which
I recommend is still controvertible; the etymology which I adopt is
uncertain, and, perhaps, frequently erroneous; the explanations are
sometimes too much contracted, and sometimes too much diffused; the
significations are distinguished rather with subtilty than skill, and
the attention is harassed with unnecessary minuteness.

The examples are too often injudiciously truncated, and perhaps
sometimes, I hope very rarely, alleged in a mistaken sense; for in
making this collection I trusted more to memory, than, in a state of
disquiet and embarrassment, memory can contain, and purposed to supply,
at the review, what was left incomplete in the first transcription.

Many terms, appropriated to particular occupations, though necessary and
significant, are undoubtedly omitted; and, of the words most studiously
considered and exemplified, many senses have escaped observation.

Yet these failures, however frequent, may admit extenuation and apology.
To have attempted much is always laudable, even when the enterprise is
above the strength that undertakes it: To rest below his own aim is
incident to every one whose fancy is active, and whose views are
comprehensive; nor is any man satisfied with himself, because he has
done much, but because he can conceive little. When first I engaged in
this work, I resolved to leave neither words nor things unexamined, and
pleased myself with a prospect of the hours which I should revel away in
feasts of literature, with the obscure recesses of northern learning
which I should enter and ransack, the treasures with which I expected
every search into those neglected mines to reward my labour, and the
triumph with which I should display my acquisitions to mankind. When I
had thus inquired into the original of words, I resolved to show
likewise my attention to things; to pierce deep into every science, to
inquire the nature of every substance of which I inserted the name, to
limit every idea by a definition strictly logical, and exhibit every
production of art or nature in an accurate description, that my book
might be in place of all other dictionaries, whether appellative or
technical. But these were the dreams of a poet, doomed at last to wake a
lexicographer. I soon found that it is too late to look for instruments,
when the work calls for execution, and that whatever abilities I had
brought to my task, with those I must finally perform it. To deliberate
whenever I doubted, to inquire whenever I was ignorant, would have
protracted the undertaking without end, and, perhaps, without much
improvement; for I did not find by my first experiments, that what I had
not of my own was easily to be obtained: I saw that one inquiry only
gave occasion to another, that book referred to book, that to search was
not always to find, and to find was not always to be informed; and that
thus to pursue perfection, was, like the first inhabitants of Arcadia,
to chase the sun, which, when they had reached the hill where he seemed
to rest, was still beheld at the same distance from them.

I then contracted my design, determining to confide in myself, and no
longer to solicit auxiliaries, which produced more incumbrance than
assistance; by this I obtained at least one advantage, that I set limits
to my work, which would in time be ended, though not completed.

Despondency has never so far prevailed as to depress me to negligence;
some faults will at last appear to be the effects of anxious diligence
and persevering activity. The nice and subtile ramifications of meaning
were not easily avoided by a mind intent upon accuracy, and convinced of
the necessity of disentangling combinations, and separating similitudes.
Many of the distinctions which to common readers appear useless and
idle, will be found real and important by men versed in the school
philosophy, without which no dictionary can ever be accurately compiled,
or skilfully examined.

Some senses however there are, which, though not the same, are yet so
nearly allied, that they are often confounded. Most men think
indistinctly, and, therefore, cannot speak with exactness; and,
consequently, some examples might be indifferently put to either
signification: this uncertainty is not to be imputed to me, who do not
form, but register the language; who do not teach men how they should
think, but relate how they have hitherto expressed their thoughts.

The imperfect sense of some examples I lamented, but could not remedy,
and hope they will be compensated by innumerable passages selected with
propriety, and preserved with exactness; some shining with sparks of
imagination, and some replete with treasures of wisdom.

The orthography and etymology, though imperfect, are not imperfect for
want of care, but because care will not always be successful, and
recollection or information come too late for use.

That many terms of art and manufacture are omitted, must be frankly
acknowledged; but for this defect I may boldly allege that it was
unavoidable: I could not visit caverns to learn the miner's language,
nor take a voyage to perfect my skill in the dialect of navigation, nor
visit the warehouses of merchants, and shops of artificers, to gain the
names of wares, tools, and operations, of which no mention is found in
books; what favourable accident or easy inquiry brought within my reach,
has not been neglected; but it had been a hopeless labour to glean up
words, by courting living information, and contesting with the
sullenness of one, and the roughness of another.

To furnish the academicians _della Crusca_ with words of this kind, a
series of comedies called _la Fiera_, or the Fair, was professedly
written by Buonarotti; but I had no such assistant, and, therefore, was
content to want what they must have wanted likewise, had they not
luckily been so supplied.

Nor are all words, which are not found in the vocabulary, to be lamented
as omissions. Of the laborious and mercantile part of the people, the
diction is in a great measure casual and mutable; many of their terms
are formed for some temporary or local convenience, and though current
at certain times and places, are in others utterly unknown. This
fugitive cant, which is always in a state of increase or decay, cannot
be regarded as any part of the durable materials of a language, and,
therefore, must be suffered to perish with other things unworthy of
preservation.

Care will sometimes betray to the appearance of negligence. He that is
catching opportunities which seldom occur, will suffer those to pass by
unregarded, which he expects hourly to return; he that is searching for
rare and remote things, will neglect those that are obvious and
familiar: thus many of the most common and cursory words have been
inserted with little illustration, because in gathering the authorities,
I forbore to copy those which I thought likely to occur, whenever they
were wanted. It is remarkable that, in reviewing my collection, I found
the word SEA unexemplified.

Thus it happens, that in things difficult there is danger from
ignorance, and in things easy from confidence; the mind, afraid of
greatness, and disdainful of littleness, hastily withdraws herself from
painful searches, and passes with scornful rapidity over tasks not
adequate to her powers; sometimes too secure for caution, and again too
anxious for vigorous effort; sometimes idle in a plain path, and
sometimes distracted in labyrinths, and dissipated by different
intentions.

A large work is difficult, because it is large, even though all its
parts might singly be performed with facility; where there are many
things to be done, each must be allowed its share of time and labour, in
the proportion only which it bears to the whole; nor can it be expected,
that the stones which form the dome of a temple, should be squared and
polished like the diamond of a ring.

Of the event of this work, for which, having laboured it with so much
application, I cannot but have some degree of parental fondness, it is
natural to form conjectures. Those who have been persuaded to think well
of my design, will require that it should fix our language, and put a
stop to those alterations which time and chance have hitherto been
suffered to make in it without opposition. With this consequence I will
confess that I flattered myself for a while; but now begin to fear, that
I have indulged expectation which neither reason nor experience can
justify. When we see men grow old and die at a certain time one after
another, from century to century, we laugh at the elixir that promises
to prolong life to a thousand years; and with equal justice may the
lexicographer be derided, who being able to produce no example of a
nation that has preserved their words and phrases from mutability, shall
imagine that his dictionary can embalm his language, and secure it from
corruption and decay, that it is in his power to change sublunary
nature, and clear the world at once from folly, vanity and affectation.

With this hope, however, academies have been instituted, to guard the
avenues of their languages, to retain fugitives, and repulse intruders;
but their vigilance and activity have hitherto been vain; sounds are too
volatile and subtile for legal restraints; to enchain syllables, and to
lash the wind, are equally the undertakings of pride, unwilling to
measure its desires by its strength. The French language has visibly
changed under the inspection of the academy; the style of Amelot's
translation of father Paul is observed by Le Courayer to be _un pen
passé_; and no Italian will maintain, that the diction of any modern
writer is not perceptibly different from that of Boccace, Machiavel, or
Caro.

Total and sudden transformations of a language seldom happen; conquests
and migrations are now very rare; but there are other causes of change,
which, though slow in their operation, and invisible in their progress,
are, perhaps, as much superiour to human resistance, as the revolutions
of the sky, or intumescence of the tide. Commerce, however necessary,
however lucrative, as it depraves the manners, corrupts the language;
they that have frequent intercourse with strangers, to whom they
endeavour to accommodate themselves, must in time learn a mingled
dialect, like the jargon which serves the traffickers on the
Mediterranean and Indian coasts. This will not always be confined to the
exchange, the warehouse, or the port, but will be communicated by
degrees to other ranks of the people, and be at last incorporated with
the current speech.

There are likewise internal causes equally forcible. The language most
likely to continue long without alteration, would be that of a nation
raised a little, and but a little, above barbarity, secluded from
strangers, and totally employed in procuring the conveniencies of life;
either without books, or, like some of the Mahometan countries, with
very few: men thus busied and unlearned, having only such words as
common use requires, would, perhaps, long continue to express the same
notions by the same signs. But no such constancy can be expected in a
people polished by arts, and classed by subordination, where one part of
the community is sustained and accommodated by the labour of the other.
Those who have much leisure to think, will always be enlarging the stock
of ideas; and every increase of knowledge, whether real or fancied, will
produce new words, or combinations of words. When the mind is unchained
from necessity, it will range after convenience; when it is left at
large in the fields of speculation, it will shift opinions; as any
custom is disused, the words that expressed it must perish with it; as
any opinion grows popular, it will innovate speech in the same
proportion as it alters practice.

As by the cultivation of various sciences, a language is amplified, it
will be more furnished with words deflected from their original sense;
the geometrician will talk of a "courtier's zenith, or the eccentrick
virtue of a wild hero;" and the physician of "sanguine expectations and
phlegmatick delays." Copiousness of speech will give opportunities to
capricious choice, by which some words will be preferred, and others
degraded; vicissitudes of fashion will enforce the use of new, or extend
the signification of known terms. The tropes of poetry will make hourly
encroachments, and the metaphorical will become the current sense:
pronunciation will be varied by levity or ignorance, and the pen must at
length comply with the tongue; illiterate writers will, at one time or
other, by publick infatuation, rise into renown, who, not knowing the
original import of words, will use them with colloquial licentiousness,
confound distinction, and forget propriety. As politeness increases,
some expressions will be considered as too gross and vulgar for the
delicate, others as too formal and ceremonious for the gay and airy; new
phrases are, therefore, adopted, which must, for the same reasons, be in
time dismissed. Swift, in his petty treatise on the English language,
allows that new words must sometimes be introduced, but proposes that
none should be suffered to become obsolete. But what makes a word
obsolete, more than general agreement to forbear it? and how shall it be
continued, when it conveys an offensive idea, or recalled again into the
mouths of mankind, when it has once become unfamiliar by disuse, and
unpleasing by unfamiliarity?

There is another cause of alteration more prevalent than any other,
which yet in the present state of the world cannot be obviated. A
mixture of two languages will produce a third distinct from both; and
they will always be mixed, where the chief part of education, and the
most conspicuous accomplishment, is skill in ancient or in foreign
tongues. He that has long cultivated another language, will find its
words and combinations crowd upon his memory; and haste and negligence,
refinement and affectation, will obtrude borrowed terms and exotick
expressions.

The great pest of speech is frequency of translation. No book was ever
turned from one language into another, without imparting something of
its native idiom; this is the most mischievous and comprehensive
innovation; single words may enter by thousands, and the fabrick of the
tongue continue the same; but new phraseology changes much at once; it
alters not the single stones of the building, but the order of the
columns. If an academy should be established for the cultivation of our
style; which I, who can never wish to see dependance multiplied, hope
the spirit of English liberty will hinder or destroy, let them, instead
of compiling grammars and dictionaries, endeavour, with all their
influence, to stop the license of translators, whose idleness and
ignorance, if it be suffered to proceed, will reduce us to babble a
dialect of France.

If the changes, that we fear, be thus irresistible, what remains but to
acquiesce with silence, as in the other insurmountable distresses of
humanity? It remains that we retard what we cannot repel, that we
palliate what we cannot cure. Life may be lengthened by care, though
death cannot be ultimately defeated: tongues, like governments, have a
natural tendency to degeneration; we have long preserved our
constitution, let us make some struggles for our language.[3]

In hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature forbids to be
immortal, I have devoted this book, the labour of years, to the honour
of my country, that we may no longer yield the palm of philology,
without a contest, to the nations of the continent. The chief glory of
every people arises from its authors: whether I shall add any thing by
my own writings to the reputation of English literature, must be left to
time: much of my life has been lost under the pressures of disease; much
has been trifled away; and much has always been spent in provision for
the day that was passing over me; but I shall not think my employment
useless or ignoble, if, by my assistance, foreign nations, and distant
ages, gain access to the propagators of knowledge, and understand the
teachers of truth; if my labours afford light to the repositories of
science, and add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker, to Milton, and to Boyle.

When I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on my book,
however defective, and deliver it to the world with the spirit of a man
that has endeavoured well. That it will immediately become popular I
have not promised to myself: a few wild blunders, and risible
absurdities, from which no work of such multiplicity was ever free, may,
for a time, furnish folly with laughter, and harden ignorance into
contempt; but useful diligence will at last prevail, and there never can
be wanting some who distinguish desert; who will consider that no
dictionary of a living tongue ever can be perfect, since, while it is
hastening to publication, some words are budding, and some falling away;
that a whole life cannot be spent upon syntax and etymology, and that
even a whole life would not be sufficient; that he, whose design
includes whatever language can express, must often speak of what he does
not understand; that a writer will sometimes be hurried by eagerness to
the end, and sometimes faint with weariness under a task, which Scaliger
compares to the labours of the anvil and the mine; that what is obvious
is not always known, and what is known is not always present; that
sudden fits of inadvertency will surprise vigilance, slight avocations
will seduce attention, and casual eclipses of the mind will darken
learning; and that the writer shall often in vain trace his memory, at
the moment of need, for that which yesterday he knew with intuitive
readiness, and which will come uncalled into his thoughts to-morrow.

In this work, when it shall be found that much is omitted, let it not be
forgotten that much likewise is performed; and though no book was ever
spared out of tenderness to the author, and the world is little
solicitous to know whence proceeded the faults of that which it
condemns; yet it may gratify curiosity to inform it, that the English
Dictionary was written with little assistance of the learned, and
without any patronage of the great; not in the soft obscurities of
retirement, or under the shelter of academick bowers, but amidst
inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow. It may repress
the triumph of malignant criticism to observe, that if our language is
not here fully displayed, I have only failed in an attempt, which no
human powers have hitherto completed. If the lexicons of ancient
tongues, now immutably fixed, and comprised in a few volumes, be yet,
after the toil of successive ages, inadequate and delusive; if the
aggregated knowledge, and co-operating diligence of the Italian
academicians, did not secure them from the censure of Beni; if the
embodied criticks of France, when fifty years had been spent upon their
work, were obliged to change its economy, and give their second edition
another form, I may surely be contented without the praise of
perfection, which, if I could obtain, in this gloom of solitude, what
would it avail me? I have protracted my work till most of those, whom I
wished to please, have sunk into the grave, and success and miscarriage
are empty sounds: I, therefore, dismiss it with frigid tranquillity,
having little to fear or hope from censure or from praise[4].

FOOTNOTES:

[1] That I may not appear to have spoken too irreverently of Junius, I
    have here subjoined a few specimens of his etymological
    extravagance.

BANISH, _religare, ex banno vel territorio exigere, in exitium agere_.
Gal. _bannir_. It. _bandire, bandeggiare_. H. _bandir_. B. _bannen_.
Aevi medii scriptores bannire dicebant. V. Spelm. in Bannum & in
Banleuga. Quoniam vero regionum urbiumq; limites arduis plerumq;
montibus, altis fluminibus, longis deniq; flexuosisq; angustissimarum
viarum anfractibus includebantur, fieri potest id genus limites _ban_
dici ab eo quod [Greek: Bannatai] et [Greek:  Bannatroi] Tarentinis
olim, sicuti tradit Hesychius, vocabantur [Greek: ahi loxoi kai mae
ithuteneis hodoi], "obliquae ac minime in rectum tendentes viae." Ac
fortasse quoque huc facit quod [Greek: Banous], eodem Hesychio teste,
dicebant [Greek: horae strangulae], montes arduos.

EMPTY, emtie, _vacuus, inanis_. A.S. [Anglo-Saxon: Aemtig]. Nescio an
sint ab [Greek: emeo] vel [Greek: emetuio]. Vomo, evomo, vomitu evacue.
Videtur interim etymologiam hanc non obscure firmare codex Rush. Mat.
xii. 22. ubi antique scriptum invenimus [Anglo-Saxon: gemoeted hit
emetig]. "Invenit eam vacantem."

HILL, _mons, collis_. A.S. [Anglo-Saxon: hyll]. Quod videri potest
abscissum ex [Greek: kolonae] vel [Greek: kolonos]. Collis, tumulus,
locus in plano editior. Hom. II. B. v. 811. [Greek: esti de tis
proparoithe poleos aipeia kolonae]. Ubi authori brevium scholiorum
[Greek: kolonae] exp. [Greek: topos eis hupsos anaekon geolofos
exochae].

NAP, _to take a nap. Dormire, condormiscere_. Cym. _heppian_. A.S.
[Anglo-Saxon: hnaeppan]. Quod postremum videri potest desumptum ex
[Greek: knephas], obscuritas, tenebrae: nihil enim aeque solet
conciliare somnum, quam caliginosa profundae noctis obscuritas.

STAMMERER, Balbus, blaesus. Goth. [Gothic: STAMMS]. A.S. [Anglo-Saxon:
stamer, stamur]. D. _stam_. B. _stameler_. Su. _stamma_. Isl. _stamr_.
Sunt a [Greek: stomulein] vel [Greek: stomullein], nimia loquacitate
alios offendere; quod impedite loquentes libentissime garrire soleant;
vel quod aliis nimii semper videantur, etiam parcissime loquentes.

[2] The structure of Hume's sentences is French. For Johnson's opinion
    of it, see Boswell, i. 420. Edit. 1816.

[3] Blackstone very frequently denounces the use of Norman French in
    our law proceedings, and in Parliament as a badge of slavery, which
    he could have wished to see "fall into total oblivion, unless it be
    reserved as a solemn memento to remind us that our liberties are
    mortal, having once been destroyed by a foreign force." Much amusing
    and interesting research on the once prevalent use of French in
    England, is exhibited in Barrington's Observations on the more
    Antient Statutes.

  And Frenche she spake full fetously;
  After the schole of _Stratforde at Bowe_,
  For Frenche of Paris was to her unknowne.
                       Chaucer's Prologue to the Prioress' Tale.

[4] Dr. Johnson's Dictionary was published on the fifteenth day of
    April 1755, in two vols. folio, price 4_l_. 10_s._ bound. The
    booksellers who engaged in this national work were the Knaptons,
    Longman, Hitch and Co. Millar, and Dodsley.



ADVERTISEMENT
TO THE
FOURTH EDITION
OF THE
ENGLISH DICTIONARY[1].

Many are the works of human industry, which to begin and finish are
hardly granted to the same man. He that undertakes to compile a
dictionary, undertakes that, which, if it comprehends the full extent of
his design, he knows himself unable to perform. Yet his labours, though
deficient, may be useful, and with the hope of this inferiour praise, he
must incite his activity, and solace his weariness.

Perfection is unattainable, but nearer and nearer approaches may be
made; and, finding my Dictionary about to be reprinted, I have
endeavoured, by a revisal, to make it less reprehensible. I will not
deny that I found many parts requiring emendation, and many more capable
of improvement. Many faults I have corrected, some superfluities I have
taken away, and some deficiencies I have supplied. I have methodised
some parts that were disordered, and illuminated some that were obscure.
Yet the changes or additions bear a very small proportion to the whole.
The critick will now have less to object, but the student who has bought
any of the former copies needs not repent; he will not, without nice
collation, perceive how they differ; and usefulness seldom depends upon
little things.

For negligence or deficience, I have, perhaps, not need of more apology
than the nature of the work will furnish: I have left that inaccurate
which never was made exact, and that imperfect which never was
completed.

[1] Published in folio, 1773.



PREFACE
TO THE
OCTAVO EDITION
OF THE
ENGLISH DICTIONARY[1].

Having been long employed in the study and cultivation of the English
language, I lately published a dictionary, like those compiled by the
academies of Italy and France, for the use of such as aspire to
exactness of criticism or elegance of style.

But it has been since considered that works of that kind are by no means
necessary to the greater number of readers, who, seldom intending to
write or presuming to judge, turn over books only to amuse their
leisure, and to gain degrees of knowledge suitable to lower characters,
or necessary to the common business of life: these know not any other
use of a dictionary than that of adjusting orthography, or explaining
terms of science, or words of infrequent occurrence or remote
derivation.

For these purposes many dictionaries have been written by different
authors, and with different degrees of skill; but none of them have yet
fallen into my hands by which even the lowest expectations could be
satisfied. Some of their authors wanted industry, and others literature:
some knew not their own defects, and others were too idle to supply
them.

For this reason a small dictionary appeared yet to be wanting to common
readers; and, as I may without arrogance claim to myself a longer
acquaintance with the lexicography of our language than any other writer
has had, I shall hope to be considered as having more experience at
least than most of my predecessors, and as more likely to accommodate
the nation with a vocabulary of daily use. I, therefore, offer to the
publick an abstract or epitome of my former work.

In comparing this with other dictionaries of the same kind, it will be
found to have several advantages.

1. It contains many words not to be found in any other.

2. Many barbarous terms and phrases, by which other dictionaries may
vitiate the style, are rejected from this.

3. The words are more correctly spelled, partly by attention to their
etymology, and partly by observation of the practice of the best
authors.

4. The etymologies and derivations, whether from foreign languages or
from native roots, are more diligently traced, and more distinctly
noted.

5. The senses of each word are more copiously enumerated, and more
clearly explained.

6. Many words occurring in the elder authors, such as Spenser,
Shakespeare, and Milton, which had been hitherto omitted, are here
carefully inserted; so that this book may serve as a glossary or
expository index to the poetical writers.

7. To the words, and to the different senses of each word, are subjoined
from the large dictionary the names of those writers by whom they have
been used; so that the reader who knows the different periods of the
language, and the time of its authors, may judge of the elegance or
prevalence of any word, or meaning of a word; and without recurring to
other books, may know what are antiquated, what are unusual, and what
are recommended by the best authority.

The words of this Dictionary, as opposed to others, are more diligently
collected, more accurately spelled, more faithfully explained, and more
authentically ascertained. Of an abstract it is not necessary to say
more; and I hope, it will not be found that truth requires me to say
less.

[1] Published in 2 vols. 1756.



MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS
ON THE
TRAGEDY OF MACBETH:

WITH REMARKS ON SIR T. HANMER'S EDITION OF SHAKESPEARE.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1745.

[Transcriber's note: There are two footnote systems in use in this
section. The numbered footnotes in square brackets, [1], [2], etc, are
those of the editor, and are to be found at the end of the section.
The lettered footnotes in round brackets, (a), (b), etc, are Johnson's,
and are to be found at the end of each Note.]


NOTE I.

ACT I. SCENE I.

  _Enter three Witches._

In order to make a true estimate of the abilities and merit of a writer,
it is always necessary to examine the genius of his age, and the
opinions of his contemporaries. A poet, who should now make the whole
action of his tragedy depend upon enchantment, and produce the chief
events by the assistance of supernatural agents, would be censured as
transgressing the bounds of probability; he would be banished from the
theatre to the nursery, and condemned to write fairy tales instead of
tragedies; but a survey of the notions, that prevailed at the time when
this play was written, will prove, that Shakespeare was in no danger of
such censures, since he only turned the system that was then universally
admitted to his advantage, and was far from over-burdening the credulity
of his audience.

The reality of witchcraft or enchantment, which, though not strictly the
same, are confounded in this play, has in all ages and countries been
credited by the common people, and in most by the learned themselves[1].
These phantoms have indeed appeared more frequently, in proportion as
the darkness of ignorance has been more gross; but it cannot be shown,
that the brightest gleams of knowledge have at any time been sufficient
to drive them out of the world. The time, in which this kind of
credulity was at its height, seems to have been that of the holy war, in
which the Christians imputed all their defeats to enchantment or
diabolical opposition, as they ascribe their success to the assistance
of their military saints; and the learned Dr. Warburton appears to
believe (Supplement to the Introduction to Don Quixote) that the first
accounts of enchantments were brought into this part of the world by
those who returned from their eastern expeditions. But there is always
some distance between the birth and maturity of folly, as of wickedness:
this opinion had long existed, though, perhaps, the application of it
had in no foregoing age been so frequent, nor the reception so general.
Olympiodorus, in Photius's Extracts, tells us of one Libanius, who
practised this kind of military magick, and having promised [Greek:
choris hopliton kata barbaron energein], _to perform great things
against the barbarians without soldiers_, was, at the instances of the
emperess Placidia, put to death, when he was about to have given proofs
of his abilities. The emperess showed some kindness in her anger by
cutting him off at a time so convenient for his reputation.

But a more remarkable proof of the antiquity of this notion may be found
in St. Chrysostom's book de Sacerdotio, which exhibits a scene of
enchantments, not exceeded by any romance of the middle age; he supposes
a spectator, overlooking a field of battle, attended by one that points
out all the various objects of horrour, the engines of destruction, and
the arts of slaughter. [Greek: Deiknuto de eti para tois enantiois kai
petomenous hippous dia tinos manganeias kai hoplitas di aeros
pheromenous, kai pasaen goaeteias dunamin kai hidean.]_Let him then
proceed to show him in the opposite armies horses flying by enchantment,
armed men transported through the air, and every power and form of
magick_. Whether St. Chrysostom believed that such performances were
really to be seen in a day of battle, or only endeavoured to enliven his
description, by adopting the notions of the vulgar, it is equally
certain, that such notions were in his time received, and that,
therefore, they were not imported from the Saracens in a later age; the
wars with the Saracens, however, gave occasion to their propagation, not
only as bigotry naturally discovers prodigies, but as the scene of
action was removed to a greater distance, and distance, either of time
or place, is sufficient to reconcile weak minds to wonderful relations.

The reformation did not immediately arrive at its meridian, and though
day was gradually increasing upon us, the goblins of witchcraft still
continued to hover in the twilight. In the time of queen Elizabeth was
the remarkable trial of the witches of Warbois, whose conviction is
still commemorated in an annual sermon at Huntingdon. But in the reign
of king James, in which this tragedy was written, many circumstances
concurred to propagate and confirm this opinion. The king, who was much
celebrated for his knowledge, had, before his arrival in England, not
only examined in person a woman accused of witchcraft, but had given a
very formal account of the practices and illusions of evil spirits, the
compacts of witches, the ceremonies used by them, the manner of
detecting them, and the justice of punishing them, in his dialogues of
_Daemonologie_, written in the Scottish dialect, and published at
Edinburgh. This book was, soon after his accession, reprinted at London;
and, as the ready way to gain king James's favour was to flatter his
speculations, the system of _Daemonologie_ was immediately adopted by
all who desired either to gain preferment or not to lose it. Thus the
doctrine of witchcraft was very powerfully inculcated; and as the
greatest part of mankind have no other reason for their opinions than
that they are in fashion, it cannot be doubted but this persuasion made
a rapid progress, since vanity and credulity co-operated in its favour,
and it had a tendency to free cowardice from reproach. The infection
soon reached the parliament, who, in the first year of king James, made
a law, by which it was enacted, chap. xii. That, "if any person shall
use any invocation or conjuration of any evil or wicked spirit; 2. or
shall consult, covenant with, entertain, employ, feed or reward any evil
or cursed spirit to or for any intent or purpose; 3. or take up any dead
man, woman or child out of the grave,--or the skin, bone or any part of
the dead person, to be employed or used in any manner of witchcraft,
sorcery, charm or enchantment; 4. or shall use, practise or exercise any
sort of witchcraft, sorcery, charm or enchantment; 5. whereby any person
shall be destroyed, killed, wasted, consumed, pined or lamed in any part
of the body; 6. That every such person, being convicted, shall suffer
death." This law was repealed in our time.

Thus, in the time of Shakespeare, was the doctrine of witchcraft at once
established by law and by the fashion, and it became not only unpolite,
but criminal, to doubt it; and as prodigies are always seen in
proportion as they are expected, witches were every day discovered, and
multiplied so fast in some places, that bishop Hall mentions a village
in Lancashire, where their number was greater than that of the
houses[2]. The Jesuits and Sectaries took advantage of this universal
errour, and endeavoured to promote the interest of their parties by
pretended cures of persons afflicted by evil spirits; but they were
detected and exposed by the clergy of the established church.

Upon this general infatuation Shakespeare might be easily allowed to
found a play, especially since he has followed with great exactness such
histories as were then thought true; nor can it be doubted that the
scenes of enchantment, however they may now be ridiculed, were both by
himself and his audience thought awful and affecting[3].


NOTE III. [Transcriber's note: sic]

ACT I. SCENE II.

 --The merciless Macdonal,--from the western isles
  Of _Kernes_ and _Gallowglasses_ was supply'd;
  And fortune on his damned _quarry_ smiling,
  Shew'd like a rebel's whore.--

_Kernes_ are light-armed, and _Gallowglasses_ heavy-armed soldiers. The
word _quarry_ has no sense that is properly applicable in this place,
and, therefore, it is necessary to read,

  And fortune on his damned _quarrel_ smiling.

_Quarrel_ was formerly used for _cause_, or for _the occasion of a
quarrel_, and is to be found in that sense in Hollingshed's account of
the story of Macbeth, who, upon the creation of the prince of
Cumberland, thought, says the historian, that he had _a just quarrel_ to
endeavour after the crown. The sense, therefore, is, _fortune smiling on
his execrable cause, &c_.


NOTE III.

  If I say sooth, I must report, they were
  As cannons overcharg'd with double cracks.
  So they redoubled strokes upon the foe.

Mr. Theobald has endeavoured to improve the sense of this passage by
altering the punctuation thus:

                      --They were
As cannons overcharg'd; with double cracks
So they redoubled strokes.--

He declares, with some degree of exultation, that he has no idea of _a
cannon charged with double cracks_; but, surely, the great author will
not gain much by an alteration which makes him say of a hero, that he
_redoubles strokes with double cracks_, an expression not more loudly to
be applauded, or more easily pardoned, than that which is rejected in
its favour. That a _cannon is charged with thunder_ or _with double
thunders_ may be written, not only without nonsense, but with elegance:
and nothing else is here meant by _cracks_, which in the time of this
writer was a word of such emphasis and dignity, that in this play he
terms the general dissolution of nature the _crack of doom_.

There are among Mr. Theobald's alterations others which I do not
approve, though I do not always censure them; for some of his amendments
are so excellent, that, even when he has failed, he ought to be treated
with indulgence and respect.


NOTE IV.

  _King_. But who comes here?

  _Mal_. The worthy Thane of Rosse.

  _Len_. What haste looks through his eyes?
         So should he look, that _seems_ to speak things strange.
The meaning of this passage, as it now stands, is, _so should he look,
that looks as if he told things strange_. But Rosse neither yet told
strange things, nor could look as if he told them; Lenox only
conjectured from his air that he had strange things to tell, and,
therefore, undoubtedly said,

 --What haste looks through his eyes?
  So should he look, that _teems_ to speak things strange.

He looks like one that _is big_ with something of importance; a metaphor
so natural, that it is every day used in common discourse.


NOTE V.

SCENE III.

  _Thunder. Enter the three Witches_.

  _1 Witch_. Where hast thou been, sister?

  _2 Witch_. Killing swine.

  _3 Witch_. Sister, where thou?

  _1 Witch_. A sailor's wife had chesnuts in her lap,
             And mouncht, and mouncht, and mouncht. Give me, quoth I.
             (a) Aroint thee, witch!--the rump-fed ronyon cries.
             Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' th' Tyger:
             But in a sieve I'll thither sail,
            And like a rat without a tail,
            I'll do--I'll do--and I'll do.

  _2 Witch_. I'll give thee a wind.

  _1 Witch_. Thou art kind.

  _3 Witch_. And I another.

  _1 Witch_. I myself have all the other.
             And the (b) very points they blow;
             All the quarters that they know,
             I' th' ship-man's card.--
             I will drain him dry as hay,
             Sleep shall neither night nor day,
             Hang upon his pent-house lid;
             He shall live a man (c) forbid;
             Weary sev'n nights, nine times nine,
             Shall he dwindle, peak and pine;
             Tho' his bark cannot be lost,
             Yet it shall be tempest-tost.
             Look, what I have.

  _2 Witch_. Shew me, Shew me.


(a) Aroint thee, witch!
In one of the folio editions the reading is _anoint thee_, in a sense
very consistent with the common accounts of witches, who are related to
perform many supernatural acts by the means of unguents, and
particularly to fly through the air to the place where they meet at
their hellish festivals. In this sense _anoint thee, witch_, will mean,
_away, witch, to your infernal assembly_. This reading I was inclined to
favour, because I had met with the word _aroint_ in no other author;
till looking into Hearne's Collections, I found it in a very old
drawing, that he has published, in which St. Patrick is represented
visiting hell, and putting the devils into great confusion by his
presence, of whom one that is driving the damned before him with a
prong, has a label issuing out from his mouth with these words, "OUT OUT
ARONGT," of which the last is evidently the same with _aroint_, and used
in the same sense as in this passage.

(b) And the _very_ points they blow.
As the word _very_ is here of no other use than to fill up the verse, it
is likely that Shakespeare wrote _various_, which might be easily
mistaken for _very_, being either negligently read, hastily pronounced,
or imperfectly heard.

(c) He shall live a man _forbid_.
Mr. Theobald has very justly explained _forbid_ by _accursed_, but
without giving any reason of his interpretation. To _bid_ is originally
_to pray_, as in this Saxon fragment:

  [Anglo-Saxon: He is wis thaet bit g bote,] &c.

He is wise that _prays_ and makes amends.

As to _forbid_, therefore, implies to _prohibit_, in opposition to the
word _bid_, in its present sense, it signifies by the same kind of
opposition to _curse_, when it is derived from the same word in its
primitive meaning.


NOTE VI.

SCENE V

The incongruity of all the passages, in which the Thane of Cawdor is
mentioned, is very remarkable; in the second scene the Thanes of Rosse
and Angus bring the king an account of the battle, and inform him that
Norway,

  Assisted by that most disloyal traitor
  The Thane of Cawdor, 'gan a dismal conflict.

It appears that Cawdor was taken prisoner, for the king says, in the
same scene,

 --Go, pronounce his death;
  And with his former title greet Macbeth.

Yet though Cawdor was thus taken by Macbeth, in arms against his king,
when Macbeth is saluted, in the fourth scene, _Thane of Cawdor_, by the
Weird Sisters, he asks,

  But how, of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor lives.
  A prosp'rous gentleman;--

And in the next line considers the promises, that he should be Cawdor
and King, as equally unlikely to be accomplished. How can Macbeth be
ignorant of the state of the Thane of Cawdor, whom he has just defeated
and taken prisoner, or call him a _prosperous gentleman_ who has
forfeited his title and life by open rebellion? Or why should he wonder
that the title of the rebel whom he has overthrown should be conferred
upon him? He cannot be supposed to dissemble his knowledge of the
condition of Cawdor, because he inquires with all the ardour of
curiosity, and the vehemence of sudden astonishment; and because nobody
is present but Banquo, who had an equal part in the battle, and was
equally acquainted with Cawdor's treason. However, in the next scene,
his ignorance still continues; and when Rosse and Angus present him from
the king with his new title, he cries out,

 --The Thane of Cawdor lives;
  Why do you dress me in his borrow'd robes?

Rosse and Angus, who were the messengers that, in the second scene,
informed the king of the assistance given by Cawdor to the invader,
having lost, as well as Macbeth, all memory of what they had so lately
seen and related, make this answer,

          --Whether he was
  Combin'd with Norway, or did line the rebel
  With hidden help and 'vantage, or with both
  He labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not.

Neither Rosse knew what he had just reported, nor Macbeth what he had
just done. This seems not to be one of the faults that are to be imputed
to the transcribers, since, though the inconsistency of Rosse and Angus
might be removed, by supposing that their names are erroneously
inserted, and that only Rosse brought the account of the battle, and
only Angus was sent to compliment Macbeth, yet the forgetfulness of
Macbeth cannot be palliated, since what he says could not have been
spoken by any other.


NOTE VII.

  My thought, whose murther yet is but fantastical,
  Shakes so my single state of man,--

The _single state of man_ seems to be used by Shakespeare for an
_individual_, in opposition to a _commonwealth_, or _conjunct body_ of
men.


NOTE VIII.

  _Macbeth._--Come what come may,
            _Time and the hour_ runs through the roughest day.

I suppose every reader is disgusted at the tautology in this passage,
_time and the hour_, and will, therefore, willingly believe that
Shakespeare wrote it thus,

            --Come what come may,
  Time! on!--the hour runs thro' the roughest day.

Macbeth is deliberating upon the events which are to befall him; but
finding no satisfaction from his own thoughts, he grows impatient of
reflection, and resolves to wait the close without harassing himself
with conjectures:

 --Come what come may.

But, to shorten the pain of suspense, he calls upon time, in the usual
style of ardent desire, to quicken his motion,

  Time! on!--

He then comforts himself with the reflection that all his perplexity
must have an end,

 --The hour runs thro' the roughest day.

This conjecture is supported by the passage in the letter to his lady,
in which he says, _They referr'd me to the_ coming on of time _with,
Hail, King that shall be._


NOTE IX.

SCENE VI.

  _Malcolm._--Nothing in his life
            Became him like the leaving it. He dy'd,
            As one that had been studied in his death,
            To throw away the dearest thing he _ow'd_,
            As 'twere a careless trifle.

As the word _ow'd_ affords here no sense, but such as is forced and
unnatural, it cannot be doubted that it was originally written, The
dearest thing he _own'd_; a reading which needs neither defence nor
explication.


NOTE X.

  _King._--There's no art,
         To find the mind's construction in the face:

The _construction of the mind_ is, I believe, a phrase peculiar to
Shakespeare; it implies the _frame_ or _disposition_ of the mind, by
which it is determined to good or ill.


NOTE XI.

  _Macbeth._ The service and the loyalty I owe,
          In doing it, pays itself. Your highness' part
          Is to receive our duties; and our duties
          Are to your throne and state, children and servants;
          Which do but what they should, by doing _every thing
          Safe tow'rd your love and honour_.

Of the last line of this speech, which is certainly, as it is now read,
unintelligible, an emendation has been attempted, which Dr. Warburton
and Mr. Theobald have admitted as the true reading:

                                 --our duties
  Are to your throne and state, children and servants,
  Which do but what they should, in doing every thing
  _Fiefs_ to your love and honour.

My esteem for these criticks, inclines me to believe, that they cannot
be much pleased with the expressions, _Fiefs to love_, or _Fiefs to
honour_; and that they have proposed this alteration, rather because no
other occurred to them, than because they approved it. I shall,
therefore, propose a bolder change, perhaps, with no better success, but
"sua cuique placent." I read thus,

                              --our duties
  Are to your throne and state, children and servants,
  Which do but what they should, in doing _nothing,
  Save_ tow'rd _your love and honour_.

We do but perform our duty, when we contract all our views to your
service, when we act with _no other_ principle than regard to _your love
and honour_.

It is probable that this passage was first corrupted by writing _safe_
for _save_, and the lines then stood thus:

                --doing nothing
  Safe tow'rd your love and honour.

Which the next transcriber observing to be wrong, and yet not being able
to discover the real fault, altered to the present reading.


NOTE XII.

SCENE VII.

 --Thou'dst have, great Glamis,
  That which cries, "thus thou must do, if thou have _it_;
   And that," &c.

As the object of Macbeth's desire is here introduced speaking of itself,
it is necessary to read,

 --thou'dst have, great Glamis,
  That which cries, "thus thou must do, if thou have _me_."


NOTE XIII.

 --Hie thee hither,
  That I may pour my spirits in thine ear;
  And chastise with the valour of my tongue
  All that impedes thee from the golden round,
  Which fate and metaphysical aid doth _seem_
  To have thee crown'd withal.

For _seem_, the sense evidently directs us to read _seek_. The crown to
which fate destines thee, and which preternatural agents _endeavour_ to
bestow upon thee. The _golden round_ is the _diadem_.


NOTE XIV.

  _Lady Macbeth_.--Come, all you spirits
                That tend on _mortal thoughts_, unsex me here;
                And fill me, from the crown to th' toe, top-full
                Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
                Stop up th' access and passage to remorse;
                That no compunctious visitings of nature
                Shake my fell purpose, nor _keep peace_ between
                Th' effect and it!


--Mortal thoughts,--
This expression signifies not _the thoughts of mortals_, but _murderous,
deadly_, or _destructive designs_. So in Act v.

  Hold fast the _mortal_ sword.

And in another place,

  With twenty _mortal_ murthers.

 --Nor keep _peace_ between
  Th' effect and it!--

The intent of Lady Macbeth evidently is to wish that no womanish
tenderness, or conscientious remorse, may hinder her purpose from
proceeding to effect; but neither this, nor indeed any other sense, is
expressed by the present reading, and, therefore, it cannot be doubted
that Shakespeare wrote differently, perhaps, thus:


  That no compunctious visitings of nature
  Shake my fell purpose, nor _keep pace_ between
  Th' effect and it.

To _keep pace between_, may signify to _pass between_, to _intervene_.
Pace is, on many occasions, a favourite of Shakespeare. This phrase, is
indeed, not usual in this sense; but was it not its novelty that gave
occasion to the present corruption?


NOTE XV.

SCENE VIII.

  _King_. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
          Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
          Unto our gentle senses.

  _Ban_. This guest of summer,
         The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
         By his lov'd mansionry, that heaven's breath
         Smells wooingly here. No jutty frieze,
         Buttrice, nor coigne of 'vantage, but this bird
         Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle:
         Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd,
         The air is delicate.

In this short scene, I propose a slight alteration to be made, by
substituting _site_ for _seat_, as the ancient word for situation; and
_sense_ for _senses_, as more agreeable to the measure; for which reason
likewise I have endeavoured to adjust this passage,

 --heaven's breath
  Smells wooingly here. No jutty frieze,

by changing the punctuation and adding the syllable thus,

 --heaven's breath
  Smells wooingly. Here is no jutty frieze.

Those who have perused books, printed at the time of the first editions
of Shakespeare, know that greater alterations than these are necessary
almost in every page, even where it is not to be doubted, that the copy
was correct.


NOTE XVI.

SCENE. X.

The arguments by which Lady Macbeth persuades her husband to commit the
murder, afford a proof of Shakespeare's knowledge of human nature. She
urges the excellence and dignity of courage, a glittering idea which has
dazzled mankind from age to age, and animated sometimes the
housebreaker, and sometimes the conqueror; but this sophism Macbeth has
for ever destroyed, by distinguishing true from false fortitude, in a
line and a half; of which it may almost be said, that they ought to
bestow immortality on the author, though all his other productions had
been lost:

  I dare do all that may become a man;
  Who dares do more is none.

This topick, which has been always employed with too much success, is
used in this scene, with peculiar propriety, to a soldier by a woman.
Courage is the distinguishing virtue of a soldier, and the reproach of
cowardice cannot be borne by any man from a woman, without great
impatience.

She then urges the oaths by which he had bound himself to murder Duncan,
another art of sophistry by which men have sometimes deluded their
consciences, and persuaded themselves that what would be criminal in
others is virtuous in them: this argument Shakespeare, whose plan
obliged him to make Macbeth yield, has not confuted, though he might
easily have shown that a former obligation could not be vacated by a
latter.


NOTE XVII.

  Letting I dare not wait upon I would,
  Like the poor cat i' th' adage.

The adage alluded to is, The cat loves fish but dares not wet her foot.

Catus amat pisces, sed non vult tingere plantas.


NOTE XVIII.

  Will I with wine and wassel so convince.

To convince is, in Shakespeare, to _overpower_ or _subdue_, as in this
play:

 --Their malady _convinces_
  The great assay of art.


NOTE XIX.

 --Who shall bear the guilt
  Of our great _quell_?

_Quell_ is _murder, manquellers_ being, in the old language, the term
for which _murderers_ is now used.


NOTE XX.

ACT II. SCENE II.

 --Now o'er one half the world
  (a)_Nature seems dead_, and wicked dreams abuse
  The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
  Pale Hecat's offerings: and wither'd murther,
  Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
  Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
  _With (b)Tarquin's ravishing sides_ tow'rds his design
  Moves like a ghost.--Thou sound and firm-set earth,
  Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
  Thy very stones prate of my where-about;
  _And (c)take the present horror from the time,
  Which now suits with it_.--

(a)--Now o'er one half the world
   Nature seems dead.

That is, _over our hemisphere all action and motion seem to have
ceased_. This image, which is, perhaps, the most striking that poetry
can produce, has been adopted by Dryden, in his Conquest of Mexico.

  All things are hush'd as Nature's self lay dead,
  The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head:
  The little birds in dreams their songs repeat,
  And sleeping flowers beneath the night dews sweat.
  Even lust and envy sleep!

These lines, though so well known, I have transcribed, that the contrast
between them and this passage of Shakespeare may be more accurately
observed.

Night is described by two great poets, but one describes a night of
quiet, the other of perturbation. In the night of Dryden, all the
disturbers of the world are laid asleep; in that of Shakespeare, nothing
but sorcery, lust, and murder, is awake. He that reads Dryden, finds
himself lulled with serenity, and disposed to solitude and
contemplation. He that peruses Shakespeare, looks round alarmed, and
starts to find himself alone. One is the night of a lover; the other,
that of a murderer.

  (b)--Wither'd murder,
 --thus with his stealthy pace,
  With Tarquin's ravishing _sides_ tow'rds his design,
  Moves like a ghost.--

This was the reading of this passage in all the editions before that of
Mr. Pope, who for _sides_, inserted in the text _strides_, which Mr.
Theobald has tacitly copied from him, though a more proper alteration
might, perhaps, have been made. A _ravishing stride_ is an action of
violence, impetuosity, and tumult, like that of a savage rushing on his
prey; whereas the poet is here attempting to exhibit an image of secrecy
and caution, of anxious circumspection and guilty timidity, the
_stealthy pace_ of a _ravisher_ creeping into the chamber of a virgin,
and of an assassin approaching the bed of him whom he proposes to
murder, without awaking him; these he describes as _moving like ghosts_,
whose progression is so different from _strides_, that it has been in
all ages represented to be, as Milton expresses it,

  Smooth sliding without step.

This hemistich will afford the true reading of this place, which is, I
think, to be corrected thus:

   --and wither'd murder,
   --thus with his stealthy pace,
  With Tarquin ravishing, _slides_ tow'rds his design,
  Moves like a ghost.

Tarquin is, in this place, the general name of a ravisher, and the sense
is: Now is the time in which every one is asleep, but those who are
employed in wickedness, the witch who is sacrificing to Hecate, and the
ravisher, and the murderer, who, like me, are stealing upon their prey.

When the reading is thus adjusted, he wishes with great propriety, in
the following lines, that the _earth_ may not _hear his steps_.

  (c) And take the present horror from the time.
  Which now suits with it.--

I believe every one that has attentively read this dreadful soliloquy is
disappointed at the conclusion, which, if not wholly unintelligible, is
at least obscure, nor can be explained into any sense worthy of the
author. I shall, therefore, propose a slight alteration,

     --Thou sound and firm-set earth,
  Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
  Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
  And _talk_--the present horror of the time!--
  That now suits with it.--

Macbeth has, in the foregoing lines, disturbed his imagination by
enumerating all the terrours of the night; at length he is wrought up to
a degree of frenzy, that makes him afraid of some supernatural discovery
of his design, and calls out to the stones not to betray him, not to
declare where he walks, nor _to talk_.--As he is going to say of what,
he discovers the absurdity of his suspicion, and pauses, but is again
overwhelmed by his guilt, and concludes that such are the horrours of
the present night, that the stones may be expected to cry out against
him:

  _That_ now suits with it.

He observes in a subsequent passage, that on such occasions _stones have
been known to move_. It is now a very just and strong picture of a man
about to commit a deliberate murder, under the strongest convictions of
the wickedness of his design.


NOTE XXI.

SCENE IV.

  _Len_. The night has been unruly; where we lay
         Our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say,
         Lamentings heard i'th'air, strange screams of death,
         And prophesying with accents terrible
         Of dire combustion, and confused events,
         _New-hatch'd to the woeful time_.
         The obscure bird clamour'd the live-long night:
         Some say, the earth was fev'rous, and did shake.

These lines, I think, should be rather regulated thus:

 --prophesying with accents terrible,
  Of dire combustion and confused events.
  New-hatch'd to th'woeful time, the obscure bird
  Clamour'd the live-long night. Some say, the earth
  Was fev'rous and did shake.

A _prophecy_ of an _event new-hatch'd_, seems to be _a prophecy_ of an
_event past_. The term _new-hatch'd_ is properly applicable to a _bird_,
and that birds of ill omen should be _new-hatch'd to the woeful time_ is
very consistent with the rest of the prodigies here mentioned, and with
the universal disorder into which nature is described as thrown, by the
perpetration of this horrid murder.


NOTE XXII.

              --Up, up, and see
  The great doom's image, Malcolm, Banquo,
  As from your graves rise up.--

The second line might have been so easily completed, that it cannot be
supposed to have been left imperfect by the author, who probably wrote,


       --Malcolm! Banquo! rise!
  As from your graves rise up.--

Many other emendations, of the same kind, might be made, without any
greater deviation from the printed copies, than is found in each of them
from the rest.


NOTE XXIII.

  _Macbeth_.--Here, lay Duncan,
            His silver skin laced with his golden blood;
            And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature,
            For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murtherers
            Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers
            _Unmannerly breech'd with gore_.--

An _unmannerly dagger_, and a _dagger breech'd_, or as in some editions
_breach'd with gore_, are expressions not easily to be understood, nor
can it be imagined that Shakespeare would reproach the murderer of his
king only with _want of manners_. There are, undoubtedly, two faults in
this passage, which I have endeavoured to take away by reading,

 --Daggers
  _Unmanly drench'd_ with gore.--

_I saw_ drench'd _with the king's Mood the fatal daggers, not only
instruments of murder but evidences of_ cowardice.

Each of these words might easily be confounded with that which I have
substituted for it by a hand not exact, a casual blot, or a negligent
inspection.

Mr. Pope has endeavoured to improve one of these lines, by substituting
_goary blood_ for _golden blood_, but it may easily be admitted, that he
who could on such an occasion talk of _lacing the silver skin_, would
_lace it_ with _golden blood_. No amendment can be made to this line, of
which every word is equally faulty, but by a general blot.

It is not improbable, that Shakespeare put these forced and unnatural
metaphors into the mouth of Macbeth, as a mark of artifice and
dissimulation, to show the difference between the studied language of
hypocrisy, and the natural outcries of sudden passion. This whole
speech, considered in this light, is a remarkable instance of judgment,
as if consists entirely of antitheses and metaphors.


NOTE XXIV.

ACT III. SCENE II.

  _Macbeth_.--Our fears in Banquo
            Stick deep; and in his royalty of nature
            Reigns that, which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares,
            And to that dauntless temper of his mind,
            He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour
            To act in safety. There is none but he,
            Whose being I do fear: and, under him,
            My genius is rebuk'd; (a)_as, it is said,
            Anthony's was by Cęsar_. He chid the sisters,
            When first they put the name of king upon me,
            And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like,
            They hail'd him father to a line of kings:
            Upon my head they plac'd a fruitless crown,
            And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,
            Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,
            No son of mine succeeding. If 'tis so,
            For Banquo's issue have I 'fil'd my mind;
            For them, the gracious Duncan have I murther'd,
            Put rancours in the vessel of my peace
            Only for them; and mine eternal jewel
            Given to the (b)_common enemy of man_,
            To make them kings,--the seed of Banquo kings.
            Rather than so, come fate into the list,
            (c)And champion me to th' _utterance_!--

(a)--As, it is said,
  Anthony's was by Cęsar.

Though I would not often assume the critick's privilege, of being
confident where certainty cannot be obtained, nor indulge myself too
far, in departing from the established reading; yet I cannot but propose
the rejection of this passage, which, I believe, was an insertion of
some player, that, having so much learning as to discover to what
Shakespeare alluded, was not willing that his audience should be less
knowing than himself, and has, therefore, weakened the author's sense by
the intrusion of a remote and useless image into a speech bursting from
a man wholly possessed with his own present condition, and, therefore,
not at leisure to explain his own allusions to himself. If these words
are taken away, by which not only the thought but the numbers are
injured, the lines of Shakespeare close together without any traces of a
breach.

  My genius is rebuk'd. He chid the sisters.

(b)--The common enemy of man.

It is always an entertainment to an inquisitive reader, to trace a
sentiment to its original source, and, therefore, though the term enemy
of man, applied to the devil, is in itself natural and obvious, yet some
may be pleased with being informed, that Shakespeare probably borrowed
it from the first lines of the Destruction of Troy, a book which he is
known to have read.

That this remark may not appear too trivial, I shall take occasion from
it to point out a beautiful passage of Milton, evidently copied from a
book of no greater authority: in describing the gates of hell, Book ii.
v.879, he says,

 --On a sudden open fly,
  With impetuous recoil and jarring sound,
  Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
  Harsh thunder.

In the history of Don Bellianis, when one of the knights approaches, as
I remember, the castle of Brandezar, the gates are said to open,
_grating harsh thunder upon their brazen hinges_.

 (c)--Come fate into the list,
    And champion me to th' utterance.--

This passage will be best explained by translating it into the language
from whence the only word of difficulty in it is borrowed. _Que la
destinée se rende en lice, et qu'elle me donne un défi_ ą l'outrance. A
challenge or a combat _a l'outrance, to extremity_, was a fixed term in
the law of arms, used when the combatants engaged with an _odium
internecinum, an intention to destroy each other_, in opposition to
trials of skill at festivals, or on other occasions, where the contest
was only for reputation or a prize. The sense, therefore, is, Let fate,
that has fore-doomed the exaltation of the sons of Banquo, enter the
lists against me, with the utmost animosity, in defence of its own
decrees, which I will endeavour to invalidate, whatever be the danger.


NOTE XXV.

  _Macbeth_. Ay, in the catalogue, ye go for men;
             As hounds, and grey-hounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,
             Shoughs, water-rugs, and demy-wolves are cleped
             All by the name of dogs.

Though this is not the most sparkling passage in the play, and though
the name of a dog is of no great importance, yet it may not be improper
to remark, that there is no such species of dogs as _shoughs_ mentioned
by Caius De Canibus Britannicis, or any other writer that has fallen
into my hands, nor is the word to be found in any dictionary which I
have examined. I, therefore, imagined that it is falsely printed for
_slouths_, a kind of slow hound bred in the southern parts of England,
but was informed by a lady, that it is more probably used, either by
mistake, or according to the orthography of that time, for _shocks_.


NOTE XXVI.

  _Macbeth_.--In this hour, at most,
            I will advise you where to plant yourselves;
            Acquaint you with the perfect spy o'th'time,
            The moment on't; for't must be done to-night,
            And something from the palace.--

What is meant by _the spy of the time_, it will be found difficult to
explain; and, therefore, sense will be cheaply gained by a slight
alteration.--Macbeth is assuring the assassins that they shall not want
directions to find Banquo, and, therefore, says,

I will--
  _Acquaint you with_ a perfect spy _o'th'time_.

Accordingly a third murderer joins them afterwards at the place of
action.

_Perfect_ is _well instructed_, or _well informed_, as in this play,

  Though in your state of honour I am _perfect_.

_Though I am_ well acquainted _with your quality and rank_.


NOTE XXVII.

SCENE IV.

  _2 Murderer_. He needs not to mistrust, since he delivers
                Our offices and what we have to do,
                To the direction just.

Mr. Theobald has endeavoured unsuccessfully to amend this passage, in
which nothing is faulty but the punctuation. The meaning of this abrupt
dialogue is this: The _perfect spy_, mentioned by Macbeth in the
foregoing scene, has, before they enter upon the stage, given them the
directions which were promised at the time of their agreement; and,
therefore, one of the murderers observes, that, since _he has given them
such exact information, he needs not doubt of their performance_. Then,
by way of exhortation to his associates, he cries out,

 --To the direction just.

_Now nothing remains but that we conform exactly to Macbeth's
directions_.


NOTE XXVIII.

SCENE V.

  _Macbeth_. You know your own degrees, sit down:
             At first and last, the hearty welcome.

As this passage stands, not only the numbers are very imperfect, but the
sense, if any can be found, weak and contemptible. The numbers will be
improved by reading,

 --sit down at first,
  And last a hearty welcome.

But for _last_ should then be written _next_. I believe the true
reading is,

  You know your own degrees, sit down--_To_ first
  And last the hearty welcome.

_All of whatever degree, from the highest to the lowest, may be assured
that their visit is well received_.


NOTE XXIX

  _Macbeth._--There's blood upon thy face.
                              [--_To the murderer, aside at the door_.]
  _Murderer_. 'Tis Banquo's then.
  _Macbeth_. 'Tis better thee without, than _he_ within.

The sense apparently requires that this passage should be read thus:

  'Tis better thee without, than _him_ within.

That is, _I am more pleased that the blood of Banquo should be on thy
face, than in his body_.


NOTE XXX.

  _Lady Macbeth_. O proper stuff!
                  This is the very painting of your fear:
                                          [_Aside to Macbeth_.
                  This is the air-drawn dagger, which, you said,
                  Led you to Duncan. Oh, these flaws and starts,
                  _Impostures to true fear_, would well become
                  A woman's story at a winter's fire,
                  Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself!
                  Why do you make such faces? When all's done,
                  You look but on a stool.

As _starts_ can neither with propriety nor sense be called _impostures
to true fear_, something else was undoubtedly intended by the author,
who, perhaps, wrote,

 --These flaws and starts,
  _Impostures true to fear_, would well become
  A woman's story.--

These symptoms of terrour and amazement might better become _impostors
true_ only _to fear, might become a coward at the recital of such
falsehoods, as no man could credit, whose understanding was not weakened
by his terrours; tales, told by a woman over a fire on the authority of
her grandam_.


NOTE XXXI.

  _Macbeth_.--Love and health to all!
            Then I'll sit down: give me some wine, fill full:--
            I drink to the general joy of the whole table,
            And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss;
            Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst,
            _And all to all_.--

Though this passage is, as it now stands, capable of more meanings than
one, none of them are very satisfactory; and, therefore, I am inclined
to read it thus:

 --to all, and him, we thirst,
  _And hail to all_.

Macbeth, being about to salute his company with a bumper, declares that
he includes Banquo, though absent, in this act of kindness, and wishes
_health_ to all. _Hail_ or _heil_ for _health_ was in such continual use
among the good-fellows of ancient times, that a drinker was called a
_was-heiler_, or a _wisher of health_, and the liquor was termed
_was-heil_, because _health_ was so often _wished_ over it. Thus in the
lines of Hanvil the monk,

  Jamque vagante scypho, discincto gutture _was-heil_
  Ingeminant _was-heil_: labor est plus perdere vini
  Quam sitis.--

These words were afterwards corrupted into _wassail_ and _wassailer_.


NOTE XXXII.

  _Macbeth_.--Can such things be,
            And overcome us, like a summer's cloud,
            Without our special wonder? You make me strange
            Even to the disposition that I _owe_,
            When now I think, you can behold such sights,
            And keep the natural ruby of your cheek,
            When mine is blanched with fear.

This passage, as it now stands, is unintelligible, but may be restored
to sense by a very slight alteration:

 --You make me strange
  Ev'n to the disposition that I _know_.

_Though I had before seen many instances of your courage, yet it now
appears in a degree altogether_ new. _So that my long_ acquaintance
_with your_ disposition _does not hinder me from that astonishment
which_ novelty _produces_.


NOTE XXXIII.

  It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood,
  Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak;
  Augurs, that understand relations, have
  By magpies, and by choughs, and rooks, brought forth
  The secret'st man of blood.--

In this passage the first line loses much of its force by the present
punctuation. Macbeth having considered the prodigy which has just
appeared, infers justly from it, that the death of Duncan cannot pass
unpunished;

  It will have blood:--

then, after a short pause, declares it as the general observation of
mankind, that murderers cannot escape:

 --they say, blood will have blood.

Murderers, when they have practised all human means of security, are
detected by supernatural directions:

  Augurs, that understand relations, &c.

By the word _relation_ is understood the _connexion_ of effects with
causes; to _understand relations_ as _an augur_, is to know how those
things _relate_ to each other, which have no visible combination or
dependence.


NOTE XXXIV.

SCENE VII.

  _Enter Lenox and another Lord_.

As this tragedy, like the rest of Shakespeare's, is, perhaps,
overstocked with personages, it is not easy to assign a reason, why a
nameless character should be introduced here, since nothing is said that
might not, with equal propriety, have been put into the mouth of any
other disaffected man. I believe, therefore, that in the original copy,
it was written, with a very common form of contraction, _Lenox and An_.
for which the transcriber, instead of Lenox and Angus, set down, Lenox
and _another Lord_. The author had, indeed, been more indebted to the
transcriber's fidelity and diligence, had he committed no errours of
greater importance.


NOTE XXXV.

As this is the chief scene of enchantment in the play, it is proper, in
this place, to observe, with how much judgment Shakespeare has selected
all the circumstances of his infernal ceremonies, and how exactly he has
conformed to common opinions and traditions:

  Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.

The usual form in which familiar spirits are reported to converse with
witches, is that of a cat. A witch, who was tried about half a century
before the time of Shakespeare, had a cat named Rutterkin, as the spirit
of one of those witches was Grimalkin; and when any mischief was to be
done, she used to bid Rutterkin _go and fly_; but once, when she would
have sent Rutterkin to torment a daughter of the countess of Rutland,
instead of _going_ or _flying_, he only cried _mew_, from whence she
discovered that the lady was out of his power, the power of witches
being not universal, but limited, as Shakespeare has taken care to
inculcate:

  Though his bark cannot be lost,
  Yet it shall be tempest-tost.

The common afflictions which the malice of witches produced, were
melancholy, fits, and loss of flesh, which are threatened by one of
Shakespeare's witches:

Weary sev'n nights, nine times nine,
  Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine.

It was, likewise, their practice to destroy the cattle of their
neighbours, and the farmers have, to this day, many ceremonies to secure
their cows and other cattle from witchcraft; but they seem to have been
most suspected of malice against swine. Shakespeare has, accordingly,
made one of his witches declare that she has been _killing swine_; and
Dr. Harsenet observes, that, about that time, "a sow could not be ill of
the measles, nor a girl of the sullens, but some old woman was charged
with witchcraft."

  Toad, that under the cold stone,
  Days and nights hast thirty-one,
  Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
  Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.

Toads have, likewise, long lain under the reproach of being by some
means accessary to witchcraft, for which reason Shakespeare, in the
first scene of this play, calls one of the spirits Padocke, or Toad, and
now takes care to put a toad first into the pot. When Vaninus was seized
at Tholouse, there was found at his lodgings, "ingens bufo vitro
inclusus," _a great toad shut in a vial_, upon which those that
prosecuted him "veneficium exprobrabant," _charged him_, I suppose,
_with witchcraft_.

  Fillet of a fenny snake,
  In the cauldron boil and bake:
  Eye of newt, and toe of frog;--For a charm, &c.

The propriety of these ingredients may be known by consulting the books
De Viribus Animalium and De Mirabilibus Mundi, ascribed to Albertus
Magnus, in which the reader, who has time and credulity, may discover
very wonderful secrets.

  Finger of birth-strangled babe,
  Ditch-deliver'd by a drab--

It has been already mentioned, in the law against witches, that they are
supposed to take up dead bodies to use in enchantments, which was
confessed by the woman whom king James examined, and who had of a dead
body, that was divided in one of their assemblies, two fingers for her
share. It is observable, that Shakespeare, on this great occasion, which
involves the fate of a king, multiplies all the circumstances of
horrour. The babe, whose finger is used, must be strangled in its birth;
the grease must not only be human, but must have dropped from a gibbet,
the gibbet of a murderer; and even the sow, whose blood is used, must
have offended nature by devouring her own farrow. These are touches of
judgment and genius.

  And now about the cauldron sing--

  Black spirits and white,
    Red spirits and grey,
  Mingle, mingle, mingle,
    You that mingle may.

And, in a former part:

 --weird sisters hand in hand,--
  Thus do go about, about;
  Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
  And thrice again, to make up nine;

These two passages I have brought together, because they both seem
subject to the objection of too much levity for the solemnity of
enchantment, and may both be shown, by one quotation from Camden's
account of Ireland, to be founded upon a practice really observed by the
uncivilized natives of that country. "When any one gets a fall," says
the informer of Camden, "he starts up, and, _turning three times to the
right_, digs a hole in the earth; for they imagine that there is a
spirit in the ground, and if he falls sick in two or three days, they
send one of their women that is skilled in that way to the place, where
she says, I call thee from the east, west, north, and south, from the
groves, the woods, the rivers, and the fens, from the _fairies, red,
black, white_." There was, likewise, a book written before the time of
Shakespeare, describing, amongst other properties, the _colours_ of
spirits.

Many other circumstances might be particularized, in which Shakespeare
has shown his judgment and his knowledge[4].


NOTE XXXVI.

SCENE II.

  _Macbeth_. Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo; down!
             Thy crown does (a)sear mine eye-balls:--and thy (b)_hair_,
             Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first:--
             A third is like the former.

(a) The expression of Macbeth, that the _crown sears_ his eye-balls, is
taken from the method formerly practised of destroying the sight of
captives or competitors, by holding a burning bason before the eye,
which dried up its humidity. Whence the Italian, _abacinare, to blind_.

(b) As Macbeth expected to see a train of kings, and was only inquiring
from what race they would proceed, he could not be surprised that the
_hair_ of the second was _bound with gold_, like that of the first; he
was offended only that the second resembled the first, as the first
resembled Banquo, and, therefore, said:

 --and thy _air_,
  Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first.


NOTE XXXVII.

  I will--give to the edge o' th' sword
  His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls
  That _trace him in his line_.--No boasting like a fool:
  This deed I'll do before my purpose cool.

Both the sense and measure of the third line, which, as it rhymes,
ought, according to the practice of this author, to be regular, are, at
present, injured by two superfluous syllables, which may easily be
removed by reading,

   --souls
  That trace his line:--No boasting like a fool.


NOTE XXXVIII.

SCENE III.

  _Rosse_. My dearest cousin,
           I pray you, school yourself: But for your husband,
           He's noble, wise, judicious, and best knows
           The fits o'th'time, I dare not speak much further,
           But cruel are the times when we are traitors,
           And do not know't ourselves, when we (a)_hold rumour
           From what we fear_, yet know not what we fear;
           But float upon a wild and violent sea,
           Each way, and (b)_move_. I'll take my leave of you:
           Shall not be long but I'll be here again:
           Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward
           To what they were before: my pretty cousin,
           Blessing upon you!

(a)--When we hold rumour
    From what we fear, yet know not what we fear.

The present reading seems to afford no sense; and, therefore, some
critical experiments may be properly tried upon it, though, the verses
being without any connexion, there is room for suspicion, that some
intermediate lines are lost, and that the passage is, therefore,
irretrievable. If it be supposed that the fault arises only from the
corruption of some words, and that the traces of the true reading are
still to be found, the passage may be changed thus:

 --when we _bode ruin_
  From what we fear, yet know not what we fear.

Or, in a sense very applicable to the occasion of the conference:

--when the _bold, running_
  From what they fear, yet know not what they fear.

(b) But float upon a wild and violent sea
    Each way, and move.

That he who _floats_ upon a _rough sea_ must move, is evident, too
evident for Shakespeare so emphatically to assert. The line, therefore,
is to be written thus:

  Each way, and move--I'll take my leave of you.

Rosse is about to proceed, but, finding himself overpowered by his
tenderness, breaks off abruptly, for which he makes a short apology, and
retires.


NOTE XXXIX.

SCENE IV.

  _Malcolm_. Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there
             Weep our sad bosoms empty.
  _Macduff_. Let us rather
             Hold fast the mortal sword; and, like good men,
             Bestride our _downfal birth-doom_: each new morn,
             New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows
             Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds
             As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out
             Like syllables of dolour.

He who can discover what is meant by him that earnestly exhorts him to
_bestride_ his _downfal birth-doom_, is at liberty to adhere to the
present text; but those who are willing to confess that such counsel
would to them be unintelligible, must endeavour to discover some reading
less obscure. It is probable that Shakespeare wrote:

 --like good men,
  Bestride our _downfall'n birthdom_--

The allusion is to a man from whom something valuable is about to be
taken by violence, and who, that he may defend it without encumbrance,
lays it on the ground, and stands over it with his weapon in his hand.
Our birthdom, or birthright, says he, lies on the ground, let us, like
men who are to fight for what is dearest to them, not abandon it, but
stand over it and defend it. This is a strong picture of obstinate
resolution.

_Birthdom_ for _birthright_ is formed by the same analogy with
_masterdom_ in this play, signifying the _privileges_ or _rights of a
master_.

Perhaps it might be _birth-dame_ for _mother_; let us stand over our
mother that lies bleeding on the ground.


NOTE XL.

  _Malcolm_. Now we'll together; and the _chance of goodness_
  Be like our warranted quarrel!

The _chance of goodness_, as it is commonly read, conveys no sense. If
there be not some more important errour in the passage, it should, at
least, be pointed thus:

 --And the chance, of goodness,
  Be like our warranted quarrel!

That is, may the event be, of the goodness of heaven, [_pro justicia
divina_,] answerable to the cause.

But I am inclined to believe that Shakespeare wrote,

 --and the chance, O goodness,
  Be like our warranted quarrel!

This some of his transcribers wrote with a small _o_, which another
imagined to mean _of_. If we adopt this reading, the sense will be, _and
O! thou sovereign goodness, to whom we now appeal, may our fortune
answer to our cause._


NOTE XLI.

ACT V. SCENE III.

  _Macbeth_. Bring me no more reports, let them fly all,
             Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane,
             I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm?
             Was he not born of woman?--
            --fly false thanes,
             And mingle with the English epicures.

In the first line of this speech, the proper pauses are not observed in
the present editions.

  Bring me no more reports--let them fly all--

_Tell me not any more of desertions--Let all my subjects leave me--I am
safe till, &c._

The reproach of epicurism, on which Mr. Theobald has bestowed a note, is
nothing more than a natural invective, uttered by an inhabitant of a
barren country, against those who have more opportunities of luxury.


NOTE XLII.

  _Macbeth_. I have liv'd long enough: my _way_ of life
             Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf.

As there is no relation between the _way of life_, and _fallen into the
sear_, I am inclined to think, that the _W_ is only an _M_ inverted, and
that it was originally written, my _May_ of life.

_I am now passed from the spring to the autumn of my days, but I am
without those comforts that should succeed the sprightliness of bloom,
and support me in this melancholy season._


NOTE XLIII.

SCENE IV.

  _Malcolm_. 'Tis his main hope:
             For where there is _advantage to be given_,
             Both more and less have given him the revolt;
             And none serve with him but constrained things,
             Whose hearts are absent too.

The impropriety of the expression _advantage to be given_, instead of
_advantage given_, and the disagreeable repetition of the word _given_
in the next line incline me to read,

 --where there is _a'vantage_ to be _gone_,
  Both more and less have given him the revolt.

_Advantage_ or _'vantage_, in the time of Shakespeare, signified
_opportunity_.

_More and less_ is the same with _greater and less_. So in the
interpolated Mandeville, a book of that age, there is a chapter of India
the more and the less.


NOTE XLIV.

SCENE V.

  _Macbeth_.--Wherefore was that cry?
  _Seyton_. The queen, my lord, is dead.
  _Macbeth_. She should (a)have, died hereafter:
             There would have been a time for such a _word_.
             To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
             Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
             To the last syllable of (b)recorded time;
             And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
             The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
             Life's but a walking shadow.--

  (a) She should have died hereafter,
      There would have been a time for such a _word_.

This passage has very justly been suspected of being corrupt. It is not
apparent for what _word_ there would have been a _time_, and that there
would or would not be a _time_ for any _word_, seems not a consideration
of importance sufficient to transport Macbeth into the following
exclamation. I read, therefore:

  She should have died hereafter,
  There would have been a time for--such a _world!_--
  To-morrow, &c.

It is a broken speech, in which only part of the thought is expressed,
and may be paraphrased thus: The queen is dead. _Macbeth_. Her death
should have been deferred to some more peaceful hour; had she lived
longer, _there would at length have been a time for_ the honours due to
her as a queen, and that respect which I owe her for her fidelity and
love. Such is the _world_--such is the condition of human life, that we
always think _to-morrow_ will be happier than to-day; but to-morrow and
to-morrow steals over us unenjoyed and unregarded, and we still linger
in the same expectation to the moment appointed for our end. All these
days, which have thus passed away, have sent multitudes of fools to the
grave, who were engrossed by the same dream of future felicity, and,
when life was departing from them, were, like me, reckoning on to-
morrow.

(b) To the last syllable of recorded time.

_Recorded time_ seems to signify the time fixed in the decrees of heaven
for the period of life. The _record_ of _futurity_ is, indeed, no
accurate expression, but as we only know transactions past or present,
the language of men affords no term for the volumes of prescience, in
which future events may be supposed to be written.


NOTE XLV.

  _Macbeth_. If thou speak'st false.
             Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,
             Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth,
             I care not if thou dost for me as much.--
             I _pull_ in resolution; and begin
             To doubt th' equivocation of the fiend,
             That lies like truth: "Fear not till Birnam wood
             Do come to Dunsinane," and now a wood
             Comes toward Dunsinane.

  I _pull_ in resolution.--

Though this is the reading of all the editions, yet as it is a phrase
without either example, elegance, or propriety, it is surely better to
read:

I _pall_ in resolution.--

_I languish in my constancy, my confidence begins to forsake me._ It is
scarcely necessary to observe how easily _pall_ might be changed into
_pull_ by a negligent writer, or mistaken for it by an unskilful
printer.


NOTE XLVI.

SCENE VIII.

  _Siward_  Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
            I would not wish them to a fairer death:
            And so his knell is knoll'd.

This incident is thus related from Henry of Huntingdon, by Camden, in
his Remains, from which our author probably copied it.

When Siward, the martial Earl of Northumberland, understood that his
son, whom he had sent in service against the Scotchmen, was slain, he
demanded whether his wound were in the fore part or hinder part of his
body. When it was answered in the fore part, he replied, "I am right
glad; neither wish I any other death to me or mine."

       *       *       *       *       *

After the foregoing pages were printed, the late edition of Shakespeare,
ascribed to Sir Thomas Hanmer, fell into my hands; and it was,
therefore, convenient for me to delay the publication of my remarks,
till I had examined whether they were not anticipated by similar
observations, or precluded by better. I, therefore, read over this
tragedy, but found that the editor's apprehension is of a cast so
different from mine, that he appears to find no difficulty in most of
those passages which I have represented as unintelligible, and has,
therefore, passed smoothly over them, without any attempt to alter or
explain them.

Some of the lines with which I had been perplexed, have been, indeed, so
fortunate as to attract his regard; and it is not without all the
satisfaction which it is usual to express on such occasions, that I find
an entire agreement between us in substituting [see Note II.] _quarrel_
for _quarry_, and in explaining the adage of the cat, [Note XVII.] But
this pleasure is, like most others, known only to be regretted; for I
have the unhappiness to find no such conformity with regard to any other
passage.

The line which I have endeavoured to amend, Note XI. is, likewise,
attempted by the new editor, and is, perhaps, the only passage in the
play in which he has not submissively admitted the emendations of
foregoing criticks. Instead of the common reading,

 --Doing every thing
  _Safe_ towards your love and honour,

he has published,

 --Doing every thing
  _Shap'd_ towards your love and honour.

This alteration, which, like all the rest attempted by him, the reader
is expected to admit, without any reason alleged in its defence, is, in
my opinion, more plausible than that of Mr. Theobald: whether it is
right, I am not to determine.

In the passage which I have altered in Note XL. an emendation is,
likewise, attempted in the late edition, where, for,

 --and the chance _of_ goodness
  Be like our warranted quarrel,

is substituted--and the chance _in_ goodness--whether with more or less
elegance, dignity, and propriety, than the reading which I have offered,
I must again decline the province of deciding.

Most of the other emendations which he has endeavoured, whether with
good or bad fortune, are too trivial to deserve mention. For surely the
weapons of criticism ought not to be blunted against an editor, who can
imagine that he is restoring poetry, while he is amusing himself with
alterations like these: for,

 --This is the sergeant,
  Who like a good and hardy soldier fought;
 --This is the sergeant, who
  Like a _right_ good and hardy soldier fought.

For,

 --Dismay'd not this
  Our captains Macbeth and Banquo?--Yes;

 --Dismay'd not this
  Our captains _brave_ Macbeth and Banquo?--Yes.

Such harmless industry may, surely, be forgiven, if it cannot be
praised: may he, therefore, never want a monosyllable, who can use it
with such wonderful dexterity.

  Rumpatur quisquis rumpitur invidia!

The rest of this edition I have not read, but, from the little that I
have seen, think it not dangerous to declare that, in my opinion, its
pomp recommends it more than its accuracy. There is no distinction made
between the ancient reading, and the innovations of the editor; there is
no reason given for any of the alterations which are made; the
emendations of former criticks are adopted without any acknowledgment,
and few of the difficulties are removed which have hitherto embarrassed
the readers of Shakespeare.

I would not, however, be thought to insult the editor, nor to censure
him with too much petulance, for having failed in little things, of whom
I have been told, that he excels in greater. But I may, without
indecency, observe, that no man should attempt to teach others what he
has never learned himself; and that those who, like Themistocles, have
studied the arts of policy, and "can teach a small state how to grow
great," should, like him, disdain to labour in trifles, and consider
petty accomplishments as below their ambition.[5]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] "To deny the possibility, nay, the actual existence of witchcraft
    and sorcery, is, at once flatly to contradict the revealed word of
    God, in various passages both of the Old and New Testament: and the
    thing itself is a truth to which every nation in the world hath, in
    its turn, borne testimony, either by examples seemingly well-attested,
    or by prohibitory laws, which, at least, suppose the possibility of
    commerce with evil spirits." Blackstone, Commentaries iv. 60. The
    learned judge, however, concludes with calling it a "dubious crime,"
    and approves the maxim of the philosophic Montesquieu, whom no one
    would lightly accuse of superstition, that "il faut źtre trčs
    circonspect dans la poursuite de la magie et de l'hérésie." Esprit
    des Lois, xii. 5. Selden attempted to justify the punishing of
    witchcraft capitally. Works, iii. 2077. See Spectator, 117.
    Barrington's Ancient Statutes, 407.

[2] In Nashe's Lenten Stuff, 1599, it is said, that no less than six
    hundred witches were executed at one time. Reed.--Boswell's
    Shakespeare, xi. 5. Dr. Grey, in his notes on Hudibras, mentions,
    that Hopkins the noted witch-finder hanged sixty suspected witches
    in one year. He also cites Hutchinson on Witchcraft for thirty
    thousand having been burnt in 150 years. _See Barrington on Ancient
    Statutes_.

[3] Johnson's apprehensions here are surely unfounded. The region of
    Fancy, however, in his mind, was very circumscribed. Mrs. Montague's
    chapter on Shakespeare's Preternatural Beings, in her excellent
    Essay, will repay perusal. See too Schlegel on Dramatic Literature.

[4] Compare the Incantations of the Erichtho of Lucan, the Canidie of
    Horace, the Cantata of Salvator Rosa, "all' incanto all' incante,"
    and the Eumenides of Ęschylus. The Gothic wildness of Shakespeare's
    "weird sisters" will thence be better appreciated.--Ed.

[5] These excellent observations extorted praise from the supercilious
    Warburton himself. In the Preface to his Shakespeare, published two
    years after the appearance of Johnson's anonymous pamphlet, he thus
    alludes to it: "As to all those things which have been published
    under the titles of Essays, Remarks, Observations, &c. on
    Shakespeare, (if you except some critical notes on Macbeth, given as
    a specimen of a projected edition, and written, as appears, by a man
    of parts and genius,) the rest are absolutely below a serious
    notice." According to Boswell, Johnson ever retained a grateful
    remembrance of this distinguished compliment; "He praised me," said
    he, "at a time when praise was of value to me." Boswell, I. Johnson
    affixed to this tract, proposals for a Shakespeare in 10 volumes,
    18mo. price, to subscribers, 1_l_ 5_s_. in sheets, half-a-guinea of
    which moderate sum was to be deposited at the time of subscription.
    The following fuller proposals were published in 1756; but they were
    not realized until the lapse of nine years from that period.
    Boswell, I.--Ed.



PROPOSALS
FOR PRINTING THE
DRAMATICK WORKS
OF
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1756.

When the works of Shakespeare are, after so many editions, again offered
to the publick, it will, doubtless, be inquired, why Shakespeare stands
in more need of critical assistance than any other of the English
writers, and what are the deficiencies of the late attempts, which
another editor may hope to supply?

The business of him that republishes an ancient book is, to correct what
is corrupt, and to explain what is obscure. To have a text corrupt in
many places, and in many doubtful, is, among the authors that have
written since the use of types, almost peculiar to Shakespeare. Most
writers, by publishing their own works, prevent all various readings,
and preclude all conjectural criticism. Books, indeed, are sometimes
published after the death of him who produced them; but they are better
secured from corruption than these unfortunate compositions. They
subsist in a single copy, written or revised by the author; and the
faults of the printed volume can be only faults of one descent.

But of the works of Shakespeare the condition has been far different: he
sold them, not to be printed, but to be played. They were immediately
copied for the actors, and multiplied by transcript after transcript,
vitiated by the blunders of the penman, or changed by the affectation of
the player; perhaps enlarged to introduce a jest, or mutilated to
shorten the representation; and printed at last without the concurrence
of the author, without the consent of the proprietor, from compilations
made by chance or by stealth out of the separate parts written for the
theatre; and thus thrust into the world surreptitiously and hastily,
they suffered another depravation from the ignorance and negligence of
the printers, as every man who knows the state of the press, in that
age, will readily conceive.

It is not easy for invention to bring together so many causes concurring
to vitiate the text. No other author ever gave up his works to fortune
and time with so little care: no books could be left in hands so likely
to injure them, as plays frequently acted, yet continued in manuscript:
no other transcribers were likely to be so little qualified for their
task as those who copied for the stage, at a time when the lower ranks
of the people were universally illiterate: no other editions were made
from fragments so minutely broken, and so fortuitously reunited; and in
no other age was the art of printing in such unskilful hands[1].

With the causes of corruption that make the revisal of Shakespeare's
dramatick pieces necessary, may be enumerated the causes of obscurity,
which may be partly imputed to his age, and partly to himself.

When a writer outlives his contemporaries, and remains almost the only
unforgotten name of a distant time, he is necessarily obscure. Every age
has its modes of speech, and its cast of thought; which, though easily
explained when there are many books to be compared with each other,
become sometimes unintelligible and always difficult, when there are no
parallel passages that may conduce to their illustration. Shakespeare is
the first considerable author of sublime or familiar dialogue in our
language. Of the books which he read, and from which he formed his
style, some, perhaps, have perished, and the rest are neglected. His
imitations are, therefore, unnoted, his allusions are undiscovered, and
many beauties, both of pleasantry and greatness, are lost with the
objects to which they were united, as the figures vanish when the
canvass has decayed.

It is the great excellence of Shakespeare, that he drew his scenes from
nature, and from life. He copied the manners of the world, then passing
before him, and has more allusions than other poets to the traditions
and superstition of the vulgar; which must, therefore, be traced, before
he can be understood.

He wrote at a time when our poetical language was yet unformed, when the
meaning of our phrases was yet in fluctuation, when words were adopted
at pleasure from the neighbouring languages, and while the Saxon was
still visibly mingled in our diction. The reader is, therefore,
embarrassed at once with dead and with foreign languages, with
obsoleteness and innovation. In that age, as in all others, fashion
produced phraseology, which succeeding fashion swept away before its
meaning was generally known, or sufficiently authorised: and in that
age, above all others, experiments were made upon our language, which
distorted its combinations, and disturbed its uniformity.

If Shakespeare has difficulties above other writers, it is to be imputed
to the nature of his work, which required the use of the common
colloquial language, and consequently admitted many phrases allusive,
elliptical, and proverbial, such as we speak and hear every hour without
observing them; and of which, being now familiar, we do not suspect that
they can ever grow uncouth, or that, being now obvious, they can ever
seem remote.

These are the principal causes of the obscurity of Shakespeare; to which
might be added the fulness of idea, which might sometimes load his words
with more sentiment than they could conveniently convey, and that
rapidity of imagination which might hurry him to a second thought before
he had fully explained the first. But my opinion is, that very few of
his lines were difficult to his audience, and that he used such
expressions as were then common, though the paucity of contemporary
writers makes them now seem peculiar.

Authors are often praised for improvement, or blamed for innovation,
with very little justice, by those who read few other books of the same
age. Addison, himself, has been so unsuccessful in enumerating the words
with which Milton has enriched our language, as, perhaps, not to have
named one of which Milton was the author; and Bentley has yet more
unhappily praised him as the introducer of those elisions into English
poetry, which had been used from the first essays of versification among
us, and which Milton was, indeed, the last that practised.

Another impediment, not the least vexatious to the commentator, is the
exactness with which Shakespeare followed his authors. Instead of
dilating his thoughts into generalities, and expressing incidents with
poetical latitude, he often combines circumstances unnecessary to his
main design, only because he happened to find them together. Such
passages can be illustrated only by him who has read the same story, in
the very book which Shakespeare consulted.

He that undertakes an edition of Shakespeare, has all these difficulties
to encounter, and all these obstructions to remove.

The corruptions of the text will be corrected by a careful collation of
the oldest copies, by which it is hoped that many restorations may yet
be made: at least it will be necessary to collect and note the variation
as materials for future criticks; for it very often happens that a wrong
reading has affinity to the right.

In this part all the present editions are apparently and intentionally
defective. The criticks did not so much as wish to facilitate the labour
of those that followed them. The same books are still to be compared;
the work that has been done, is to be done again; and no single edition
will supply the reader with a text, on which he can rely, as the best
copy of the works of Shakespeare.

The edition now proposed will, at least, have this advantage over
others. It will exhibit all the observable varieties of all the copies
that can be found; that, if the reader is not satisfied with the
editor's determination, he may have the means of choosing better for
himself.

Where all the books are evidently vitiated, and collation can give no
assistance, then begins the task of critical sagacity: and some changes
may well be admitted in a text never settled by the author, and so long
exposed to caprice and ignorance. But nothing shall be imposed, as in
the Oxford edition, without notice of the alteration; nor shall
conjecture be wantonly or unnecessarily indulged.

It has been long found, that very specious emendations do not equally
strike all minds with conviction, nor even the same mind, at different
times; and, therefore, though, perhaps, many alterations may be proposed
as eligible, very few will be obtruded as certain. In a language so
ungrammatical as the English, and so licentious as that of Shakespeare,
emendatory criticism is always hazardous, nor can it be allowed to any
man who is not particularly versed in the writings of that age, and
particularly studious of his author's diction. There is danger lest
peculiarities should be mistaken for corruptions, and passages rejected
as unintelligible, which a narrow mind happens not to understand.

All the former criticks have been so much employed on the corrections of
the text, that they have not sufficiently attended to the elucidation of
passages obscured by accident or time. The editor will endeavour to read
the books which the author read, to trace his knowledge to its source,
and compare his copies with their originals. If, in this part of his
design, he hopes to attain any degree of superiority to his
predecessors, it must be considered, that he has the advantage of their
labours; that, part of the work being already done, more care is
naturally bestowed on the other part; and that, to declare the truth,
Mr. Rowe and Mr. Pope were very ignorant of the ancient English
literature; Dr. Warburton was detained by more important studies; and
Mr. Theobald, if fame be just to his memory, considered learning only as
an instrument of gain, and made no further inquiry after his author's
meaning, when once he had notes sufficient to embellish his page with
the expected decorations.

With regard to obsolete or peculiar diction, the editor may, perhaps,
claim some degree of confidence, having had more motives to consider the
whole extent of our language than any other man from its first
formation. He hopes that, by comparing the works of Shakespeare with
those of writers who lived at the same time, immediately preceded, or
immediately followed him, he shall be able to ascertain his ambiguities,
disentangle his intricacies, and recover the meaning of words now lost
in the darkness of antiquity.

When, therefore, any obscurity arises from an allusion to some other
book, the passage will be quoted. When the diction is entangled, it will
be cleared by a paraphrase or interpretation. When the sense is broken
by the suppression of part, of the sentiment in pleasantry or passion,
the connexion will be supplied. When any forgotten custom is hinted,
care will be taken to retrieve and explain it. The meaning assigned to
doubtful words will be supported by the authorities of other writers, or
by parallel passages of Shakespeare himself.

The observation of faults and beauties is one of the duties of an
annotator, which some of Shakespeare's editors have attempted, and some
have neglected.--For this part of his task, and for this only, was Mr.
Pope eminently and indisputably qualified; nor has Dr. Warburton[2]
followed him with less diligence or less success. But I have never
observed that mankind was much delighted or improved by their asterisks,
commas, or double commas; of which the only effect is, that they
preclude the pleasure of judging for ourselves; teach the young and
ignorant to decide without principles; defeat curiosity and discernment,
by leaving them less to discover; and at last show the opinion of the
critick, without the reasons on which it was founded, and without
affording any light by which it may be examined.

The editor, though he may less delight his own vanity, will, probably,
please his reader more, by supposing him equally able with himself to
judge of beauties and faults, which require no previous acquisition of
remote knowledge. A description of the obvious scenes of nature, a
representation of general life, a sentiment of reflection or experience,
a deduction of conclusive arguments, a forcible eruption of effervescent
passion, are to be considered as proportionate to common apprehension,
unassisted by critical officiousness; since, to conceive them, nothing
more is requisite than acquaintance with the general state of the world,
and those faculties which he must almost bring with him who would read
Shakespeare.

But when the beauty arises from some adaptation of the sentiment to
customs worn out of use, to opinions not universally prevalent, or to
any accidental or minute particularity, which cannot be supplied by
common understanding, or common observation, it is the duty of a
commentator to lend his assistance.

The notice of beauties and faults, thus limited, will make no distinct
part of the design, being reducible to the explanation of some obscure
passages.

The editor does not, however, intend to preclude himself from the
comparison of Shakespeare's sentiments or expression with those of
ancient or modern authors, or from the display of any beauties not
obvious to the students of poetry; for, as he hopes to leave his author
better understood, he wishes, likewise, to procure him more rational
approbation.

The former editors have affected to slight their predecessors: but in
this edition all that is valuable will be adopted from every
commentator, that posterity may consider it as including all the rest,
and exhibiting whatever is hitherto known of the great, father of the
English drama.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] It is not true, that the plays of this author were more incorrectly
    printed than those of any of his contemporaries: for in the plays of
    Massinger, Marlowe, Marston, Fletcher, and others, as many errors
    may be found. It is not true, that the art of printing was in no
    other age in such unskilful hands. Nor is it true, in the latitude
    in which it is stated, that "these plays were printed from
    compilations made by chance or by stealth, out of the separate parts
    written for the theatre:" two only of all his dramas, The Merry
    Wives of Windsor, and King Henry V. appear to have been thus thrust
    into the world; and of the former it is yet a doubt, whether it is a
    first sketch, or an imperfect copy. See Malone's Preface throughout.
   --Ed.

[2] See how this respectful reference to his labours was rewarded by
    this "meek and modest ecclesiastic" in his Letters, 410, 272, 273.
    Also Edinburgh Review for January, 1809.




PREFACE
TO
SHAKESPEARE.

PUBLISHED IN THE YEAR 1768[1].

That praises are without reason lavished on the dead, and that the
honours due only to excellence are paid to antiquity, is a complaint
likely to be always continued by those, who, being able to add nothing
to truth, hope for eminence from the heresies of paradox; or those, who,
being forced by disappointment upon consolatory expedients, are willing
to hope from posterity what the present age refuses, and flatter
themselves that the regard, which is yet denied by envy, will be at last
bestowed by time.

Antiquity, like every other quality that attracts the notice of mankind,
has undoubtedly votaries that reverence it, not from reason, but from
prejudice. Some seem to admire indiscriminately whatever has been long
preserved, without considering that time has sometimes co-operated with
chance; all, perhaps, are more willing to honour past than present
excellence; and the mind contemplates genius through the shades of age,
as the eye surveys the sun through artificial opacity. The great
contention of criticism is to find the faults of the moderns, and the
beauties of the ancients. While an author is yet living, we estimate his
powers by his worst performance, and when he is dead we rate them by his
best.

To works, however, of which the excellence is not absolute and definite,
but gradual and comparative; to works not raised upon principles
demonstrative and scientifick, but appealing wholly to observation and
experience, no other test can be applied than length of duration and
continuance of esteem. What mankind have long possessed they have often
examined and compared; and if they persist to value the possession, it
is because frequent comparisons have confirmed opinion in its favour.
As, among the works of nature, no man can properly call a river deep, or
a mountain high, without the knowledge of many mountains, and many
rivers; so, in the productions of genius, nothing can be styled
excellent till it has been compared with other works of the same kind.
Demonstration immediately displays its power, and has nothing to hope or
fear from the flux of years; but works tentative and experimental must
be estimated by their proportion to the general and collective ability
of man, as it is discovered in a long succession of endeavours. Of the
first building that was raised, it might be, with certainty, determined
that it was round or square; but whether it was spacious or lofty must
have been referred to time. The Pythagorean scale of numbers was at once
discovered to be perfect; but the poems of Homer we yet know not to
transcend the common limits of human intelligence, but by remarking,
that nation after nation, and century after century, has been able to do
little more than transpose his incidents, new name his characters, and
paraphrase his sentiments.

The reverence due to writings that have long subsisted, arises,
therefore, not from any credulous confidence in the superiour wisdom of
past ages, or gloomy persuasion of the degeneracy of mankind, but is the
consequence of acknowledged and indubitable positions, that what has
been longest known has been most considered, and what is most considered
is best understood.

The poet, of whose works I have undertaken the revision, may now begin
to assume the dignity of an ancient, and claim the privilege of
established fame and prescriptive veneration. He has long outlived his
century, the term commonly fixed as the test of literary merit[2].
Whatever advantages he might once derive from personal allusions, local
customs, or temporary opinions, have for many years been lost; and every
topick of merriment, or motive of sorrow, which the modes of artificial
life afforded him, now only obscure the scenes which they once
illuminated. The effects of favour and competition are at an end; the
tradition of his friendships and his enmities has perished; his works
support no opinion with arguments, nor supply any faction with
invectives; they can neither indulge vanity, nor gratify malignity; but
are read without any other reason than the desire of pleasure, and are,
therefore, praised only as pleasure is obtained; yet, thus unassisted by
interest or passion, they have passed through variations of taste and
changes of manners, and, as they devolved from one generation to
another, have received new honours at every transmission.

But because human judgment, though it be gradually gaining upon
certainty, never becomes infallible; and approbation, though long
continued, may yet be only the approbation of prejudice or fashion; it
is proper to inquire, by what peculiarities of excellence Shakespeare
has gained, and kept the favour of his countrymen.

Nothing can please many, and please long, but just representations of
general nature. Particular manners can be known to few, and, therefore,
few only can judge how nearly they are copied. The irregular
combinations of fanciful invention may delight awhile, by that novelty
of which the common satiety of life sends us all in quest; but the
pleasures of sudden wonder are soon exhausted, and the mind can only
repose on the stability of truth.

Shakespeare is, above all writers, at least above all modern writers,
the poet of nature; the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful
mirror of manners and of life. His characters are not modified by the
customs of particular places, unpractised by the rest of the world; by
the peculiarities of studies or professions, which can operate but upon
small numbers; or by the accidents of transient fashions or temporary
opinions: they are the genuine progeny of common humanity, such as the
world will always supply, and observation will always find. His persons
act and speak by the influence of those general passions and principles
by which all minds are agitated, and the whole system of life is
continued in motion. In the writings of other poets a character is too
often an individual: in those of Shakespeare it is commonly a species.

It is from this wide extension of design that so much instruction is
derived. It is this which fills the plays of Shakespeare with practical
axioms and domestick wisdom. It was said of Euripides, that every verse
was a precept; and it may be said of Shakespeare, that from his works
may be collected a system of civil and economical prudence. Yet his real
power is not shown in the splendour of particular passages, but by the
progress of his fable, and the tenour of his dialogue; and he that tries
to recommend him by select quotations, will succeed like the pedant in
Hierocles, who, when he offered his house to sale, carried a brick in
his pocket as a specimen.

It will not easily be imagined how much Shakespeare excels in
accommodating his sentiments to real life, but by comparing him with
other authors. It was observed of the ancient schools of declamation,
that the more diligently they were frequented, the more was the student
disqualified for the world, because he found nothing there which he
should ever meet in any other place. The same remark may be applied to
every stage but that of Shakespeare. The theatre, when it is under any
other direction, is peopled by such characters as were never seen,
conversing in a language which was never heard, upon topicks which will
never arise in the commerce of mankind. But the dialogue of this author
is often so evidently determined by the incident which produces it, and
is pursued with so much ease and simplicity, that it seems scarcely to
claim the merit of fiction, but to have been gleaned, by diligent
selection, out of common conversation and common occurrences.

Upon every other stage the universal agent is love, by whose power all
good and evil is distributed, and every action quickened or retarded. To
bring a lover, a lady, and a rival into the fable; to entangle them in
contradictory obligations, perplex them with oppositions of interest,
and harass them with violence of desires inconsistent with each other;
to make them meet in rapture, and part in agony; to fill their mouths
with hyperbolical joy and outrageous sorrow; to distress them as nothing
human ever was distressed; to deliver them as nothing human ever was
delivered; is the business of a modern dramatist. For this, probability
is violated, life is misrepresented, and language is depraved. But love
is only one of many passions; and, as it has no great influence upon the
sum of life[3], it has little operation in the dramas of a poet, who
caught his ideas from the living world, and exhibited only what he saw
before him. He knew that any other passion, as it was regular or
exorbitant, was a cause of happiness or calamity.

Characters thus ample and general were not easily discriminated and
preserved, yet, perhaps, no poet ever kept his personages more distinct
from each other. I will not say, with Pope, that every speech may be
assigned to the proper speaker, because many speeches there are which
have nothing characteristical; but, perhaps, though some may be equally
adapted to every person, it will be difficult to find any that can be
properly transferred from the present possessor to another claimant. The
choice is right, when there is reason for choice.

Other dramatists can only gain attention by hyperbolical or aggravated
characters, by fabulous and unexampled excellence or depravity, as the
writers of barbarous romances invigorated the reader by a giant and a
dwarf; and he that should form his expectations of human affairs from
the play, or from the tale, would be equally deceived. Shakespeare has
no heroes; his scenes are occupied only by men, who act and speak as the
reader thinks that he should himself have spoken or acted on the same
occasion: even where the agency is supernatural, the dialogue is level
with life. Other writers disguise the most natural passions and most
frequent incidents; so that he who contemplates them in the book will
not know them in the world: Shakespeare approximates the remote, and
familiarizes the wonderful; the event which he represents will not
happen, but, if it were possible, its effects would, probably, be such
as he has assigned[4]; and it may be said, that he has not only shown
human nature as it acts in real exigencies, but as it would be found in
trials, to which it cannot be exposed.

This, therefore, is the praise of Shakespeare, that his drama is the
mirror of life; that he who has mazed his imagination, in following the
phantoms which other writers raise up before him, may here be cured of
his delirious ecstacies, by reading human sentiments in human language,
by scenes from which a hermit may estimate the transactions of the
world, and a confessor predict the progress of the passions.

His adherence to general nature has exposed him to the censure of
criticks, who form their judgments upon narrower principles. Dennis and
Rymer think his Romans not sufficiently Roman; and Voltaire censures his
kings as not completely royal[5]. Dennis is offended, that Menenius, a
senator of Rome, should play the buffoon; and Voltaire, perhaps, thinks
decency violated when the Danish usurper is represented as a drunkard.
But Shakespeare always makes nature predominate over accident; and, if
he preserves the essential character, is not very careful of
distinctions superinduced and adventitious. His story requires Romans or
kings, but he thinks only on men. He knew that Rome, like every other
city, had men of all dispositions; and, wanting a buffoon, he went into
the senate-house for that which the senate-house would certainly have
afforded him. He was inclined to show an usurper and a murderer, not
only odious, but despicable; he, therefore, added drunkenness to his
other qualities, knowing that kings love wine like other men, and that
wine exerts its natural power upon kings. These are the petty cavils of
petty minds; a poet overlooks the casual distinction of country and
condition, as a painter, satisfied with the figure, neglects the
drapery.

The censure which he has incurred by mixing comick and tragick scenes,
as it extends to all his works, deserves more consideration. Let the
fact be first stated, and then examined.

Shakespeare's plays are not, in the rigorous or critical sense, either
tragedies or comedies, but compositions of a distinct kind; exhibiting
the real state of sublunary nature, which partakes of good and evil, joy
and sorrow, mingled with endless variety of proportion and innumerable
modes of combination; and expressing the course of the world, in which
the loss of one is the gain of another; in which, at the same time, the
reveller is hasting to his wine, and the mourner burying his friend; in
which the malignity of one is sometimes defeated by the frolick of
another; and many mischiefs and many benefits are done and hindered
without design.

Out of this chaos of mingled purposes and casualties the ancient poets,
according to the laws which custom had prescribed, selected some the
crimes of men, and some their absurdities; some the momentous
vicissitudes of life, and some the lighter occurrences; some the
terrours of distress and some the gaieties of prosperity. Thus rose the
two modes of imitation, known by the names of _tragedy_ and _comedy_,
compositions intended to promote different ends by contrary means, and
considered as so little allied, that I do not recollect among the Greeks
or Romans a single writer who attempted both[6].

Shakespeare has united the powers of exciting laughter and sorrow, not
only in one mind, but in one composition. Almost all his plays are
divided between serious and ludicrous characters, and, in the successive
evolutions of the design, sometimes produce seriousness and sorrow, and
sometimes levity and laughter.

That this is a practice contrary to the rules of criticism will be
readily allowed; but there is always an appeal open from criticism to
nature. The end of writing is to instruct; the end of poetry is to
instruct by pleasing. That the mingled drama may convey all the
instruction of tragedy or comedy cannot be denied, because it includes
both in its alternations of exhibition, and approaches nearer than
either to the appearance of life, by showing how great machinations and
slender designs may promote or obviate one another, and the high and the
low co-operate in the general system by unavoidable concatenation.

It is objected, that by this change of scenes the passions are
interrupted in their progression, and that the principal event, being
not advanced by a due gradation of preparatory incidents, wants, at
last, the power to move, which constitutes the perfection of dramatick
poetry. This reasoning is so specious, that it is received as true even
by those who, in daily experience, feel it to be false. The interchanges
of mingled scenes seldom fail to produce the intended vicissitudes of
passion. Fiction cannot move so much, but that the attention may be
easily transferred; and though it must be allowed that pleasing
melancholy may be sometimes interrupted by unwelcome levity, yet let it
be considered, likewise, that melancholy is often not pleasing, and that
the disturbance of one man may be the relief of another; that different
auditors have different habitudes; and that, upon the whole, all
pleasure consists in variety.

The players, who, in their edition, divided our author's works into
comedies, histories and tragedies, seem not to have distinguished the
three kinds by any very exact or definite ideas.

An action which ended happily to the principal persons, however serious
or distressful through its intermediate incidents, in their opinion,
constituted a comedy. This idea of a comedy continued long amongst us;
and plays were written, which, by changing the catastrophe, were
tragedies to-day, and comedies to-morrow[7].

Tragedy was not in those times a poem of more general dignity or
elevation than comedy; it required only a calamitous conclusion, with
which the common criticism of that age was satisfied, whatever lighter
pleasure it afforded in its progress.

History was a series of actions, with no other than chronological
succession, independent of each other, and without any tendency to
introduce or regulate the conclusion. It is not always very nicely
distinguished from tragedy. There is not much nearer approach to unity
of action in the tragedy of Anthony and Cleopatra, than in the history
of Richard the second. But a history might be continued through many
plays, as it had no plan, it had no limits.

Through all these denominations of the drama, Shakespeare's mode of
composition is the same; an interchange of seriousness and merriment, by
which the mind is softened at one time, and exhilarated at another. But
whatever be his purpose, whether to gladden or depress, or to conduct
the story, without vehemence or emotion, through tracts of easy and
familiar dialogue, he never fails to attain his purpose; as he commands
us, we laugh or mourn, or sit silent with quiet expectation, in
tranquillity without indifference.

When Shakespeare's plan is understood, most of the criticisms of Rymer
and Voltaire vanish away. The play of Hamlet is opened, without
impropriety, by two centinels; Iago bellows at Brabantio's window,
without injury to the scheme of the play, though in terms which a modern
audience would not easily endure; the character of Polonius is
seasonable and useful; and the Gravediggers themselves may be heard with
applause.

Shakespeare engaged in dramatick poetry with the world open before him;
the rules of the ancients were yet known to few; the publick judgment
was unformed; he had no example of such fame as might force him upon
imitation, nor criticks of such authority as might restrain his
extravagance: he, therefore, indulged his natural disposition, and his
disposition, as Rymer has remarked, led him to comedy. In tragedy he
often writes, with great appearance of toil and study, what is written
at last with little felicity; but, in his comick scenes, he seems to
produce, without labour, what no labour can improve. In tragedy he is
always struggling after some occasion to be comick; but in comedy he
seems to repose, or to luxuriate, as in a mode of thinking congenial to
his nature. In his tragick scenes there is always something wanting, but
his comedy often surpasses expectation or desire. His comedy pleases by
the thoughts and the language, and his tragedy, for the greater part, by
incident and action. His tragedy seems to be skill, his comedy to be
instinct[8].

The force of his comick scenes has suffered little diminution from the
changes made by a century and a half, in manners or in words. As his
personages act upon principles arising from genuine passion, very little
modified by particular forms, their pleasures and vexations are
communicable to all times and to all places; they are natural, and,
therefore, durable; the adventitious peculiarities of personal habits
are only superficial dies, bright and pleasing for a little while, yet
soon fading to a dim tinct, without any remains of former lustre; but
the discriminations of true passion are the colours of nature; they
pervade the whole mass, and can only perish with the body that exhibits
them. The accidental compositions of heterogeneous modes are dissolved
by the chance that combined them; but the uniform simplicity of
primitive qualities neither admits increase, nor suffers decay. The sand
heaped by one flood is scattered by another, but the rock always
continues in its place. The stream of time, which is continually washing
the dissoluble fabricks of other poets, passes, without injury, by the
adamant of Shakespeare[9].

If there be, what I believe there is, in every nation, a style which
never becomes obsolete, a certain mode of phraseology so consonant and
congenial to the analogy and principles of its respective language, as
to remain settled and unaltered; this style is probably to be sought in
the common intercourse of life, among those who speak only to be
understood, without ambition of elegance. The polite are always catching
modish innovations, and the learned depart from established forms of
speech, in hope of finding or making better; those who wish for
distinction forsake the vulgar, when the vulgar is right; but there is a
conversation above grossness and below refinement, where propriety
resides, and where this poet seems to have gathered his comick dialogue.
He is, therefore, more agreeable to the ears of the present age than any
other author equally remote, and among his other excellencies deserves
to be studied as one of the original masters of our language.

These observations are to be considered not as unexceptionably constant,
but as containing general and predominant truth. Shakespeare's familiar
dialogue is affirmed to be smooth and clear, yet not wholly without
ruggedness or difficulty; as a country may be eminently fruitful, though
it has spots unfit for cultivation: his characters are praised as
natural, though their sentiments are sometimes forced, and their actions
improbable; as the earth upon the whole is spherical, though its surface
is varied with protuberances and cavities.

Shakespeare with his excellencies has likewise faults, and faults
sufficient to obscure and overwhelm any other merit. I shall show them
in the proportion in which they appear to me, without envious malignity
or superstitious veneration. No question can be more innocently
discussed than a dead poet's pretensions to renown; and little regard is
due to that bigotry which sets candour higher than truth.

His first defect is that to which may be imputed most of the evil in
books or in men. He sacrifices virtue to convenience, and is so much
more careful to please than to instruct, that he seems to write without
any moral purpose. From his writings, indeed, a system of social duty
may be selected, for he that thinks reasonably must think morally; but
his precepts and axioms drop casually from him; he makes no just
distribution of good or evil, nor is always careful to show in the
virtuous a disapprobation of the wicked; he carries his persons
indifferently through right and wrong, and, at the close, dismisses them
without further care, and leaves their examples to operate by chance.
This fault the barbarity of his age cannot extenuate; for it is always a
writer's duty to make the world better, and justice is a virtue
independent on time or place.

The plots are often so loosely formed, that a very slight consideration
may improve them, and so carelessly pursued, that he seems, not always
fully to comprehend his own design. He omits opportunities of
instructing or delighting, which the train of his story seems to force
upon him, and apparently rejects those exhibitions which would be more
affecting, for the sake of those which are more easy.

It may be observed, that in many of his plays the latter part is
evidently neglected. When he found himself near the end of his work, and
in view of his reward, he shortened the labour to snatch the profit. He,
therefore, remits his efforts where he should most vigorously exert
them, and his catastrophe is improbably produced or imperfectly
represented.

He had no regard to distinction of time or place, but gives to one age
or nation, without scruple, the customs, institutions, and opinions of
another, at the expense not only of likelihood, but of possibility.
These faults Pope has endeavoured, with more zeal than judgment, to
transfer to his imagined interpolators. We need not wonder to find
Hector quoting Aristotle, when we see the loves of Theseus and Hippolyta
combined with the Gothick mythology of fairies. Shakespeare, indeed, was
not the only violator of chronology, for in the same age Sidney, who
wanted not the advantages of learning, has, in his Arcadia, confounded
the pastoral with the feudal times, the days of innocence, quiet, and
security, with those of turbulence, violence, and adventure[10].

In his comick scenes he is seldom very successful, when he engages his
characters in reciprocations of smartness and contests of sarcasm; their
jests are commonly gross, and their pleasantry licentious; neither his
gentlemen nor his ladies have much delicacy, nor are sufficiently
distinguished from his clowns by any appearance of refined manners.
Whether he represented the real conversation of his time is not easy to
determine; the reign of Elizabeth is commonly supposed to have been a
time of stateliness, formality, and reserve; yet, perhaps, the
relaxations of that severity were not very elegant[11]. There must,
however, have been always some modes of gaiety preferable to others, and
a writer ought to choose the best.

In tragedy his performance seems constantly to be worse, as his labour
is more. The effusions of passion, which exigence forces out, are, for
the most part, striking and energetick; but whenever he solicits his
invention, or strains his faculties, the offspring of his throes is
tumour, meanness, tediousness, and obscurity.

In narration he affects a disproportionate pomp of diction, and a
wearisome train of circumlocution, and tells the incident imperfectly in
many words, which might have been more plainly delivered in few.
Narration in dramatick poetry is naturally tedious, as it is unanimated
and inactive, and obstructs the progress of the action; it should,
therefore, always be rapid, and enlivened by frequent interruption.
Shakespeare found it an incumbrance, and instead of lightening it by
brevity, endeavoured to recommend it by dignity and splendour.

His declamations or set speeches are commonly cold and weak, for his
power was the power of nature; when he endeavoured, like other tragick
writers, to catch opportunities of amplification, and instead of
inquiring what the occasion demanded, to show how much his stores of
knowledge could supply, he seldom escapes without the pity or resentment
of his reader.

It is incident to him to be now and then entangled with an unwieldy
sentiment, which he cannot well express, and will not reject; he
struggles with it a while, and, if it continues stubborn, comprises it
in words such as occur, and leaves it to be disentangled and evolved by
those who have more leisure to bestow upon it.

Not that always where the language is intricate, the thought is subtile,
or the image always great where the line is bulky; the equality of words
to things is very often neglected, and trivial sentiments and vulgar
ideas disappoint the attention, to which they are recommended by
sonorous epithets and swelling figures.

But the admirers of this great poet have most reason to complain when he
approaches nearest to his highest excellence, and seems fully resolved
to sink them in dejection, and mollify them with tender emotions, by the
fall of greatness, the danger of innocence, or the crosses of love. What
he does best, he soon ceases to do. He is not long soft and pathetick
without some idle conceit, or contemptible equivocation. He no sooner
begins to move, than he counteracts himself; and terrour and pity, as
they are rising in the mind, are checked and blasted by sudden
frigidity.

A quibble is to Shakespeare, what luminous vapours are to the traveller;
he follows it at all adventures it is sure to lead him out of his way,
and sure to ingulf him in the mire. It has some malignant power over his
mind, and its fascinations are irresistible. Whatever be the dignity or
profundity of his disquisitions, whether he be enlarging knowledge or
exalting affection, whether he be amusing attention with incidents, or
enchaining it in suspense, let but a quibble spring up before him, and
he leaves his work unfinished. A quibble is the golden apple for which
he will always turn aside from his career, or stoop from his elevation.
A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight, that he was
content to purchase it, by the sacrifice of reason, propriety and truth.
A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the world,
and was content to lose it.

It will be thought strange, that, in enumerating the defects of this
writer, I have not yet mentioned his neglect of the unities; his
violation of those laws which have been instituted and established by
the joint authority of poets and of criticks.

For his other deviations from the art of writing, I resign him to
critical justice, without making any other demand in his favour, than
that which must be indulged to all human excellence; that his virtues be
rated with his failings: but, from the censure which this irregularity
may bring upon him, I shall, with due reverence to that learning which I
must oppose, adventure to try how I can defend him.

His histories, being neither tragedies nor comedies, are not subject to
any of their laws; nothing more is necessary to all the praise which
they expect, than that the changes of action be so prepared as to be
understood; that the incidents be various and affecting, and the
characters consistent, natural and distinct. No other unity is intended,
and, therefore, none is to be sought.

In his other works he has well enough preserved the unity of action. He
has not, indeed, an intrigue regularly perplexed and regularly
unravelled: he does not endeavour to hide his design only to discover
it, for this is seldom the order of real events, and Shakespeare is the
poet of nature: but his plan has commonly what Aristotle requires, a
beginning, a middle, and an end; one event is concatenated with another,
and the conclusion follows by easy consequence. There are, perhaps, some
incidents that might be spared, as in other poets there is much talk
that only fills up time upon the stage; but the general system makes
gradual advances, and the end of the play is the end of expectation.

To the unities of time and place he has shown no regard; and, perhaps, a
nearer view of the principles on which they stand will diminish their
value, and withdraw from them the veneration which, from the time of
Corneille, they have generally received, by discovering that they have
given more trouble to the poet, than pleasure to the auditor.

The necessity of observing the unities of time and place arises from the
supposed necessity of making the drama credible. The criticks hold it
impossible, that an action of months or years can be possibly believed
to pass in three hours; or that the spectator can suppose himself to sit
in the theatre, while ambassadors go and return between distant kings,
while armies are levied and towns besieged, while an exile wanders and
returns, or till he whom they saw courting his mistress, shall lament
the untimely fall of his son. The mind revolts from evident falsehood,
and fiction loses its force when it departs from the resemblance of
reality.

From the narrow limitation of time necessarily arises the contraction of
place. The spectator, who knows that he saw the first act at Alexandria,
cannot suppose that he sees the next at Rome, at a distance to which not
the dragons of Medea could, in so short a time, have transported him; he
knows with certainty that he has not changed his place; and he knows
that place cannot change itself; that what was a house cannot become a
plain; that what was Thebes can never be Persepolis.

Such is the triumphant language with which a critick exults over the
misery of an irregular poet, and exults commonly without resistance or
reply. It is time, therefore, to tell him, by the authority of
Shakespeare, that he assumes, as an unquestionable principle, a
position, which, while his breath is forming it into words, his
understanding pronounces to be false. It is false, that any
representation is mistaken for reality; that any dramatick fable in its
materiality was ever credible, or, for a single moment, was ever
credited.

The objection arising from the impossibility of passing the first hour
at Alexandria, and the next at Rome, supposes, that when the play opens,
the spectator really imagines himself at Alexandria, and believes that
his walk to the theatre has been a voyage to Egypt, and that he lives in
the days of Anthony and Cleopatra. Surely he that imagines this may
imagine more. He that can take the stage at one time for the palace of
the Ptolemies, may take it in half an hour for the promontory of Actium.
Delusion, if delusion be admitted, has no certain limitation; if the
spectator can be once persuaded, that his old acquaintance are Alexander
and Cęsar, that a room illuminated with candles is the plain of
Pharsalia, or the bank of Granicus, he is in a state of elevation above
the reach of reason, or of truth, and from the heights of empyrean
poetry, may despise the circumscriptions of terrestrial nature. There is
no reason why a mind thus wandering in ecstacy should count the clock,
or why an hour should not be a century in that calenture of the brains
that can make the stage a field.

The truth is, that the spectators are always in their senses, and know,
from the first act to the last, that the stage is only a stage, and that
the players are only players. They come to hear a certain number of
lines recited with just gesture and elegant modulation. The lines relate
to some action, and an action must be in some place; but the different
actions that complete a story may be in places very remote from each
other; and where is the absurdity of allowing that space to represent
first Athens, and then Sicily, which was always known to be neither
Sicily nor Athens, but a modern theatre?

By supposition, as place is introduced, time may be extended; the time
required by the fable elapses, for the most part, between the acts; for,
of so much of the action as is represented, the real and poetical
duration is the same. If, in the first act, preparations for war against
Mithridates are represented to be made in Rome, the event of the war
may, without absurdity, be represented, in the catastrophe, as happening
in Pontus; we know that there is neither war, nor preparation for war;
we know that we are neither in Rome nor Pontus; that neither Mithridates
nor Lucullus are before us. The drama exhibits successive imitations of
successive actions; and why may not the second imitation represent an
action that happened years after the first, if it be so connected with
it, that nothing but time can be supposed to intervene? Time is, of all
modes of existence, most obsequious to the imagination; a lapse of years
is as easily conceived as a passage of hours. In contemplation we easily
contract the time of real actions, and, therefore, willingly permit it
to be contracted when we only see their imitation.

It will be asked, how the drama moves, if it is not credited. It is
credited with all the credit due to a drama. It is credited, whenever it
moves, as a just picture of a real original; as representing to the
auditor what he would himself feel, if he were to do or suffer what is
there feigned to be suffered or to be done. The reflection that strikes
the heart is not, that the evils before us are real evils, but that they
are evils to which we ourselves may be exposed. If there be any fallacy,
it is not that we fancy the players, but that we fancy ourselves unhappy
for a moment; but we rather lament the possibility than suppose the
presence of misery, as a mother weeps over her babe, when she remembers
that death may take it from her. The delight of tragedy proceeds from
our consciousness of fiction; if we thought murders and treasons real,
they would please no more.

Imitations produce pain or pleasure, not because they are mistaken for
realities, but because they bring realities to mind. When the
imagination is recreated by a painted landscape, the trees are not
supposed capable to give us shade, or the fountains coolness; but we
consider how we should be pleased with such fountains playing beside us,
and such woods waving over us. We are agitated in reading the history of
Henry the fifth, yet no man takes his book for the field of Agincourt. A
dramatick exhibition is a book recited with concomitants that increase
or diminish its effect. Familiar comedy is often more powerful on the
theatre, than in the page; imperial tragedy is always less. The humour
of Petruchio may be heightened by grimace; but what voice or what
gesture can hope to add dignity or force to the soliloquy of Cato?

A play read, affects the mind like a play acted. It is, therefore,
evident, that the action is not supposed to be real; and it follows,
that between the acts a longer or shorter time may be allowed to pass,
and that no more account of space or duration is to be taken by the
auditor of a drama, than by the reader of a narrative, before whom may
pass in an hour the life of a hero, or the revolutions of an empire.

Whether Shakespeare knew the unities, and rejected them by design, or
deviated from them by happy ignorance, it is, I think, impossible to
decide, and useless to inquire. We may reasonably suppose, that, when he
rose to notice, he did not want the counsels and admonitions of scholars
and criticks, and that he, at last, deliberately persisted in a
practice, which he might have begun by chance. As nothing is essential
to the fable but unity of action, and as the unities of time and place
arise evidently from false assumptions, and, by circumscribing the
extent of the drama, lessen its variety, I cannot think it much to be
lamented, that they were not known by him, or not observed: nor, if such
another poet could arise, should I very vehemently reproach him, that
his first act passed at Venice, and his next in Cyprus. Such violations
of rules merely positive, become the comprehensive genius of
Shakespeare, and such censures are suitable to the minute and slender
criticism of Voltaire.

  Non usque adeo permiscuit imis
  Longus summa dies, ut non, si voce Metelli
  Serventur leges, malint a Cęsare tolli.

Yet when I speak thus slightly of dramatick rules, I cannot but
recollect how much wit and learning may be produced against me; before
such authorities I am afraid to stand, not that I think the present
question one of those that are to be decided by mere authority, but
because it is to be suspected, that these precepts have not been so
easily received, but for better reasons than I have yet been able to
find. The result of my inquiries, in which it would be ludicrous to
boast of impartiality, is, that the unities of time and place are not
essential to a just drama; that though they may sometimes conduce to
pleasure, they are always to be sacrificed to the nobler beauties of
variety and instruction; and that a play written with nice observation
of critical rules, is to be contemplated as an elaborate curiosity, as
the product of superfluous and ostentatious art, by which is shown,
rather what is possible, than what is necessary.

He that, without diminution of any other excellence, shall preserve all
the unities unbroken, deserves the like applause with the architect, who
shall display all the orders of architecture in a citadel, without any
deduction from its strength; but the principal beauty of a citadel is to
exclude the enemy; and the greatest graces of a play are to copy nature,
and instruct life.

Perhaps, what I have here not dogmatically but deliberately written, may
recall the principles of the drama to a new examination. I am almost
frighted at my own temerity; and when I estimate the fame and the
strength of those that maintain the contrary opinion, am ready to sink
down in reverential silence; as Ęneas withdrew from the defence of
Troy, when he saw Neptune shaking the wall, and Juno heading the
besiegers.

Those whom my arguments cannot persuade to give their approbation to the
judgment of Shakespeare, will easily, if they consider the condition of
his life, make some allowance for his ignorance.

Every man's performances, to be rightly estimated, must be compared with
the state of the age in which he lived, and with his own particular
opportunities; and though to the reader a book be not worse or better
for the circumstances of the author, yet, as there is always a silent
reference of human works to human abilities, and as the inquiry, how far
man may extend his designs, or how high he may rate his native force, is
of far greater dignity than in what rank we shall place any particular
performance, curiosity is always busy to discover the instruments, as
well as to survey the workmanship, to know how much is to be ascribed to
original powers, and how much to casual and adventitious help. The
palaces of Peru or Mexico were certainly mean and incommodious
habitations, if compared to the houses of European monarchs; yet who
could forbear to view them with astonishment, who remembered that they
were built without the use of iron?

The English nation, in the time of Shakespeare, was yet struggling to
emerge from barbarity. The philology of Italy had been transplanted
hither in the reign of Henry the eighth; and the learned languages had
been successfully cultivated by Lilly, Linacre, and More; by Pole,
Cheke, and Gardiner; and afterwards by Smith, Clerk, Haddon, and Ascham.
Greek was now taught to boys in the principal schools; and those who
united elegance with learning, read, with great diligence, the Italian
and Spanish poets. But literature was yet confined to professed
scholars, or to men and women of high rank. The publick was gross and
dark; and to be able to read and write, was an accomplishment still
valued for its rarity.

Nations, like individuals, have their infancy. A people newly awakened
to literary curiosity, being yet unacquainted with the true state of
things, knows not how to judge of that which is proposed as its
resemblance. Whatever is remote from common appearances is always
welcome to vulgar, as to childish credulity; and of a country
unenlightened by learning, the whole people is the vulgar. The study of
those who then aspired to plebeian learning was laid out upon
adventures, giants, dragons, and enchantments. The Death of Arthur was
the favourite volume.

The mind, which has feasted on the luxurious wonders of fiction, has no
taste of the insipidity of truth. A play, which imitated only the common
occurrences of the world, would, upon the admirers of Palmerin and Guy
of Warwick, have made little impression; he that wrote for such an
audience was under the necessity of looking round for strange events and
fabulous transactions; and that incredibility, by which maturer
knowledge is offended, was the chief recommendation of writings to
unskilful curiosity.

Our author's plots are generally borrowed from novels; and it is
reasonable to suppose, that he chose the most popular, such as were read
by many, and related by more; for his audience could not have followed
him through the intricacies of the drama, had they not held the thread
of the story in their hands.

The stories, which we now find only in remoter authors, were, in his
time, accessible and familiar. The fable of As You Like It, which is
supposed to be copied from Chaucer's Gamelyn, was a little pamphlet of
those times; and old Mr. Cibber remembered the tale of Hamlet in plain
English prose, which the criticks have now to seek in Saxo Grammaticus.

His English histories he took from English chronicles and English
ballads; and as the ancient writers were made known to his countrymen by
versions, they supplied him with new subjects; he dilated some of
Plutarch's lives into plays, when they had been translated by North.

His plots, whether historical or fabulous, are always crowded with
incidents, by which the attention of a rude people was more easily
caught than by sentiment or argumentation; and such is the power of the
marvellous, even over those who despise it, that every man finds his
mind more strongly seized by the tragedies of Shakespeare than of any
other writer: others please us by particular speeches; but he always
makes us anxious for the event, and has, perhaps, excelled all but Homer
in securing the first purpose of a writer, by exciting restless and
unquenchable curiosity, and compelling him that reads his work to read
it through.

The shows and bustle with which his plays abound have the same original.
As knowledge advances, pleasure passes from the eye to the ear, but
returns, as it declines, from the ear to the eye. Those to whom our
author's labours were exhibited had more skill in pomps or processions
than in poetical language, and, perhaps, wanted some visible and
discriminated events, as comments on the dialogue. He knew how he should
most please; and whether his practice is more agreeable to nature, or
whether his example has prejudiced the nation, we still find that on our
stage something must be done as well as said, and inactive declamation
is very coldly heard, however musical or elegant, passionate or sublime.

Voltaire expresses his wonder, that our author's extravagancies are
endured by a nation, which has seen the tragedy of Cato. Let him be
answered, that Addison speaks the language of poets, and Shakespeare of
men. We find in Cato innumerable beauties, which enamour us of its
author, but we see nothing that acquaints us with human sentiments or
human actions; we place it with the fairest and the noblest progeny
which judgment propagates by conjunction with learning; but Othello is
the vigorous and vivacious offspring of observation impregnated by
genius. Cato affords a splendid exhibition of artificial and fictitious
manners, and delivers just and noble sentiments, in diction easy,
elevated, and harmonious, but its hopes and fears communicate no
vibration to the heart; the composition refers us only to the writer; we
pronounce the name of Cato, but we think on Addison.

The work of a correct and regular writer is a garden accurately formed
and diligently planted, varied with shades, and scented with flowers;
the composition of Shakespeare is a forest, in which oaks extend their
branches, and pines tower in the air, interspersed sometimes with weeds
and brambles, and sometimes giving shelter to myrtles and to roses;
filling the eye with awful pomp, and gratifying the mind with endless
diversity. Other poets display cabinets of precious rarities, minutely
finished, wrought into shape, and polished into brightness. Shakespeare
opens a mine which contains gold and diamonds in unexhaustible plenty,
though clouded by incrustations, debased by impurities, and mingled with
a mass of meaner minerals.

It has been much disputed, whether Shakespeare owed his excellence to
his own native force, or whether he had the common helps of scholastick
education, the precepts of critical science, and the examples of ancient
authors.

There has always prevailed a tradition, that Shakespeare wanted
learning, that he had no regular education, nor much skill in the dead
languages. Jonson, his friend, affirms, that "he had small Latin and
less Greek;" who, besides that he had no imaginable temptation to
falsehood, wrote at a time when the character and acquisitions of
Shakespeare were known to multitudes. His evidence ought, therefore, to
decide the controversy, unless some testimony of equal force could be
opposed[12].

Some have imagined, that they have discovered deep learning in many
imitations of old writers; but the examples which I have known urged
were drawn from books translated in his time; or were such easy
coincidences of thought, as will happen to all who consider the same
subjects; or such remarks on life, or axioms of morality, as float in
conversation, and are transmitted through the world in proverbial
sentences.

I have found it remarked, that, in this important sentence, "Go before,
I'll follow," we read a translation of, _I prae, sequar_. I have been
told, that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream, says, "I cry'd to sleep
again," the author imitates Anacreon[13], who had, like every other man,
the same wish on the same occasion.

There are a few passages which may pass for imitations, but so few, that
the exception only confirms the rule; he obtained them from accidental
quotations, or by oral communication, and as he used what he had, would
have used more if he had obtained it.

The Comedy of Errors is confessedly taken from the Menaechmi of
Plautus[14]; from the only play of Plautus which was then in English.
What can be more probable, than that he who copied that, would have
copied more; but that those which were not translated were inaccessible?

Whether he knew the modern languages is uncertain. That his plays have
some French scenes proves but little; he might easily procure them to be
written, and probably, even though he had known the language in the
common degree, he could not have written it without assistance. In the
story of Romeo and Juliet, he is observed to have followed the English
translation, where it deviates from the Italian: but this, on the other
part, proves nothing against his knowledge of the original. He was to
copy, not what he knew himself, but what was known to his audience.

It is most likely that he had learned Latin sufficiently to make him
acquainted with construction, but that he never advanced to an easy
perusal of the Roman authors. Concerning his skill in modern languages,
I can find no sufficient ground of determination; but as no imitations
of French or Italian authors have been discovered, though the Italian
poetry was then high in esteem, I am inclined to believe, that he read
little more than English, and chose for his fables only such tales as he
found translated.

That much knowledge is scattered over his works is very justly observed
by Pope; but it is often such knowledge as books did not supply. He that
will understand Shakespeare, must not be content to study him in the
closet; he must look for his meaning sometimes among the sports of the
field, and sometimes among the manufactures of the shop.

There is, however, proof enough that he was a very diligent reader; nor
was our language then so indigent of books, but that he might very
liberally indulge his curiosity without excursion into foreign
literature. Many of the Roman authors were translated, and some of the
Greek[15]; the Reformation had filled the kingdom with theological
learning; most of the topicks of human disquisition had found English
writers; and poetry had been cultivated, not only with diligence, but
success. This was a stock of knowledge sufficient for a mind so capable
of appropriating and improving it.

But the greater part of his excellence was the product of his own
genius. He found the English stage in a state of the utmost rudeness; no
essays, either in tragedy or comedy, had appeared, from which it could
be discovered to what degree of delight either one or other might be
carried. Neither character nor dialogue were yet understood. Shakespeare
may be truly said to have introduced them both amongst us, and in some
of his happier scenes to have carried them both to the utmost height.

By what gradations of improvement he proceeded, is not easily known; for
the chronology of his works is yet unsettled. Rowe is of opinion, that
"perhaps we are not to look for his beginning, like those of other
writers, in his least perfect works; art had so little, and nature so
large a share in what he did, that for aught I know," says he, "the
performances of his youth, as they were the most vigorous, were the
best." But the power of nature is only the power of using to any certain
purpose the materials which diligence procures, or opportunity supplies.
Nature gives no man knowledge, and, when images are collected by study
and experience, can only assist in combining or applying them.
Shakespeare, however favoured by nature, could impart only what he had
learned; and, as he must increase his ideas, like other mortals, by
gradual acquisition, he, like them, grew wiser, as he grew older, could
display life better, as he knew it more, and instruct with more
efficacy, as he was himself more amply instructed.

There is a vigilance of observation and accuracy of distinction which
books and precepts cannot confer; from this almost all original and
native excellence proceeds. Shakespeare must have looked upon mankind
with perspicacity, in the highest degree curious and attentive. Other
writers borrow their characters from preceding writers, and diversify
them only by the accidental appendages of present manners; the dress is
a little varied, but the body is the same. Our author had both matter
and form to provide; for, except the characters of Chaucer, to whom I
think he is not much indebted, there were no writers in English, and,
perhaps, not many in other modern languages, which showed life in its
native colours.

The contest about the original benevolence or malignity of man had not
yet commenced. Speculation had not yet attempted to analyze the mind, to
trace the passions to their sources, to unfold the seminal principles of
vice and virtue, or sound the depths of the heart for the motives of
action. All those inquiries, which from that time that human nature
became the fashionable study, have been made sometimes with nice
discernment, but often with idle subtilty, were yet unattempted. The
tales, with which the infancy of learning was satisfied, exhibited only
the superficial appearances of action, related the events, but omitted
the causes, and were formed for such as delighted in wonders rather than
in truth. Mankind was not then to be studied in the closet; he that
would know the world, was under the necessity of gleaning his own
remarks, by mingling as he could in its business and amusements.

Boyle congratulated himself upon his high birth, because it favoured his
curiosity, by facilitating his access. Shakespeare had no such
advantage: he came to London a needy adventurer, and lived for a time by
very mean employments. Many works of genius and learning have been
performed in states of life that appear very little favourable to
thought or to inquiry; so many, that he who considers them is inclined
to think that he sees enterprize and perseverance predominating over all
external agency, and bidding help and hindrance vanish before them. The
genius of Shakespeare was not to be depressed by the weight of poverty,
nor limited by the narrow conversation to which men in want are
inevitably condemned; the encumbrances of his fortune were shaken from
his mind, "as dewdrops from a lion's mane".

Though he had so many difficulties to encounter, and so little
assistance to surmount them, he has been able to obtain an exact
knowledge of many modes of life, and many casts of native dispositions;
to vary them with great multiplicity; to mark them by nice distinctions;
and to show them in full view by proper combinations. In this part of
his performances he had none to imitate, but has himself been imitated
by all succeeding writers; and it may be doubted, whether from all his
successors more maxims of theoretical knowledge, or more rules of
practical prudence, can be collected, than he alone has given to his
country.

Nor was his attention confined to the actions of men; he was an exact
surveyor of the inanimate world; his descriptions have always some
peculiarities, gathered by contemplating things as they really exist. It
may be observed, that the oldest poets of many nations preserve their
reputation, and that the following generations of wit, after a short
celebrity, sink into oblivion. The first, whoever they be, must take
their sentiments and descriptions immediately from knowledge; the
resemblance is, therefore, just, their descriptions are verified by
every eye, and their sentiments acknowledged by every breast. Those whom
their fame invites to the same studies, copy partly them and partly
nature, till the books of one age gain such authority, as to stand in
the place of nature to another, and imitation, always deviating a
little, becomes at last capricious and casual. Shakespeare, whether life
or nature be his subject, shows plainly that he has seen with his own
eyes; he gives the image which he receives, not weakened or distorted by
the intervention of any other mind; the ignorant feel his
representations to be just, and the learned see that they are complete.

Perhaps it would not be easy to find any author, except Homer, who
invented so much as Shakespeare, who so much advanced the studies which
he cultivated, or effused so much novelty upon his age or country. The
form, the characters, the language, and the shows of the English drama
are his. "He seems," says Dennis, "to have been the very original of our
English tragical harmony, that is, the harmony of blank verse,
diversified often by dissyllable and trisyllable terminations. For the
diversity distinguishes it from heroick harmony, and by bringing it
nearer to common use makes it more proper to gain attention, and more
fit for action and dialogue. Such verse we make when we are writing
prose; we make such verse in common conversation.[16]"

I know not whether this praise is rigorously just. The dissyllable
termination, which the critick rightly appropriates to the drama, is to
be found, though, I think, not in Gorboduc, which is confessedly before
our author; yet in Hieronymo[17] of which the date is not certain, but
which there is reason to believe, at least, as old as his earliest
plays. This, however, is certain, that he is the first who taught either
tragedy or comedy to please, there being no theatrical piece of any
older writer, of which the name is known, except to antiquaries and
collectors of books, which are sought because they are scarce, and would
not have been scarce, had they been much esteemed.

To him we must ascribe the praise, unless Spenser may divide it with
him, of having first discovered to how much smoothness and harmony the
English language could be softened. He has speeches, perhaps, sometimes
scenes, which have all the delicacy of Rowe, without his effeminacy. He
endeavours, indeed, commonly to strike by the force and vigour of his
dialogue, but he never executes his purpose better, than when he tries
to sooth by softness.

Yet it must be at last confessed, that as we owe every thing to him, he
owes something to us; that, if much of his praise is paid by perception
and judgment, much is, likewise, given by custom and veneration. We fix
our eyes upon his graces, and turn them from his deformities, and endure
in him what we should in another loathe or despise. If we endured
without praising, respect for the father of our drama might excuse us;
but I have seen, in the book of some modern critick, a collection of
anomalies, which show that he has corrupted language by every mode of
depravation, but which his admirer has accumulated as a monument of
honour.

He has scenes of undoubted and perpetual excellence; but, perhaps, not
one play, which, if it were now exhibited as the work of a contemporary
writer, would be heard to the conclusion. I am, indeed, far from
thinking that his works were wrought to his own ideas of perfection;
when they were such as would satisfy the audience, they satisfied the
writer. It is seldom that authors, though more studious of fame than
Shakespeare, rise much above the standard of their own age; to add a
little to what is best will always be sufficient for present praise; and
those who find themselves exalted into fame, are willing to credit their
encomiasts, and to spare the labour of contending with themselves.

It does not appear, that Shakespeare thought his works worthy of
posterity, that he levied any ideal tribute upon future times, or had
any further prospect, than of present popularity and present profit.
When his plays had been acted, his hope was at an end; he solicited no
addition of honour from the reader. He, therefore, made no scruple to
repeat the same jests in many dialogues, or to entangle different plots
by the same knot of perplexity; which may be at least forgiven him, by
those who recollect that of Congreve's four comedies, two are concluded
by a marriage in a mask, by a deception, which, perhaps, never happened,
and which, whether likely or not, he did not invent.

So careless was this great poet of future fame, that, though he retired
to ease and plenty, while he was yet little _declined into the vale of
years_, before he could be disgusted with fatigue, or disabled by
infirmity, he made no collection of his works, nor desired to rescue
those that had been already published from the depravations that
obscured them, or secure to the rest a better destiny, by giving them to
the world in their genuine state.

Of the plays which bear the name of Shakespeare in the late editions,
the greater part were not published till about seven years after his
death; and the few which appeared in his life are apparently thrust into
the world without the care of the author, and, therefore, probably
without his knowledge.

Of all the publishers, clandestine or professed, the negligence and
unskilfulness has, by the late revisers, been sufficiently shown. The
faults of all are, indeed, numerous and gross, and have not only
corrupted many passages, perhaps, beyond recovery, but have brought
others into suspicion, which are only obscured by obsolete phraseology,
or by the writer's unskilfulness and affectation. To alter is more easy
than to explain, and temerity is a more common quality than diligence.
Those who saw that they must employ conjecture to a certain degree, were
willing to indulge it a little further. Had the author published his own
works, we should have sat quietly down to disentangle his intricacies,
and clear his obscurities; but now we tear what we cannot loose, and
eject what we happen not to understand.

The faults are more than could have happened without the concurrence of
many causes. The style of Shakespeare was in itself ungrammatical,
perplexed, and obscure; his works were transcribed for the players by
those who may be supposed to have seldom understood them; they were
transmitted by copiers equally unskilful, who still multiplied errours;
they were, perhaps, sometimes mutilated by the actors, for the sake of
shortening the speeches; and were at last printed without correction of
the press[18].

In this state they remained, not, as Dr. Warburton supposes, because
they were unregarded, but because the editor's art was not yet applied
to modern languages, and our ancestors were accustomed to so much
negligence of English printers, that they could very patiently endure
it. At last an edition was undertaken by Rowe; not because a poet was to
be published by a poet, for Rowe seems to have thought very little on
correction or explanation; but that our author's works might appear like
those of his fraternity, with the appendages of a life and
recommendatory preface. Rowe has been clamorously blamed for not
performing what he did not undertake; and it is time that justice be
done him, by confessing, that, though he seems to have had no thought of
corruption beyond the printer's errours, yet he has made many
emendations, if they were not made before, which his successors have
received without acknowledgment, and which, if they had produced them,
would have filled pages and pages with censures of the stupidity by
which the faults were committed, with displays of the absurdities which
they involved, with ostentatious expositions of the new reading, and
self-congratulations on the happiness of discovering it.

As of the other editors I have preserved the prefaces, I have likewise
borrowed the author's life from Howe, though not written with much
elegance or spirit; it relates, however, what is now to be known, and,
therefore, deserves to pass through all succeeding publications.

The nation had been for many years content enough with Mr. Rowe's
performance, when Mr. Pope made them acquainted with the true state of
Shakespeare's text, showed that it was extremely corrupt, and gave
reason to hope that there were means of reforming it. He collated the
old copies, which none had thought to examine before, and restored many
lines to their integrity; but, by a very compendious criticism, he
rejected whatever he disliked, and thought more of amputation than of
cure.

I know not why he is commended by Dr. Warburton for distinguishing the
genuine from the spurious plays. In this choice he exerted no judgment
of his own; the plays which he received were given by Hemings and
Condel, the first editors; and those which he rejected, though,
according to the licentiousness of the press in those times, they were
printed during Shakespeare's life, with his name, had been omitted by
his friends, and were never added to his works before the edition of
1664, from which they were copied by the later printers.

This was a work which Pope seems to have thought unworthy of his
abilities, being not able to suppress his contempt of _the dull duty of
an editor_. He understood but half his undertaking. The duty of a
collator is, indeed, dull, yet, like other tedious tasks, is very
necessary; but an emendatory critick would ill discharge his duty,
without qualities very different from dulness. In perusing a corrupted
piece, he must have before him all possibilities of meaning, with all
possibilities of expression. Such must be his comprehension of thought,
and such his copiousness of language. Out of many readings possible, he
must be able to select that which best suits with the state, opinions,
and modes of language prevailing in every age, and with his author's
particular cast of thought, and turn of expression. Such must be his
knowledge, and such his taste. Conjectural criticism demands more than
humanity possesses, and he that exercises it with most praise, has very
frequent need of indulgence. Let us now be told no more of the dull duty
of an editor.

Confidence is the common consequence of success. They whose excellence
of any kind has been loudly celebrated, are ready to conclude that their
powers are universal. Pope's edition fell below his own expectations,
and he was so much offended when he was found to have left any thing for
others to do, that he passed the latter part of his life in a state of
hostility with verbal criticism.

I have retained all his notes, that no fragment of so great a writer may
be lost; his preface, valuable alike for elegance of composition and
justness of remark, and containing a general criticism on his author, so
extensive that little can be added, and so exact that little can be
disputed, every editor has an interest to suppress, but that every
reader would demand its insertion.

Pope was succeeded by Theobald, a man of narrow comprehension, and small
acquisitions, with no native and intrinsick splendour of genius, with
little of the artificial light of learning, but zealous for minute
accuracy, and not negligent in pursuing it. He collated the ancient
copies, and rectified many errours. A man so anxiously scrupulous might
have been expected to do more, but what little he did was commonly
right.

In his reports of copies and editions he is not to be trusted without
examination. He speaks sometimes indefinitely of copies, when he has
only one. In his enumeration of editions, he mentions the two first
folios as of high, and the third folio as of middle authority; but the
truth is, that the first is equivalent to all others, and that the rest
only deviate from it by the printer's negligence. Whoever has any of the
folios has all, excepting those diversities which mere reiteration of
editions will produce[19]. I collated them all, at the beginning, but
afterwards used only the first.

Of his notes I have generally retained those which he retained himself
in his second edition, except when they were confuted by subsequent
annotators, or were too minute to merit preservation. I have sometimes
adopted his restoration of a comma, without inserting the panegyrick in
which he celebrated himself for his achievement. The exuberant
excrescence of his diction I have often lopped, his triumphant
exultations over Pope and Howe I have sometimes suppressed, and his
contemptible ostentation I have frequently concealed; but I have in some
places shown him, as he would have shown himself, for the reader's
diversion, that the inflated emptiness of some notes may justify or
excuse the contraction of the rest.

Theobald, thus weak and ignorant, thus mean and faithless, thus petulant
and ostentatious, by the good luck of having Pope for his enemy, has
escaped, and escaped alone, with reputation, from this undertaking. So
willingly does the world support those who solicit favour against those
who command reverence; and so easily is he praised whom no man can envy.

Our author fell then into the hands of Sir Thomas Hanmer, the Oxford
editor, a man, in my opinion, eminently qualified by nature for such
studies. He had, what is the first requisite to emendatory criticism,
that intuition by which the poet's intention is immediately discovered,
and that dexterity of intellect which despatches its work by the easiest
means. He had undoubtedly read much; his acquaintance with customs,
opinions, and traditions, seems to have been large; and he is often
learned without show. He seldom passes what he does not understand,
without an attempt to find or to make a meaning, and sometimes hastily
makes what a little more attention would have found. He is solicitous to
reduce to grammar what he could not be sure that his author intended to
be grammatical. Shakespeare regarded more the series of ideas, than of
words; and his language, not being designed for the reader's desk, was
all that he desired it to be, if it conveyed his meaning to the
audience.

Hanmer's care of the metre has been too violently censured. He found the
measure reformed in so many passages by the silent labours of some
editors, with the silent acquiescence of the rest, that he thought
himself allowed to extend a little further the license, which had
already been carried so far without reprehension; and, of his
corrections in general, it must be confessed, that they are often just,
and made commonly with the least possible violation of the text.

But, by inserting his emendations, whether invented or borrowed, into
the page, without any notice of varying copies, he has appropriated the
labour of his predecessors, and made his own edition of little
authority. His confidence indeed, both in himself and others, was too
great; he supposes all to be right that was done by Pope and Theobald;
he seems not to suspect a critick of fallibility; and it was but
reasonable that he should claim what he so liberally granted.

As he never writes without careful inquiry and diligent consideration, I
have received all his notes, and believe that every reader will wish for
more.

Of the last editor it is more difficult to speak. Respect is due to high
place, tenderness to living reputation, and veneration to genius and
learning; but he cannot be justly offended at that liberty of which he
has himself so frequently given an example, nor very solicitous what is
thought of notes, which he ought never to have considered as part of his
serious employments, and which, I suppose, since the ardour of
composition is remitted, he no longer numbers among his happy effusions.

The original and predominant errour of his commentary is acquiescence in
his first thoughts; that precipitation which is produced by
consciousness of quick discernment; and that confidence which presumes
to do, by surveying the surface, what labour only can perform, by
penetrating the bottom. His notes exhibit sometimes perverse
interpretations, and sometimes improbable conjectures; he at one time
gives the author more profundity of meaning than the sentence admits,
and at another discovers absurdities, where the sense is plain to every
other reader. But his emendations are likewise often happy and just; and
his interpretation of obscure passages learned and sagacious.

Of his notes, I have commonly rejected, those against which the general
voice of the publick has exclaimed, or which their own incongruity
immediately condemns, and which, I suppose, the author himself would
desire to be forgotten. Of the rest, to part I have given the highest
approbation, by inserting the offered reading in the text; part I have
left to the judgment of the reader, as doubtful, though specious; and
part I have censured without reserve, but, I am sure, without bitterness
of malice, and, I hope, without wantonness of insult.

It is no pleasure to me, in revising my volumes, to observe how much
paper is wasted in confutation. Whoever considers the revolutions of
learning, and the various questions of greater or less importance, upon
which wit and reason have exercised their powers, must lament the
unsuccessfulness of inquiry, and the slow advances of truth, when he
reflects that great part of the labour of every writer is only the
destruction of those that went before him. The first care of the builder
of a new system, is to demolish the fabricks which are standing. The
chief desire of him that comments an author, is to show how much other
commentators have corrupted and obscured him. The opinions prevalent in
one age, as truths above the reach of controversy, are confuted and
rejected in another, and rise again to reception in remoter times. Thus
the human mind is kept in motion without progress. Thus sometimes truth
and errour, and sometimes contrarieties of errour, take each other's
place by reciprocal invasion. The tide of seeming knowledge, which is
poured over one generation, retires and leaves another naked and barren;
the sudden meteors of intelligence, which for awhile appear to shoot
their beams into the regions of obscurity, on a sudden withdraw their
lustre, and leave mortals again to grope their way.

These elevations and depressions of renown, and the contradictions to
which all improvers of knowledge must for ever be exposed, since they
are not escaped by the highest and brightest of mankind, may, surely, be
endured with patience by criticks and annotators, who can rank
themselves but as the satellites of their authors. How canst thou beg
for life, says Homer's hero to his captive, when thou knowest that thou
art now to suffer only what must another day be suffered by Achilles?

Dr. Warburton had a name sufficient to confer celebrity on those who
could exalt themselves into antagonists, and his notes have raised a
clamour too loud to be distinct. His chief assailants are the authors of
The Canons of Criticism, and of The Revisal of Shakespeare's Text; of
whom one ridicules his errours with airy petulance, suitable enough to
the levity of the controversy; the other attacks them with gloomy
malignity, as if he were dragging to justice an assassin or incendiary.
The one stings like a fly, sucks a little blood, takes a gay flutter,
and returns for more; the other bites like a viper, and would be glad to
leave inflammations and gangrene behind him. When I think on one, with
his confederates, I remember the danger of Coriolanus, who was afraid
that "girls with spits, and boys with stones, should slay him in puny
battle;" when the other crosses my imagination, I remember the prodigy
in Macbeth:

  A falcon tow'ring in his pride of place,
  Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd.

Let me, however, do them justice. One is a wit, and one a scholar[20].
They have both shown acuteness sufficient in the discovery of faults,
and have both advanced some probable interpretations of obscure
passages; but when they aspire to conjecture and emendation, it appears
how falsely we all estimate our own abilities, and the little which they
have been able to perform might have taught them more candour to the
endeavours of others.

Before Dr. Warburton's edition, Critical Observations on Shakespeare had
been published by Mr. Upton[21], a man skilled in languages, and
acquainted with books, but who seems to have had no great vigour of
genius or nicety of taste. Many of his explanations are curious and
useful, but he, likewise, though he professed to oppose the licentious
confidence of editors, and adhere to the old copies, is unable to
restrain the rage of emendation, though his ardour is ill seconded by
his skill. Every cold empirick, when his heart is expanded by a
successful experiment, swells into a theorist, and the laborious
collator at some unlucky moment frolicks in conjecture.

Critical, historical, and explanatory notes have been, likewise,
published upon Shakespeare by Dr. Grey, whose diligent perusal of the
old English writers has enabled him to make some useful observations.
What he undertook he has well enough performed; but as he neither
attempts judicial or emendatory criticism, he employs rather his memory
than his sagacity. It were to be wished that all would endeavour to
imitate his modesty, who have not been able to surpass his knowledge.

I can say, with great sincerity, of all my predecessors, what I hope
will hereafter be said of me, that not one has left Shakespeare without
improvement; nor is there one to whom I have not been indebted for
assistance and information. Whatever I have taken from them, it was my
intention to refer to its original author, and it is certain, that what
I have not given to another, I believed when I wrote it to be my own. In
some, perhaps, I have been anticipated; but if I am ever found to
encroach upon the remarks of any other commentators, I am willing that
the honour, be it more or less, should be transferred to the first
claimant, for his right, and his alone, stands above dispute; the second
can prove his pretensions only to himself, nor can himself always
distinguish invention, with sufficient certainty, from recollection.

They have all been treated by me with candour, which they have not been
careful of observing to one another. It is not easy to discover from
what cause the acrimony of a scholiast can naturally proceed. The
subjects to be discussed by him are of very small importance; they
involve neither property nor liberty; nor favour the interest of sect or
party. The various readings of copies, and different interpretations of
a passage, seem to be questions that might exercise the wit, without
engaging the passions. But whether it be that "small things make mean
men proud," and vanity catches small occasions; or that all contrariety
of opinion, even in those that can defend it no longer, makes proud men
angry; there is often found in commentaries a spontaneous strain of
invective and contempt, more eager and venomous than is vented by the
most furious controvertist in politicks against those whom he is hired
to defame.

Perhaps the lightness of the matter may conduce to the vehemence of the
agency; when the truth to be investigated is so near to inexistence, as
to escape attention, its bulk is to be enlarged by rage and exclamation:
that to which all would be indifferent in its original state, may
attract notice when the fate of a name is appended to it. A commentator
has, indeed, great temptations to supply by turbulence what he wants of
dignity, to beat his little gold to a spacious surface, to work that to
foam which no art or diligence can exalt to spirit.

The notes which I have borrowed or written are either illustrative, by
which difficulties are explained; or judicial, by which faults and
beauties are remarked; or emendatory, by which depravations are
corrected.

The explanations transcribed from others, if I do not subjoin any other
interpretation, I suppose commonly to be right, at least I intend by
acquiescence to confess, that I have nothing better to propose.

After the labours of all the editors, I found many passages which
appeared to me likely to obstruct the greater number of readers, and
thought it my duty to facilitate their passage. It is impossible for an
expositor not to write too little for some, and too much for others. He
can only judge what is necessary by his own experience; and how long
soever he may deliberate, will at last explain many lines which the
learned will think impossible to be mistaken, and omit many for which
the ignorant will want his help. These are censures merely relative, and
must be quietly endured. I have endeavoured to be neither superfluously
copious, nor scrupulously reserved, and hope that I have made my
author's meaning accessible to many, who before were frighted from
perusing him, and contributed something to the publick, by diffusing
innocent and rational pleasure.

The complete explanation of an author not systematick and consequential,
but desultory and vagrant, abounding in casual allusions and light
hints, is not to be expected from any single scholiast. All personal
reflections, when names are suppressed, must be in a few years
irrecoverably obliterated; and customs, too minute to attract the notice
of law, such as modes of dress, formalities of conversation, rules of
visits, disposition of furniture, and practices of ceremony, which
naturally find places in familiar dialogue, are so fugitive and
unsubstantial, that they are not easily retained or recovered. What can
be known will be collected by chance, from the recesses of obscure and
obsolete papers, perused commonly with some other view. Of this
knowledge every man has some, and none has much; but when an author has
engaged the publick attention, those who can add any thing to his
illustration, communicate their discoveries, and time produces what had
eluded diligence.

To time I have been obliged to resign many passages, which, though I did
not understand them, will, perhaps, hereafter be explained; having, I
hope, illustrated some, which others have neglected or mistaken,
sometimes by short remarks, or marginal directions, such as every editor
has added at his will, and often by comments more laborious than the
matter will seem to deserve; but that which is most difficult is not
always most important, and to an editor nothing is a trifle by which his
author is obscured.

The poetical beauties or defects I have not been very diligent to
observe. Some plays have more, and some fewer judicial observations, not
in proportion to their difference of merit, but because I gave this part
of my design to chance and to caprice. The reader, I believe, is seldom
pleased to find his opinion anticipated; it is natural to delight more
in what we find or make, than in what we receive. Judgment, like other
faculties, is improved by practice, and its advancement is hindered by
submission to dictatorial decisions, as the memory grows torpid by the
use of a table-book. Some initiation is, however, necessary; of all
skill, part is infused by precept, and part is obtained by habit; I
have, therefore, shown so much as may enable the candidate of criticism
to discover the rest.

To the end of most plays I have added short strictures, containing a
general censure of faults, or praise of excellence; in which I know not
how much I have concurred with the current opinion; but I have not, by
any affectation of singularity, deviated from it. Nothing is minutely
and particularly examined, and, therefore, it is to be supposed, that in
the plays which are condemned there is much to be praised, and in those
which are praised much to be condemned.

The part of criticism in which the whole succession of editors has
laboured with the greatest diligence, which has occasioned the most
arrogant ostentation, and excited the keenest acrimony, is the
emendation of corrupted passages, to which the publick attention, having
been first drawn by the violence of the contention between Pope and
Theobald, has been continued by the persecution, which, with a kind of
conspiracy, has been since raised against all the publishers of
Shakespeare.

That many passages have passed in a state of depravation through all the
editions, is indubitably certain; of these the restoration is only to be
attempted by collation of copies, or sagacity of conjecture. The
collator's province is safe and easy, the conjecturer's perilous and
difficult. Yet, as the greater part of the plays are extant only in one
copy, the peril must not be avoided, nor the difficulty refused.

Of the readings which this emulation of amendment has hitherto produced,
some from the labours of every publisher I have advanced into the text;
those are to be considered as, in my opinion, sufficiently supported;
some I have rejected without mention, as evidently erroneous; some I
have left in the notes without censure or approbation, as resting in
equipoise between objection and defence; and some, which seemed specious
but not right, I have inserted with a subsequent animadversion.

Having classed the observations of others, I was at last to try what I
could substitute for their mistakes, and how I could supply their
omissions. I collated such copies as I could procure, and wished for
more, but have not found the collectors of these rarities very
communicative. Of the editions which chance or kindness put into my
hands I have given an enumeration, that I may not be blamed for
neglecting what T had not the power to do.

By examining the old copies, I soon found that the later publishers,
with all their boasts of diligence, suffered many passages to stand
unauthorised, and contented themselves with Rowe's regulation of the
text, even where they knew it to be arbitrary, and with a little
consideration might have found it to be wrong. Some of these alterations
are only the ejection of a word for one that appeared to him more
elegant or more intelligible. These corruptions I have often silently
rectified; for the history of our language, and the true force of our
words, can only be preserved, by keeping the text of authors free from
adulteration. Others, and those very frequent, smoothed the cadence, or
regulated the measure: on these I have not exercised the same rigour; if
only a word was transposed, or a particle inserted or omitted, I have
sometimes suffered the line to stand; for the inconstancy of the copies
is such, as that some liberties may be easily permitted. But this
practice I have not suffered to proceed far, having restored the
primitive diction wherever it could for any reason be preferred.

The emendations, which comparison of copies supplied, I have inserted in
the text: sometimes, where the improvement was slight, without notice,
and sometimes with an account of the reasons of the change.

Conjecture, though it be sometimes unavoidable, I have not wantonly nor
licentiously indulged. It has been my settled principle, that the
reading of the ancient books is probably true, and, therefore, is not to
be disturbed for the sake of elegance, perspicuity, or mere improvement
of the sense. For though much credit is not due to the fidelity, nor any
to the judgment of the first publishers, yet they who had the copy
before their eyes were more likely to read it right, than we, who read
it only by imagination. But it is evident that they have often made
strange mistakes by ignorance or negligence, and that, therefore,
something may be properly attempted by criticism, keeping the middle way
between presumption and timidity.

Such criticism I have attempted to practise, and, where any passage
appeared inextricably perplexed have endeavoured to discover how it may
be recalled to sense, with least violence. But my first labour is,
always to turn the old text on every side, and try if there be any
interstice, through which light can find its way; nor would Huetius
himself condemn me, as refusing the trouble of research, for the
ambition of alteration. In this modest industry I have not been
unsuccessful. I have rescued many lines from the violations of temerity,
and secured many scenes from the inroads of correction. I have adopted
the Roman sentiment, that it is more honourable to save a citizen than
to kill an enemy, and have been more careful to protect than to attack.

I have preserved the common distribution of the plays into acts, though
I believe it to be in almost all the plays void of authority. Some of
those which are divided in the later editions have no division in the
first folio, and some that are divided in the folio have no division in
the preceding copies. The settled mode of the theatre requires four
intervals in the play; but few, if any, of our author's compositions can
be properly distributed in that manner. An act is so much of the drama
as passes without intervention of time, or change of place. A pause
makes a new act. In every real, and, therefore, in every imitative
action, the intervals may be more or fewer, the restriction of five acts
being accidental and arbitrary. This Shakespeare knew, and this he
practised; his plays were written, and, at first, printed in one
unbroken continuity, and ought now to be exhibited with short pauses,
interposed as often as the scene is changed, or any considerable time is
required to pass. This method would at once quell a thousand
absurdities.

In restoring the author's works to their integrity, I have considered
the punctuation as wholly in my power; for what could be their care of
colons and commas, who corrupted words and sentences? Whatever could be
done by adjusting points, is, therefore, silently performed, in some
plays with much diligence, in others with less; it is hard to keep a
busy eye steadily fixed upon evanescent atoms, or a discursive mind upon
evanescent truth.

The same liberty has been taken with a few particles, or other words of
slight effect. I have sometimes inserted or omitted them without notice.
I have done that sometimes, which the other editors have done always,
and which, indeed, the state of the text may sufficiently justify.

The greater part of readers, instead of blaming us for passing trifles,
will wonder that on mere trifles so much labour is expended, with such
importance of debate, and such solemnity of diction. To these I answer
with confidence, that they are judging of an art which they do not
understand; yet cannot much reproach them with their ignorance, nor
promise that they would become in general, by learning criticism, more
useful, happier, or wiser.

As I practised conjecture more, I learned to trust it less; and after I
had printed a few plays, resolved to insert none of my own readings in
the text. Upon this caution I now congratulate myself, for every day
increases my doubt of my emendations.

Since I have confined my imagination to the margin, it must not be
considered as very reprehensible, if I have suffered it to play some
freaks in its own dominion. There is no danger in conjecture, if it be
proposed as conjecture; and while the text remains uninjured, those
changes may be safely offered, which are not considered, even by him
that offers them, as necessary or safe.

If my readings are of little value, they have not been ostentatiously
displayed or importunately obtruded. I could have written longer notes,
for the art of writing notes is not of difficult attainment. The work is
performed, first by railing at the stupidity, negligence, ignorance, and
asinine tastelessness of the former editors, and showing, from all that
goes before and all that follows, the inelegance and absurdity of the
old reading; then by proposing something, which to superficial readers
would seem specious, but which the editor rejects with indignation; then
by producing the true reading, with a long paraphrase, and concluding
with loud acclamations on the discovery, and a sober wish for the
advancement and prosperity of genuine criticism.

All this may be done, and, perhaps, done sometimes without impropriety.
But I have always suspected that the reading is right, which requires
many words to prove it wrong; and the emendation wrong, that cannot
without so much labour appear to be right. The justness of a happy
restoration strikes at once, and the moral precept may be well applied
to criticism, "quod dubitas ne feceris."

To dread the shore which he sees spread with wrecks, is natural to the
sailor. I had before my eye so many critical adventures ended in
miscarriage, that caution was forced upon me. I encountered in every
page, wit struggling with its own sophistry, and learning confused by
the multiplicity of its views. I was forced to censure those whom I
admired, and could not but reflect, while I was dispossessing their
emendations, how soon the same fate might happen to my own, and how many
of the readings which I have corrected may be, by some other editor,
defended and established.

  Critics I saw, that others' names efface,
  And fix their own, with labour, in the place;
  Their own, like others, soon their place resign'd,
  Or disappear'd, and left the first behind.
                                    POPE.

That a conjectural critick should often be mistaken, cannot be
wonderful, either to others or himself, if it be considered, that in his
art there is no system, no principal and axiomatical truth that
regulates subordinate positions. His chance of errour is renewed at
every attempt; an oblique view of the passage, a slight misapprehension
of a phrase, a casual inattention to the parts connected, is sufficient
to make him not only fail, but fail ridiculously; and when he succeeds
best, he produces, perhaps, but one reading of many probable, and he
that suggests another will always be able to dispute his claims.

It is an unhappy state, in which danger is hid under pleasure. The
allurements of emendation are scarcely resistible. Conjecture has all
the joy and all the pride of invention, and he that has once started a
happy change, is too much delighted to consider what objections may rise
against it.

Yet conjectural criticism has been of great use in the learned world;
nor is it my intention to depreciate a study, that has exercised so many
mighty minds, from the revival of learning to our own age, from the
bishop of Aleria[22] to English Bentley. The criticks on ancient authors
have, in the exercise of their sagacity, many assistances, which the
editor of Shakespeare is condemned to want. They are employed upon
grammatical and settled languages, whose construction contributes so
much to perspicuity, that Homer has fewer passages unintelligible than
Chaucer. The words have not only a known regimen, but invariable
quantities, which direct and confine the choice. There are commonly more
manuscripts than one; and they do not often conspire in the same
mistakes. Yet Scaliger could confess to Salmasius how little
satisfaction his emendations gave him: "Illudunt nobis conjecturę
nostrę, quarum nos pudet, posteaquam in meliores codices incidimus." And
Lipsius could complain that criticks were making faults, by trying to
remove them: "Ut olim vitiis, ita nunc remediis laboratur." And, indeed,
where mere conjecture is to be used, the emendations of Scaliger and
Lipsius, notwithstanding their wonderful sagacity and erudition, are
often vague and disputable, like mine or Theobald's.

Perhaps I may not be more censured for doing wrong, than for doing
little; for raising in the publick expectations which at last I have not
answered. The expectation of ignorance is indefinite, and that of
knowledge is often tyrannical. It is hard to satisfy those who know not
what to demand, or those who demand by design what they think impossible
to be done. I have, indeed, disappointed no opinion more than my own;
yet I have endeavoured to perform my task with no slight solicitude. Not
a single passage in the whole work has appeared to me corrupt, which I
have not attempted to restore; or obscure, which I have not endeavoured
to illustrate. In many I have failed, like others; and from many, after
all my efforts, I have retreated, and confessed the repulse. I have not
passed over, with affected superiority, what is equally difficult to the
reader and to myself, but, where I could not instruct him, have owned my
ignorance. I might easily have accumulated a mass of seeming learning
upon easy scenes; but it ought not to be imputed to negligence, that,
where nothing was necessary, nothing has been done, or that, where
others have said enough, I have said no more.

Notes are often necessary, but they are necessary evils. Let him, that
is yet unacquainted with the powers of Shakespeare, and who desires to
feel the highest pleasure that the drama can give, read every play, from
the first scene to the last, with utter negligence of all his
commentators. When his fancy is once on the wing, let it not stoop at
correction or explanation. When his attention is strongly engaged, let
it disdain alike to turn aside to the name of Theobald and of Pope. Let
him read on through brightness and obscurity, through integrity and
corruption; let him preserve his comprehension of the dialogue and his
interest in the fable. And when the pleasures of novelty have ceased,
let him attempt exactness, and read the commentators.

Particular passages are cleared by notes, but the general effect of the
work is weakened. The mind is refrigerated by interruption; the thoughts
are diverted from the principal subject; the reader is weary, he
suspects not why; and at last throws away the book which he has too
diligently studied. Parts are not to be examined till the whole has been
surveyed; there is a kind of intellectual remoteness necessary for the
comprehension of any great work in its full design and in its true
proportions; a close approach shows the smaller niceties, but the beauty
of the whole is discerned no longer.

It is not very grateful to consider how little the succession of editors
has added to this author's power of pleasing. He was read, admired,
studied, and imitated, while he was yet deformed with all the
improprieties which ignorance and neglect could accumulate upon him;
while the reading was yet not rectified, nor his allusions understood;
yet then did Dryden pronounce "that Shakespeare was the man, who, of all
modern and, perhaps, ancient poets, had the largest and most
comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him,
and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily: when he describes any
thing, you more than see it, you feel it too. Those, who accuse him to
have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation: he was
naturally learned: he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature;
he looked inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is every where
alike; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the
greatest of mankind. He is many times flat and insipid; his comick wit
degenerating into clinches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is
always great when some great occasion is presented to him: no man can
say, he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise
himself as high above the rest of poets,

  Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi."

It is to be lamented that such a writer should want a commentary; that
his language should become obsolete, or his sentiments obscure. But it
is vain to carry wishes beyond the condition of human things; that which
must happen to all, has happened to Shakespeare, by accident and time;
and more than has been suffered by any other writer since the use of
types[23], has been suffered by him through his own negligence of fame,
or, perhaps, by that superiority of mind, which despised its own
performances, when it compared them with its powers, and judged those
works unworthy to be preserved, which the criticks of following ages
were to contend for the fame of restoring and explaining.

Among these candidates of inferiour fame, I am now to stand the judgment
of the publick; and wish that I could confidently produce my commentary
as equal to the encouragement which I have had the honour of receiving.
Every work of this kind is by its nature deficient, and I should feel
little solicitude about the sentence, were it to be pronounced only by
the skilful and the learned.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Dr. Johnson's Preface first appeared in 1765. Malone's Shakespeare,
    i. 108. and Boswell's Life of Johnson, i.

[2] Est vetus atque probus, centum qui perficit annos. Hon. Ep. II. 1.
    v. 39.

[3] With all respect for our great critic's memory we must maintain,
    that love has the _greatest_ influence on the sum of life: and every
    popular tale or poem derives its main charm and power of pleasing
    from the incidents of this universal passion. Other passions have,
    undoubtedly, their sway, but love, when it does prevail, like
    Aaron's rod, swallows up every feeling beside. It is one thing to
    introduce the fulsome _badinage_ of compliment with which French
    tragedy abounds, and another to exhibit the

 --"very ecstacy of love:
  Whose violent property foredoes itself,
  And leads the will to desperate undertakings,
  _As oft as any passion under heaven_,
  That does afflict our natures."--

HAMLET. Act ii. Sc. i.

[4]
    Quaerit quod nusquam est gentium, repent tamen.
    Facit illud verisimile, quod mendacrium est.
                           PLAUTI PSEUDOLUS, Act i. Sc. 4.

    Ficta voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris. HOR. ARS POET, 338.

    See too the celebrated passage of Shakespeare himself--
    Midsummer-night's Dream, Act v. Sc. 1; and Idler, 84.--Ed.

[5] The judgment of French poets on these points may be inferred from
    the tenour of Boileau's admonitions:

    Gardez donc de donner, ainsi que dans Clélie,
    L'air ni l'esprit franēois ą l'antique Italie;
    Et, sous des noms romains faisant notre portrait,
    Peindre Caton galant, et Brutus dameret.
                Art Poétique, iii.--Ed.

[6] The critic must, when he wrote this, have forgotten the Cyclops of
    Euripides, and also the fact, that when an Athenian dramatist
    brought out his _three_ tragedies at the Dionysiac festival, he
    added, as a fourth, a sort of farce; a specimen of which Schlegel
    considers the Cyclops. Mr. Twining, in his amusing and instructive
    notes on Aristotle's Poetics, refers to the drunken jollity of
    Hercules in the Alcestis, and to the ludicrous dialogue between
    Ulysses and Minerva, in the first scene of the Ajax of Sophocles, as
    instances of Greek tragi-comedy. We may add the Electra of
    Euripides; for if the poet did not intend to burlesque the rules of
    tragic composition in many of the scenes of that play, and to make
    his audience laugh, he calculated on more dull gravity in Athens,
    than we are accustomed to give that city of song the credit for. The
    broad ridicule which Aristophanes casts against the tragedians is
    not half so laughable.

[7] Thus, says Dowries the Prompter, p. 22: "The tragedy of Romeo and
    Juliet was made some time after [1662] into a tragi-comedy, by Mr.
    James Howard, he preserving Romeo and Juliet alive; so that when the
    tragedy was revived again, 'twas played alternately, tragical one
    day, and tragi-comical another, for several days together."
    STEEVENS.

[8] This opinion is controverted, and its effects deplored, by Dr. J.
    Warton, in a note to Malone's Shakespeare, i. p. 71.--Ed.

[9] Dr. Drake conceives that Dr. Wolcot was indebted to the above noble
    passage for the _prima stamina_ of the following stanza:

  Thus, while I wond'ring pause o'er Shakespeare's page
  I mark, in visions of delight, the sage
    High o'er the wrecks of man who stands sublime,
  A column in the melancholy waste,
  (Its cities humbled, and its glories past,)
    Majestic 'mid the solitude of time.--Ed.

[10] The poets and painters before and of Shakespeare's time were all
     guilty of the same fault. The former "combined the Gothic mythology
     of fairies" with the fables and traditions of Greek and Roman lore;
     while the latter dressed out the heroes of antiquity in the arms
     and costume of their own day. The grand front of Rouen cathedral
     affords ample and curious illustration of what we state. Mr.
     Steevens, in his Shakespeare, adds, "that in Arthur Hall's version
     of the fourth Iliad, Juno says to Jupiter:

     "The time will come that _Totnam French_ shall turn."

     And in the tenth Book we hear of "The Bastile": "Lemster wool," and
     "The Byble."

[11] The relaxations of "England's queen" with her maids of honour were
     not, if we may credit the existing memoirs of her court, precisely
     such as modern fastidiousness would assign to the "fair vestal
     throned by the west."

[12] A very full and satisfactory essay on the learning of Shakespeare,
     may be found in Mr. Malone's Edition of Shakespeare, i. 300.

[13]
     [Greek: Memonomenos d' o tlaemon
     Aealin aethelon katheudein.] Anac. 8.

[14] The Comedy of Errors, which has been partly taken by some wretched
     playwright from the Menaechmi of Plautus, is intolerably stupid:
     that it may occasionally display the touch of Shakespeare, cannot
     be denied; but these _purpurei panni_ are lamentably infrequent;
     and, to adopt the language of Mr. Stevens, "that the entire play
     was no work of his, is an opinion which (as Benedick says) fire
     cannot melt out of me; I will die in it at the stake." Dr. Drake's
     Literary Life of Johnson.--Ed.

[15] A list of these translations may be seen in Malone's Shakespeare,
     i. 371. It was originally drawn up by Mr. Steevens.--Ed.

[16] See Dryden in the Epistle Dedicatory to his Rival Ladies.--Ed.

[17] It appears, from the induction of Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair,"
     to have been acted before the year 1590.--STEEVENS.

[18] The errors of the promoter's books of the present day excite the
     violent invective of Mr. Steevens, in his notes on Johnson's
     Preface.--Ed.

[19] This assertion is contradicted by Steevens and Malone, as regards
     the second edition 1632. The former editor says, that it has the
     advantage of various readings which are not merely such as
     reiteration of copies will produce. The curious examiner of
     Shakespeare's text, who possesses the first of these folio
     editions, ought not to be unfurnished with the second. See Malone's
     List of Early Editions in his Shakespeare, ii. 656.--Ed.

[20] It is extraordinary that this gentleman should attempt so
     voluminous a work, as the Revisal of Shakespeare's text, when he
     tells us in his preface, "he was not so fortunate as to be
     furnished with either of the folio editions, much less any of the
     ancient quartos: and even Sir Thomas Hanmer's performance was known
     to him only by Dr. Warburton's representation."--FARMER.

[21] Republished by him in 1748, after Dr. Warburton's edition, with
     alterations, &c.--STEEVENS.

[22] John Andreas. He was secretary to the Vatican library during the
     papacies of Paul the second and Sixtus the fourth. By the former,
     he was employed to superintend such works as were to be multiplied
     by the new art of printing, at that time brought into Rome. He
     published Herodotus, Strabo, Livy, Aulus Gellius, &c. His
     schoolfellow, Cardinal de Cusa, procured him the bishopric of
     Arcia, a province in Corsica; and Paul the second afterwards
     appointed him to that of Aleria, in the same island, where he died
     in 1493. See Fabric. Bibl. Lat. iii. 894, and Steevens, in Malone's
     Shak. i. 106.

[23] See this assertion refuted by examples in a former note.--Ed.




GENERAL OBSERVATIONS
ON THE
PLAYS OF SHAKESPEARE.


TEMPEST.

It is observed of The Tempest, that its plan is regular; this the author
of The Revisal[1] thinks, what I think too, an accidental effect of the
story, not intended or regarded by our author. But whatever might be
Shakespeare's intention in forming or adopting the plot, he has made it
instrumental to the production of many characters, diversified with
boundless invention, and preserved with profound skill in nature,
extensive knowledge of opinions, and accurate observation of life. In a
single drama are here exhibited princes, courtiers, and sailors, all
speaking in their real characters. There is the agency of airy spirits,
and of an earthly goblin; the operations of magick, the tumults of a
storm, the adventures of a desert island, the native effusion of
untaught affection, the punishment of guilt, and the final happiness of
the pair for whom our passions and reason are equally interested.


TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

In this play there is a strange mixture of knowledge and ignorance, of
care and negligence. The versification is often excellent, the allusions
are learned and just; but the author conveys his heroes by sea from one
inland town to another in the same country; he places the emperour at
Milan, and sends his young men to attend him, but never mentions him
more; he makes Protheus, after an interview with Silvia, say he has only
seen her picture;[2] and, if we may credit the old copies, he has, by
mistaking places, left his scenery inextricable. The reason of all this
confusion seems to be, that he took his story from a novel, which he
sometimes followed, and sometimes forsook, sometimes remembered, and
sometimes forgot.

That this play is rightly attributed to Shakespeare, I have little
doubt. If it be taken from him, to whom shall it be given? This question
may be asked of all the disputed plays, except Titus Andronicus; and it
will be found more credible that Shakespeare might sometimes sink below
his highest flights, than that any other should rise up to his lowest.


MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

Of this play there is a tradition preserved by Mr. Rowe, that it was
written at the command of queen Elizabeth, who was so delighted with the
character of Falstaff, that she wished it to be diffused through more
plays; but, suspecting that it might pall by continued uniformity,
directed the poet to diversify his manner, by showing him in love. No
task is harder than that of writing to the ideas of another. Shakespeare
knew what the queen, if the story be true, seems not to have known, that
by any real passion of tenderness, the selfish craft, the careless
jollity, and the lazy luxury of Falstaff must have suffered so much
abatement, that little of his former cast would have remained. Falstaff
could not love, but by ceasing to be Falstaff. He could only counterfeit
love, and his professions could be prompted, not by the hope of
pleasure, but of money. Thus the poet approached as near as he could to
the work enjoined him; yet having, perhaps, in the former plays,
completed his own idea, seems not to have been able to give Falstaff all
his former power of entertainment.

This comedy is remarkable for the variety and number of the personages,
who exhibit more characters appropriated and discriminated, than,
perhaps, can be found in any other play.

Whether Shakespeare was the first that produced upon the English stage
the effect of language distorted and depraved by provincial or foreign
pronunciation, I cannot certainly decide[3]. This mode of forming
ridiculous characters can confer praise only on him who originally
discovered it, for it requires not much of either wit or judgment; its
success must be derived almost wholly from the player, but its power in
a skilful mouth even he that despises it is unable to resist.

The conduct of this drama is deficient; the action begins and ends often
before the conclusion, and the different parts might change places
without inconvenience; but its general power, that power by which all
works of genius shall finally be tried, is such, that, perhaps, it never
yet had reader or spectator, who did not think it too soon at an end.


MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

There is, perhaps, not one of Shakespeare's plays more darkened than
this, by the peculiarities of its author, and the unskilfulness of its
editors, by distortions of phrase, or negligence of transcription.

The novel of Giraldi Cynthio, from which Shakespeare is supposed to have
borrowed this fable, may be read in Shakespeare Illustrated, elegantly
translated, with remarks, which will assist the inquirer to discover how
much absurdity Shakespeare has admitted or avoided.

I cannot but suspect that some other had new modelled the novel of
Cynthio, or written a story which, in some particulars, resembled it,
and that Cynthio was not the author whom Shakespeare immediately
followed. The emperour, in Cynthio, is named Maximine; the duke, in
Shakespeare's enumeration of the persons of the drama, is called
Vincentio. This appears a very slight remark; but since the duke has no
name in the play, nor is ever mentioned but by his title, why should he
be called Vincentio among the persons, but because the name was copied
from the story, and placed superfluously at the head of the list, by the
mere habit of transcription? It is, therefore, likely that there was
then a story of Vincentio duke of Vienna, different from that of
Maximine emperour of the Romans.

Of this play, the light or comick part is very natural and pleasing, but
the grave scenes, if a few passages be excepted, have more labour than
elegance. The plot is rather intricate than artful. The time of the
action is indefinite; some time, we know not how much, must have elapsed
between the recess of the duke and the imprisonment of Claudio; for he
must have learned the story of Mariana in his disguise, or he delegated
his power to a man already known to be corrupted. The unities of action
and place are sufficiently preserved.


LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.

In this play, which all the editors have concurred to censure, and some
have rejected as unworthy of our poet, it must be confessed that there
are many passages mean, childish and vulgar; and some which ought not to
have been exhibited, as we are told they were, to a maiden queen. But
there are scattered through the whole many sparks of genius; nor is
there any play that has more evident marks of the hand of
Shakespeare[4].


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM.

Wild and fantastical as this play is, all the parts, in their various
modes, are well written, and give the kind of pleasure which the author
designed. Fairies in his time were much in fashion; common tradition had
made them familiar, and Spenser's poem had made them great[5].


MERCHANT OF VENICE.

It has been lately discovered, that this fable is taken from a story in
the Pecorone[6] of Ser Giovanni Fiorentino, a novelist, who wrote in
1378. The story has been published in English, and I have epitomized the
translation. The translator is of opinion that the choice of the caskets
is borrowed from a tale of Boccace, which I have, likewise, abridged,
though I believe that Shakespeare must have had some other novel in
view.

Of The Merchant of Venice the style is even and easy, with few
peculiarities of diction, or anomalies of construction. The comick part
raises laughter, and the serious fixes expectation. The probability of
either one or the other story cannot be maintained. The union of two
actions in one event is, in this drama, eminently happy. Dryden was much
pleased with his own address in connecting the two plots of his Spanish
Friar, which yet, I believe, the critick will find excelled by this
play.


AS YOU LIKE IT.

Of this play the fable is wild and pleasing. I know not how the ladies
will approve the facility with which both Rosalind and Celia give away
their hearts. To Celia much may be forgiven for the heroism of her
friendship. The character of Jaques is natural and well preserved. The
comick dialogue is very sprightly, with less mixture of low buffoonery
than in some other plays; and the graver part is elegant and harmonious.
By hastening to the end of his work, Shakespeare suppressed the dialogue
between the usurper and the hermit, and lost an opportunity of
exhibiting a moral lesson, in which he might have found matter worthy of
his highest powers.


TAMING OF THE SHREW.

Of this play the two plots are so well united, that they can hardly be
called two, without injury to the art with which they are interwoven.
The attention is entertained with all the variety of a double plot, yet
is not distracted by unconnected incidents.

The part between Catharine and Petruchio is eminently sprightly and
diverting. At the marriage of Bianca, the arrival of the real father,
perhaps, produces more perplexity than pleasure. The whole play is very
popular and diverting.


ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

This play has many delightful scenes, though not sufficiently probable,
and some happy characters, though not new, nor produced by any deep
knowledge of human nature. Parolles is a boaster and a coward, such as
has always been the sport of the stage, but, perhaps, never raised more
laughter or contempt than in the hands of Shakespeare.

I cannot reconcile my heart to Bertram; a man noble without generosity,
and young without truth; who marries Helen as a coward, and leaves her
as a profligate: when she is dead by his unkindness, sneaks home to a
second marriage, is accused by a woman whom he has wronged, defends
himself by falsehood, and is dismissed to happiness[7].

The story of Bertram and Diana had been told before of Mariana and
Angelo, and, to confess the truth, scarcely merited to be heard a second
time.


TWELFTH NIGHT.

This play is, in the graver part, elegant and easy, and, in some of the
lighter scenes, exquisitely humorous. Aguecheek is drawn with great
propriety, but his character is, in a great measure, that of natural
fatuity, and is, therefore, not the proper prey of a satirist. The
soliloquy of Malvolio is truly comick; he is betrayed to ridicule merely
by his pride. The marriage of Olivia, and the succeeding perplexity,
though well enough contrived to divert on the stage, wants credibility,
and fails to produce the proper instruction required in the drama, as it
exhibits no just picture of life.


WINTER'S TALE.

The story of this play is taken from The Pleasant History of Dorastus
and Fawnia, written by Robert Greene.

This play, as Dr. Warburton justly observes, is, with all its
absurdities, very entertaining. The character of Autolycus is very
naturally conceived, and strongly represented.


MACBETH.

This play is deservedly celebrated for the propriety of its fictions,
and solemnity, grandeur, and variety of its action; but it has no nice
discriminations of character; the events are too great to admit the
influence of particular dispositions, and the course of the action
necessarily determines the conduct of the agents.

The danger of ambition is well described; and I know not whether it may
not be said, in defence of some parts which now seem improbable, that,
in Shakespeare's time, it was necessary to warn credulity against vain
and illusive predictions.

The passions are directed to their true end. Lady Macbeth is merely
detested; and though the courage of Macbeth preserves some esteem, yet
every reader rejoices at his fall.


KING JOHN.

The tragedy of King John, though not written with the utmost power of
Shakespeare, is varied with a very pleasing interchange of incidents and
characters. The lady's grief is very affecting, and the character of the
bastard contains that mixture of greatness and levity which this author
delighted to exhibit.


KING RICHARD II.

This play is extracted from the Chronicle of Holinshed, in which many
passages may be found which Shakespeare has, with very little
alteration, transplanted into his scenes; particularly a speech of the
bishop of Carlisle in defence of King Richard's unalienable right, and
immunity from human jurisdiction.

Jonson, who, in his Catiline and Sejanus, has inserted many speeches
from the Roman historians, was, perhaps, induced to that practice by the
example of Shakespeare, who had condescended sometimes to copy more
ignoble writers. But Shakespeare had more of his own than Jonson, and,
if he sometimes was willing to spare his labour, showed by what he
performed at other times, that his extracts were made by choice or
idleness rather than necessity. This play is one of those which
Shakespeare has apparently revised[8]; but as success in works of
invention is not always proportionate to labour, it is not finished at
last with the happy force of some other of his tragedies, nor can be
said much to affect the passions or enlarge the understanding.


KING HENRY IV. PART II.

I fancy every reader, when he ends this play, cries out with Desdemona,
"O most lame and impotent conclusion!" As this play was not, to our
knowledge, divided into acts by the author, I could be content to
conclude it with the death of Henry the Fourth.

  "In that Jerusalem shall Harry die."

These scenes, which now make the fifth act of Henry IV. might then be
the first of Henry V. but the truth is, that they do not unite very
commodiously to either play. When these plays were represented, I
believe they ended as they are now ended in the books; but Shakespeare
seems to have designed that the whole series of action, from the
beginning of Richard II. to the end of Henry V. should be considered by
the reader as one work, upon one plan, only broken into parts by the
necessity of exhibition.

None of Shakespeare's plays are more read than the first and second
parts of Henry IV. Perhaps no author has ever in two plays afforded so
much delight. The great events are interesting, for the fate of kingdoms
depends upon them; the slighter occurrences are diverting, and, except
one or two, sufficiently probable; the incidents are multiplied with
wonderful fertility of invention, and the characters diversified with
the utmost nicety of discernment, and the profoundest skill in the
nature of man.

The prince, who is the hero both of the comick and tragick part, is a
young man of great abilities and violent passions, whose sentiments are
right, though his actions are wrong; whose virtues are obscured by
negligence, and whose understanding is dissipated by levity. In his idle
hours he is rather loose than wicked; and when the occasion forces out
his latent qualities, he is great without effort, and brave without
tumult. The trifler is roused into a hero, and the hero again reposes in
the trifler. This character is great, original and just.

Percy is a rugged soldier, cholerick and quarrelsome, and has only the
soldier's virtues, generosity and courage. But Falstaff, unimitated,
unimitable Falstaff, how shall I describe thee! thou compound of sense
and vice; of sense which may be admired, but not esteemed; of vice which
may be despised, but hardly detested. Falstaff is a character loaded
with faults, and with those faults which naturally produce contempt. He
is a thief and a glutton, a coward and a boaster, always ready to cheat
the weak, and prey upon the poor; to terrify the timorous, and insult
the defenceless. At once obsequious and malignant, he satirizes in their
absence those whom he lives by flattering. He is familiar with the
prince only as an agent of vice, but of this familiarity he is so proud,
as not only to be supercilious and haughty with common men, but to think
his interest of importance to the duke of Lancaster. Yet the man thus
corrupt, thus despicable, makes himself necessary to the prince that
despises him, by the most pleasing of all qualities, perpetual gaiety,
by an unfailing power of exciting laughter, which is the more freely
indulged, as his wit is not of the splendid or ambitious kind, but
consists in easy scapes and sallies of levity, which make sport, but
raise no envy. It must be observed, that he is stained with no enormous
or sanguinary crimes, so that his licentiousness is not so offensive but
that it may be borne for his mirth.

The moral to be drawn from this representation is, that no man is more
dangerous than he that, with a will to corrupt, hath the power to
please; and that neither wit nor honesty ought to think themselves safe
with such a companion, when they see Henry seduced by Falstaff.


KING HENRY V.

This play has many scenes of high dignity, and many of easy merriment.
The character of the king is well supported, except in his courtship,
where he has neither the vivacity of Hal, nor the grandeur of Henry. The
humour of Pistol is very happily continued; his character has, perhaps,
been the model of all the bullies that have yet appeared on the English
stage.

The lines given to the chorus have many admirers; but the truth is, that
in them a little may be praised, and much must be forgiven: nor can it
be easily discovered why the intelligence given by the chorus is more
necessary in this play than in many others where it is omitted. The
great defect of this play is the emptiness and narrowness of the last
act, which a very little diligence might have easily avoided.


KING HENRY VI. PART I.

Of this play there is no copy earlier than that of the folio in 1623,
though the two succeeding parts are extant in two editions in quarto.
That the second and third parts were published without the first, may be
admitted, as no weak proof that the copies were surreptitiously
obtained, and that the printers of that time gave the publick those
plays, not such as the author designed, but such as they could get them.
That this play was written before the two others is indubitably
collected from the series of events; that it was written and played
before Henry V. is apparent, because in the epilogue there is mention
made of this play, and not of the other parts:

  Henry the sixth in swaddling bands crown'd king,
  Whose state so many had i' the managing
  That they lost France, and made all England rue,
  Which oft our stage hath shown.

France is lost in this play. The two following contain, as the old title
imports, the contention of the houses of York and Lancaster.

The two first parts of Henry VI. were printed in 1600. When Henry V. was
written, we know not, but it was printed likewise in 1600, and,
therefore, before the publication of the first and second parts: the
first part of Henry VI. had been often shown on the stage, and would
certainly have appeared in its place had the author been the publisher.


KING HENRY VI. PART III.

The three parts of Henry VI. are suspected, by Mr. Theobald, of being
supposititious, and are declared, by Dr. Warburton, to be certainly not
Shakespeare's[9]. Mr. Theobald's suspicion arises from some obsolete
words; but the phraseology is like the rest of our author's style, and
single words, of which, however, I do not observe more than two, can
conclude little.

Dr. Warburton gives no reason, but I suppose him to judge upon deeper
principles and more comprehensive views, and to draw his opinion from
the general effect and spirit of the composition, which he thinks
inferiour to the other historical plays.

From mere inferiority nothing can be inferred; in the productions of wit
there will be inequality. Sometimes judgment will err, and sometimes the
matter itself will defeat the artist. Of every author's works one will
be the best, and one will be the worst. The colours are not equally
pleasing, nor the attitudes equally graceful, in all the pictures of
Titian or Reynolds.

Dissimilitude of style, and heterogeneousness of sentiment, may
sufficiently show that a work does not really belong to the reputed
author. But in these plays no such marks of spuriousness are found. The
diction, the versification, and the figures, are Shakespeare's. These
plays, considered without regard to characters and incidents, merely as
narratives in verse, are more happily conceived, and more accurately
finished, than those of King John, Richard II. or the tragick scenes of
Henry IV. and V. If we take these plays from Shakespeare, to whom shall
they be given? What author of that age had the same easiness of
expression and fluency of numbers?

Having considered the evidence given by the plays themselves, and found
it in their favour, let us now inquire what corroboration can be gained
from other testimony. They are ascribed to Shakespeare by the first
editors, whose attestation may be received in questions of fact, however
unskilfully they superintended their edition. They seem to be declared
genuine by the voice of Shakespeare himself, who refers to the second
play in his epilogue to Henry V. and apparently connects the first act
of Richard III. with the last of the third part of Henry VI. If it be
objected that the plays were popular, and that, therefore, he alluded to
them as well known; it may be answered, with equal probability, that the
natural passions of a poet would have disposed him to separate his own
works from those of an inferiour hand. And, indeed, if an author's own
testimony is to be overthrown by speculative criticism, no man can be
any longer secure of literary reputation.

Of these three plays I think the second the best. The truth is, that
they have not sufficient variety of action, for the incidents are too
often of the same kind; yet many of the characters are well
discriminated. King Henry and his queen, king Edward, the duke of
Gloucester, and the earl of Warwick, are very strongly and distinctly
painted.

The old copies of the two latter parts of Henry VI. and of Henry V. are
so apparently imperfect and mutilated, that there is no reason for
supposing them the first draughts of Shakespeare. I am inclined to
believe them copies taken by some auditor who wrote down, during the
representation, what the time would permit, then, perhaps, filled up
some of his omissions at a second or third hearing, and when he had by
this method formed something like a play, sent it to the printer[10].


KING RICHARD III.

This is one of the most celebrated of our author's performances; yet I
know not whether it has not happened to him as to others, to be praised
most, when praise is not most deserved. That this play has scenes noble
in themselves, and very well contrived to strike in the exhibition,
cannot be denied. But some parts are trifling, others shocking, and some
improbable.

I have nothing to add to the observations of the learned criticks, but
that some traces of this antiquated exhibition are still retained in the
rustick puppet-plays, in which I have seen the Devil very lustily
belaboured by Punch, whom I hold to be the legitimate successor of the
old Vice[11].


KING HENRY VIII.

The play of Henry VIII. is one of those which still keeps possession of
the stage by the splendour of its pageantry. The coronation, about forty
years ago, drew the people together in multitudes for a great part of
the winter[12]. Yet pomp is not the only merit of this play. The meek
sorrows and virtuous distress of Catharine have furnished some scenes
which may be justly numbered among the greatest efforts of tragedy. But
the genius of Shakespeare comes in and goes out with Catharine[13].
Every other part may be easily conceived, and easily written.

The historical dramas are now concluded, of which the two parts of Henry
IV. and Henry V. are among the happiest of our author's compositions;
and King John, Richard III. and Henry VIII. deservedly stand in the
second class. Those whose curiosity would refer the historical scenes to
their original, may consult Holinshed, and sometimes Hall: from
Holinshed, Shakespeare has often inserted whole speeches, with no more
alteration than was necessary to the numbers of his verse. To transcribe
them into the margin was unnecessary, because the original is easily
examined, and they are seldom less perspicuous in the poet than in the
historian.

To play histories, or to exhibit a succession of events by action and
dialogue, was a common entertainment among our rude ancestors upon great
festivities. The parish clerks once performed at Clerkenwell a play,
which lasted three days, containing the History of the World.


CORIOLANUS.

The tragedy of Coriolanus is one of the most amusing of our author's
performances. The old man's merriment in Menenius; the lofty lady's
dignity in Volumnia; the bridal modesty in Virgilia; the patrician and
military haughtiness in Coriolanus; the plebeian malignity, and
tribunitian insolence in Brutus and Sicinius, make a very pleasing and
interesting variety: and the various revolutions of the hero's fortune
fill the mind with anxious curiosity. There is, perhaps, too much bustle
in the first act, and too little in the last.


JULIUS CAESAR.

Of this tragedy many particular passages deserve regard, and the
contention and reconcilement of Brutus and Cassius is universally
celebrated; but I have never been strongly agitated in perusing it, and
think it somewhat cold and unaffecting, compared with some other of
Shakespeare's plays; his adherence to the real story, and to Roman
manners, seems to have impeded the natural vigour of his genius.


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

This play keeps curiosity always busy, and the passions always
interested. The continual hurry of the action, the variety of incidents,
and the quick succession of one personage to another, call the mind
forward, without intermission, from the first act to the last. But the
power of delighting is derived principally from the frequent changes of
the scene; for, except the feminine arts, some of which are too low,
which distinguish Cleopatra, no character is very strongly
discriminated. Upton, who did not easily miss what he desired to find,
has discovered that the language of Antony is, with great skill and
learning, made pompous and superb, according to his real practice. But I
think his diction not distinguishable from that of others: the most
tumid speech in the play is that which Cęsar makes to Octavia.

The events, of which the principal are described according to history,
are produced without any art of connexion or care of disposition.


TIMON OF ATHENS.

The play of Timon is a domestick tragedy, and, therefore, strongly
fastens on the attention of the reader. In the plan there is not much
art, but the incidents are natural, and the characters various and
exact. The catastrophe affords a very powerful warning against that
ostentatious liberality, which scatters bounty, but confers no benefits,
and buys flattery, but not friendship.

In this tragedy are many passages perplexed, obscure, and probably
corrupt, which I have endeavoured to rectify or explain, with due
diligence; but having only one copy, cannot promise myself that my
endeavours will be much applauded.


TITUS ANDRONICUS.

All the editors and criticks agree with Mr. Theobald in supposing this
play spurious. I see no reason for differing from them; for the colour
of the style is wholly different from that of the other plays, and there
is an attempt at regular versification and artificial closes, not always
inelegant, yet seldom pleasing. The barbarity of the spectacles, and the
general massacre, which are here exhibited, can scarcely be conceived
tolerable to any audience; yet we are told by Jonson, that they were not
only borne, but praised. That Shakespeare wrote any part, though
Theobald declares it incontestable, I see no reason for believing.

The testimony produced at the beginning of this play, by which it is
ascribed to Shakespeare, is by no means equal to the argument against
its authenticity, arising from the total difference of conduct, language
and sentiments, by which it stands apart from all the rest. Meres had
probably no other evidence than that of a title-page, which, though in
our time it be sufficient, was then of no great authority; for all the
plays which were rejected by the first collectors of Shakespeare's
works, and admitted in later editions, and again rejected by the
critical editors, had Shakespeare's name on the title[14], as we must
suppose, by the fraudulence of the printers, who, while there were yet
no gazettes, nor advertisements, nor any means of circulating literary
intelligence, could usurp at pleasure any celebrated name. Nor had
Shakespeare any interest in detecting the imposture, as none of his fame
or profit was produced by the press.

The chronology of this play does not prove it not to be Shakespeare's.
If it had been written twenty-five years in 1614, it might have been
written when Shakespeare was twenty-five years old. When he left
Warwickshire I know not; but at the age of twenty-five it was rather too
late to fly for deer-stealing.

Ravenscroft, who in the reign of Charles II. revised this play, and
restored it to the stage, tells us, in his preface, from a theatrical
tradition, I suppose, which in his time might be of sufficient
authority, that this play was touched, in different parts, by
Shakespeare, but written by some other poet. I do not find Shakespeare's
touches very discernible.


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

This play is more correctly written than most of Shakespeare's
compositions, but it is not one of those in which either the extent of
his views or elevation of his fancy is fully displayed. As the story
abounded with materials, he has exerted little invention; but he has
diversified his characters with great variety, and preserved them with
great exactness. His vicious characters sometimes disgust, but cannot
corrupt, for both Cressida and Pandarus are detested and contemned. The
comick characters seem to have been the favourites of the writer; they
are of the superficial kind, and exhibit more of manners than nature;
but they are copiously filled, and powerfully impressed.

Shakespeare has in his story followed, for the greater part, the old
book of Caxton, which was then very popular; but the character of
Thersites, of which it makes no mention, is a proof that this play was
written after Chapman had published his version of Homer[15].


CYMBELINE.

This play has many just sentiments, some natural dialogues, and some
pleasing scenes, but they are obtained at the expense of much
incongruity. To remark the folly of the fiction, the absurdity of the
conduct, the confusion of the names and manners of different times, and
the impossibility of the events in any system of life, were to waste
criticism upon unresisting imbecility, upon faults too evident for
detection, and too gross for aggravation.


KING LEAR.

The tragedy of Lear is deservedly celebrated among the dramas of
Shakespeare. There is, perhaps, no play which keeps the attention so
strongly fixed; which so much agitates our passions, and interests our
curiosity. The artful involutions of distinct interests, the striking
oppositions of contrary characters, the sudden changes of fortune, and
the quick succession of events, fill the mind with a perpetual tumult of
indignation, pity and hope. There is no scene which does not contribute
to the aggravation of the distress or conduct of the action, and scarce
a line which does not conduce to the progress of the scene. So powerful
is the current of the poet's imagination, that the mind, which once
ventures within it, is hurried irresistibly along.

On the seeming improbability of Lear's conduct, it may be observed, that
he is represented according to histories at that time vulgarly received
as true. And, perhaps, if we turn our thoughts upon the barbarity and
ignorance of the age to which this story is referred, it will appear not
so unlikely as while we estimate Lear's manners by our own. Such
preference of one daughter to another, or resignation of dominion on
such conditions, would be yet credible, if told of a petty prince of
Guinea or Madagascar. Shakespeare, indeed, by the mention of his earls
and dukes, has given us the idea of times more civilized, and of life
regulated by softer manners; and the truth is, that though he so nicely
discriminates, and so minutely describes the characters of men, he
commonly neglects and confounds the characters of ages, by mingling
customs ancient and modern, English and foreign.

My learned friend Mr. Warton, who has, in the Adventurer, very minutely
criticised this play, remarks, that the instances of cruelty are too
savage and shocking, and that the intervention of Edmund destroys the
simplicity of the story. These objections may, I think, be answered, by
repeating, that the cruelty of the daughters is an historical fact, to
which the poet has added little, having only drawn it into a series by
dialogue and action. But I am not able to apologize with equal
plausibility for the extrusion of Gloster's eyes, which seems an act too
horrid to be endured in dramatick exhibition, and such as must always
compel the mind to relieve its distress by incredulity. Yet let it be
remembered that our author well knew what would please the audience for
which he wrote.

The injury done by Edmund to the simplicity of the action is abundantly
recompensed by the addition of variety, by the art with which he is made
to co-operate with the chief design, and the opportunity which he gives
the poet of combining perfidy with perfidy, and connecting the wicked
son with the wicked daughters, to impress this important moral, that
villany is never at a stop, that crimes lead to crimes, and at last
terminate in ruin.

But though this moral be incidentally enforced, Shakespeare has suffered
the virtue of Cordelia to perish in a just cause, contrary to the
natural ideas of justice, to the hope of the reader, and, what is yet
more strange, to the faith of chronicles. Yet this conduct is justified
by the Spectator, who blames Tate for giving Cordelia success and
happiness in his alteration, and declares, that, in his opinion, "the
tragedy has lost half its beauty." Dennis has remarked, whether justly
or not, that, to secure the favourable reception of Cato, "the town was
poisoned with much false and abominable criticism," and that endeavours
had been used to discredit and decry poetical justice. A play in which
the wicked prosper, and the virtuous miscarry, may doubtless be good,
because it is a just representation of the common events of human life:
but since all reasonable beings naturally love justice, I cannot easily
be persuaded, that the observation of justice makes a play worse; or
that, if other excellencies are equal, the audience will not always rise
better pleased from the final triumph of persecuted virtue.

In the present case the publick has decided[16]. Cordelia, from the time
of Tate, has always retired with victory and felicity. And, if my
sensations could add any thing to the general suffrage, I might relate,
I was many years ago so shocked by Cordelia's death, that I know not
whether I ever endured to read again the last scenes of the play till I
undertook to revise them as an editor.

There is another controversy among the criticks concerning this play. It
is disputed whether the predominant image in Lear's disordered mind be
the loss of his kingdom or the cruelty of his daughters. Mr. Murphy, a
very judicious critick, has evinced by induction of particular passages,
that the cruelty of his daughters is the primary source of his distress,
and that the loss of royalty affects him only as a secondary and
subordinate evil. He observes, with great justness, that Lear would move
our compassion but little, did we not rather consider the injured father
than the degraded king.

The story of this play, except the episode of Edmund, which is derived,
I think, from Sidney, is taken originally from Geoffry of Monmouth, whom
Holinshed generally copied; but, perhaps, immediately from an old
historical ballad. My reason for believing that the play was posterior
to the ballad, rather than the ballad to the play, is, that the ballad
has nothing of Shakespeare's nocturnal tempest, which is too striking to
have been omitted, and that it follows the chronicle; it has the
rudiments of the play, but none of its amplifications: it first hinted
Lear's madness, but did not array it in circumstances. The writer of the
ballad added something to the history, which is a proof that he would
have added more, if more had occurred to his mind, and more must have
occurred if he had seen Shakespeare.


ROMEO AND JULIET.

This play is one of the most pleasing of our author's performances. The
scenes are busy and various, the incidents numerous and important, the
catastrophe irresistibly affecting, and the process of the action
carried on with such probability, at least with such congruity to
popular opinions, as tragedy requires.

Here is one of the few attempts of Shakespeare to exhibit the
conversation of gentlemen, to represent the airy sprightliness of
juvenile elegance. Mr. Dryden mentions a tradition, which might easily
reach his time, of a declaration made by Shakespeare, that "he was
obliged to kill Mercutio in the third act, lest he should have been
killed by him." Yet he thinks him "no such formidable person, but that
he might have lived through the play, and died in his bed," without
danger to the poet. Dryden well knew, had he been in quest of truth,
that, in a pointed sentence, more regard is commonly had to the words
than the thought, and that it is very seldom to be rigorously
understood. Mercutio's wit, gaiety and courage, will always procure him
friends that wish him a longer life; but his death is not precipitated,
he has lived out the time allotted him in the construction of the play;
nor do I doubt the ability of Shakespeare to have continued his
existence, though some of his sallies are, perhaps, out of the reach of
Dryden; whose genius was not very fertile of merriment, nor ductile to
humour, but acute, argumentative, comprehensive and sublime.

The nurse is one of the characters in which the author delighted; he
has, with great subtilty of distinction, drawn her at once loquacious
and secret, obsequious and insolent, trusty and dishonest.

His comick scenes are happily wrought, but his pathetick strains are
always polluted with some unexpected depravations. His persons, however
distressed, have a conceit left them in their misery, a miserable
conceit.


HAMLET.

If the dramas of Shakespeare were to be characterized, each by the
particular excellence which distinguishes it from the rest, we must
allow to the tragedy of Hamlet the praise of variety. The incidents are
so numerous, that the argument of the play would make a long tale. The
scenes are interchangeably diversified with merriment and solemnity;
with merriment, that includes judicious and instructive observations;
and solemnity, not strained by poetical violence above the natural
sentiments of man. New characters appear from time to time in continual
succession, exhibiting various forms of life and particular modes of
conversation. The pretended madness of Hamlet causes much mirth, the
mournful distraction of Ophelia fills the heart with tenderness, and
every personage produces the effect intended, from the apparition that,
in the first act, chills the blood with horrour, to the fop, in the
last, that exposes affectation to just contempt.

The conduct is, perhaps, not wholly secure against objections. The
action is, indeed, for the most part, in continual progression, but
there are some scenes which neither forward nor retard it. Of the
feigned madness of Hamlet there appears no adequate cause[17], for he
does nothing which he might not have done with the reputation of sanity.
He plays the madman most, when he treats Ophelia with so much rudeness,
which seems to be useless and wanton cruelty.

Hamlet is, through the whole piece, rather an instrument than an agent.
After he has, by the stratagem of the play, convicted the king, he makes
no attempt to punish him; and his death is at last effected by an
incident which Hamlet had no part in producing.

 The catastrophe is not very happily produced; the exchange of weapons
is rather an expedient of necessity, than a stroke of art. A scheme
might easily have been formed to kill Hamlet with the dagger, and
Laertes with the bowl.

The poet is accused of having shown little regard to poetical justice,
and may be charged with equal neglect of poetical probability. The
apparition left the regions of the dead to little purpose; the revenge
which he demands is not obtained, but by the death of him that was
required to take it; and the gratification, which would arise from the
destruction of an usurper and a murderer, is abated by the untimely
death of Ophelia, the young, the beautiful, the harmless, and the pious.


OTHELLO.

The beauties of this play impress themselves so strongly upon the
attention of the reader, that they can draw no aid from critical
illustration. The fiery openness of Othello, magnanimous, artless, and
credulous, boundless in his confidence, ardent in his affection,
inflexible in his resolution, and obdurate in his revenge; the cool
malignity of Iago, silent in his resentment, subtle in his designs, and
studious at once of his interest and his vengeance; the soft simplicity
of Desdemona, confident of merit, and conscious of innocence, her
artless perseverance in her suit, and her slowness to suspect that she
can be suspected, are such proofs of Shakespeare's skill in human
nature, as, I suppose, it is vain to seek in any modern writer. The
gradual progress which Iago makes in the Moor's conviction, and the
circumstances which he employs to inflame him, are so artfully natural,
that, though it will, perhaps, not be said of him as he says of himself,
that he is "a man not easily jealous," yet we cannot but pity him, when
at last we find him "perplexed in the extreme."

There is always danger, lest wickedness, conjoined with abilities,
should steal upon esteem, though it misses of approbation; but the
character of Iago is so conducted, that he is, from the first scene to
the last, hated and despised.

Even the inferiour characters of this play would be very conspicuous in
any other piece, not only for their justness, but their strength. Cassio
is brave, benevolent and honest, ruined only by his want of stubbornness
to resist an insidious invitation. Roderigo's suspicious credulity, and
impatient submission to the cheats which he sees practised upon him, and
which, by persuasion, he suffers to be repeated, exhibit a strong
picture of a weak mind betrayed by unlawful desires to a false friend;
and the virtue of Aemilia is such as we often find, worn loosely, but
not cast off, easy to commit small crimes, but quickened and alarmed at
atrocious villanies.

The scenes, from the beginning to the end, are busy, varied by happy
interchanges, and regularly promoting the progression of the story; and
the narrative, in the end, though it tells but what is known already,
yet is necessary to produce the death of Othello.

Had the scene opened in Cyprus, and the preceding incidents been
occasionally related, there had been little wanting to a drama of the
most exact and scrupulous regularity.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Mr. Heath, who wrote a Revisal of Shakespeare's text, published in
    8vo. circa 1760.

[2] This is not a blunder of Shakespeare's, but a mistake of Johnson's,
    who considers the passage alluded to in a more literal sense than
    the author intended it. Sir Proteus, it is true, had seen Silvia for
    a few moments; but though he could form from thence some idea of her
    person, he was still unacquainted with her temper, manners, and the
    qualities of her mind. He, therefore, considers himself as having
    seen her picture only. The thought is just and elegantly expressed.
    So in the Scornful Lady, the elder Loveless says to her, "I was mad
    once when I loved pictures. For what are _shape_ and _colours_ else
    but _pictures?_"--Mason in Malone's Shak. iv. 137.--Ed.

[3] In the Three Ladies of London, 1584, is the character of an Italian
    merchant, very strongly marked by foreign pronunciation. Dr.
    Dodypoll, in the Comedy which bears his name, is, like Caius, a
    French physician. This piece appeared, at least, a year before The
    Merry Wives of Windsor. The hero of it speaks such another jargon as
    the antagonist of Sir Hugh, and, like him, is cheated of his
    mistress. In several other pieces, more ancient than the earliest of
    Shakespeare's, provincial characters are introduced--Steevens.

    In the old play of Henry V. French soldiers are introduced speaking
    broken English.--Boswell.

[4] See, however, Dr. Drake's Essays on Rambler &c. ii. 392.--Ed.

[5] Johnson's concluding observation on this play, is not conceived with
    his usual judgment. There is no analogy or resemblance whatever
    between the fairies of Spenser, and those of Shakespeare. The
    fairies of Spenser, as appears from his description of them in the
    second book of the Faerie Queene, Canto 10. were a race of mortals
    created by Prometheus, of the human size, shape, and affections, and
    subject to death. But those of Shakespeare, and of common tradition,
    as Johnson calls them, were a diminutive race of sportful beings,
    endowed with immortality and supernatural power, totally different
    from those of Spenser.--M. MASON.

[6] The first novel of the fourth day. An epitome of the novels, from
    which the story of this play is supposed to be taken, is appended to
    it in Malone's edition, v. 154.

[7] This opinion of the character of Bertram is examined at considerable
    length in the New Monthly Magazine, iv. 481.--Ed.

[8] The notion that Shakespeare revised this play, though it has long
    prevailed, appears to me extremely doubtful; or to speak more
    plainly, I do not believe it. MALONE. See too the Essay on the
    Chronological order of Shakespeare's plays, Malone's edition, ii.

[9] For a full discussion of this point, see the Dissertation on the
    three parts of King Henry VI. tending to show that those plays were
    not written originally by Shakespeare. The dissertation was written
    by Malone, and pronounced by Porson to be one of the most convincing
    pieces of criticism he had ever met with. Malone's Shakespeare,
    xviii. 557.

[10] See this opinion controverted. Malone's Shakespeare, xviii. 550.
     --Ed.

[11] This paragraph, apparently so unconnected with the preceding,
     refers to some critical dissertations on the character of Vice.
     They may be found in Malone's Shakespeare, xix. 244. See likewise
     Pursuits of Literature, Dialogue the First.--Ed.

[12] Chetwood says, that during one season it was exhibited 75 times.
     See his History of the Stage, p. 68.--Ed.

[13] Dr. Johnson told Mrs. Siddons that he admired her most in this
     character.--Mrs. Piozzi.

[14] This statement is not quite accurate concerning the seven spurious
     plays, which the printer of the folio in 1664 improperly admitted
     into his volume. The name of Shakespeare appears only in the
     title-pages of four of them: Pericles, Sir John Oldcastle, the
     London Prodigal, and the Yorkshire Tragedy. Malone's Shak. xxi. 382.

[15] The first seven books of Chapman's Homer were published in the year
     1596, and again in 1598. The whole twenty-four of the Iliad
     appeared in 1611.--STEEVENS.

[16] Dr. Johnson should rather have said that the managers of the
     theatres-royal have decided, and that the public has been obliged
     to acquiesce in their decision. The altered play has the upper
     gallery on its side; the original drama was patronized by Addison:
     Victrix causa _Diis_ placuit, sed victa _Catomi_. LUCAN. Malone's
     Shak. x. 290.

[17] See, however, Mr. Boswell's long and erudite note in his
     Shakespeare, vii. 536. "Il me semble," says Madame De Staėl, "cu'en
     lisant cette tragédie, on distingue parfaitement dans Hamlet
     l'égarement réel ą travers l'égarement affecté."--Mme. De Staėl de
     la Littérature, c. xiii. See also Schlegel in his Dramatic
     literature, ii.--Ed.




AN ACCOUNT OF THE
HARLEIAN LIBRARY.

To solicit a subscription for a catalogue of books exposed to sale, is
an attempt for which some apology cannot but be necessary; for few would
willingly contribute to the expense of volumes, by which neither
instruction nor entertainment could be afforded, from which only the
bookseller could expect advantage, and of which the only use must cease,
at the dispersion of the library[1].

Nor could the reasonableness of an universal rejection of our proposal
be denied, if this catalogue were to be compiled with no other view,
than that of promoting the sale of the books which it enumerates, and
drawn up with that inaccuracy and confusion which may be found in those
that are daily published.

But our design, like our proposal, is uncommon, and to be prosecuted at
a very uncommon expense: it being intended, that the books shall be
distributed into their distinct classes, and every class ranged with
some regard to the age of the writers; that every book shall be
accurately described; that the peculiarities of editions shall be
remarked, and observations from the authors of literary history
occasionally interspersed; that, by this catalogue, we may inform
posterity of the excellence and value of this great collection, and
promote the knowledge of scarce books, and elegant editions. For this
purpose, men of letters are engaged, who cannot even be supplied with
amanuenses, but at an expense above that of a common catalogue.

To show that this collection deserves a particular degree of regard from
the learned and the studious, that it excels any library that was ever
yet offered to publick sale, in the value, as well as number, of the
volumes, which it contains; and that, therefore, this catalogue will not
be of less use to men of letters, than those of the Thuaniau, Heinsian,
or Barberinian libraries, it may not be improper to exhibit a general
account of the different classes, as they are naturally divided by the
several sciences.

By this method we can, indeed, exhibit only a general idea, at once
magnificent and confused; an idea of the writings of many nations,
collected from distant parts of the world, discovered sometimes by
chance, and sometimes by curiosity, amidst the rubbish of forsaken
monasteries, and the repositories of ancient families, and brought
hither from every part, as to the universal receptacle of learning.

It will be no unpleasing effect of this account, if those that shall
happen to peruse it, should be inclined by it to reflect on the
character of the late proprietors, and to pay some tribute of veneration
to their ardour for literature, to that generous and exalted curiosity
which they gratified with incessant searches and immense expense, and to
which they dedicated that time, and that superfluity of fortune, which
many others of their rank employ in the pursuit of contemptible
amusements, or the gratification of guilty passions. And, surely, every
man, who considers learning as ornamental and advantageous to the
community, must allow them the honour of publick benefactors, who have
introduced amongst us authors, not hitherto well known, and added to the
literary treasures of their native country.

That our catalogue will excite any other man to emulate the collectors
of this library, to prefer books and manuscripts to equipage and luxury,
and to forsake noise and diversion for the conversation of the learned,
and the satisfaction of extensive knowledge, we are very far from
presuming to hope; but shall make no scruple to assert, that, if any man
should happen to be seized with such laudable ambition, he may find in
this catalogue hints and informations which are not easily to be met
with; he will discover, that the boasted Bodleian library is very far
from a perfect model, and that even the learned Fabricius cannot
completely instruct him in the early editions of the classick writers.

But the collectors of libraries cannot be numerous; and, therefore,
catalogues could not very properly be recommended to the publick, if
they had not a more general and frequent use, an use which every student
has experienced, or neglected to his loss. By the means of catalogues
only, can it be known what has been written on every part of learning,
and the hazard avoided of encountering difficulties which have already
been cleared, discussing questions which have already been decided, and
digging in mines of literature which former ages have exhausted.

How often this has been the fate of students, every man of letters can
declare; and, perhaps, there are very few who have not sometimes valued
as new discoveries, made by themselves, those observations, which have
long since been published, and of which the world, therefore, will
refuse them the praise; nor can the refusal be censured as any enormous
violation of justice; for, why should they not forfeit by their
ignorance, what they might claim by their sagacity?

To illustrate this remark, by the mention of obscure names, would not
much confirm it; and to vilify, for this purpose, the memory of men
truly great, would be to deny them the reverence which they may justly
claim from those whom their writings have instructed. May the shade, at
least, of one great English critick[2] rest without disturbance; and may
no man presume to insult his memory, who wants his learning, his reason,
or his wit.

From the vexatious disappointment of meeting reproach, where praise is
expected, every man will certainly desire to be secured; and, therefore,
that book will have some claim to his regard, from which he may receive
informations of the labours of his predecessors, such as a catalogue of
the Harleian library will copiously afford him.

Nor is the use of catalogues of less importance to those whom curiosity
has engaged in the study of literary history, and who think the
intellectual revolutions of the world more worthy of their attention,
than the ravages of tyrants, the desolation of kingdoms, the rout of
armies, and the fall of empires. Those who are pleased with observing
the first birth of new opinions, their struggles against opposition,
their silent progress under persecution, their general reception, and
their gradual decline, or sudden extinction; those that amuse themselves
with remarking the different periods of human knowledge, and observe how
darkness and light succeed each other; by what accident the most gloomy
nights of ignorance have given way to the dawn of science; and how
learning has languished and decayed, for want of patronage and regard,
or been overborne by the prevalence of fashionable ignorance, or lost
amidst the tumults of invasion, and the storms of violence. All those
who desire any knowledge of the literary transactions of past ages, may
find in catalogues, like this at least, such an account as is given by
annalists, and chronologers of civil history.

How the knowledge of the sacred writings has been diffused, will be
observed from the catalogue of the various editions of the Bible, from
the first impression by Fust, in 1462, to the present time; in which
will be contained the polyglot editions of Spain, France, and England,
those of the original Hebrew, the Greek Septuagint, and the Latin
Vulgate; with the versions which are now used in the remotest parts of
Europe, in the country of the Grisons, in Lithuania, Bohemia, Finland,
and Iceland.

With regard to the attempts of the same kind made in our own country,
there are few whose expectations will not be exceeded by the number of
English Bibles, of which not one is forgotten, whether valuable for the
pomp and beauty of the impression, or for the notes with which the text
is accompanied, or for any controversy or persecution that it produced,
or for the peculiarity of any single passage. With the same care have
the various editions of the book of Common Prayer been selected, from
which all the alterations which have been made in it may be easily
remarked.

Amongst a great number of Roman missals and breviaries, remarkable for
the beauty of their cuts and illuminations, will be found the Mosarabick
missal and breviary, that raised such commotions in the kingdom of
Spain.

The controversial treatises written in England, about the time of the
Reformation, have been diligently collected, with a multitude of
remarkable tracts, single sermons, and small treatises; which, however
worthy to be preserved, are, perhaps, to be found in no other place.

The regard which was always paid, by the collectors of this library, to
that remarkable period of time, in which the art of printing was
invented, determined them to accumulate the ancient impressions of the
fathers of the church; to which the later editions are added, lest
antiquity should have seemed more worthy of esteem than accuracy.

History has been considered with the regard due to that study by which
the manners are most easily formed, and from which the most efficacious
instruction is received; nor will the most extensive curiosity fail of
gratification in this library, from which no writers have been excluded,
that relate either the religious, or civil affairs of any nation.

Not only those authors of ecclesiastical history have been procured,
that treat of the state of religion in general, or deliver accounts of
sects or nations, but those, likewise, who have confined themselves to
particular orders of men in every church; who have related the original,
and the rules of every society, or recounted the lives of its founder
and its members; those who have deduced in every country the succession
of bishops, and those who have employed their abilities in celebrating
the piety of particular saints, or martyrs, or monks, or nuns.

The civil history of all nations has been amassed together; nor is it
easy to determine which has been thought most worthy of curiosity.

Of France, not only the general histories and ancient chronicles, the
accounts of celebrated reigns, and narratives of remarkable events, but
even the memorials of single families, the lives of private men, the
antiquities of particular cities, churches, and monasteries, the
topography of provinces, and the accounts of laws, customs, and
prescriptions, are here to be found.

The several states of Italy have, in this treasury, their particular
historians, whose accounts are, perhaps, generally more exact, by being
less extensive; and more interesting, by being more particular.

Nor has less regard been paid to the different nations of the Germanick
empire, of which neither the Bohemians, nor Hungarians, nor Austrians,
nor Bavarians, have been neglected; nor have their antiquities, however
generally disregarded, been less studiously searched, than their present
state.

The northern nations have supplied this collection, not only with
history, but poetry, with Gothick antiquities and Runick inscriptions;
which, at least, have this claim to veneration, above the remains of the
Roman magnificence, that they are the works of those heroes by whom the
Roman empire was destroyed; and which may plead, at least in this
nation, that they ought not to be neglected by those that owe to the men
whose memories they preserve, their constitution, their properties, and
their liberties.

The curiosity of these collectors extended equally to all parts of the
world; nor did they forget to add to the northern the southern writers,
or to adorn their collection with chronicles of Spain, and the conquest
of Mexico.

Even of those nations with which we have less intercourse, whose customs
are less accurately known, and whose history is less distinctly
recounted, there are in this library reposited such accounts as the
Europeans have been hitherto able to obtain; nor are the Mogul, the
Tartar, the Turk, and the Saracen, without their historians.

That persons, so inquisitive with regard to the transactions of other
nations, should inquire yet more ardently after the history of their
own, may be naturally expected; and, indeed, this part of the library is
no common instance of diligence and accuracy. Here are to be found, with
the ancient chronicles, and larger histories of Britain, the narratives
of single reigns, and the accounts of remarkable revolutions, the
topographical histories of counties, the pedigrees of families, the
antiquities of churches and cities, the proceedings of parliaments, the
records of monasteries, and the lives of particular men, whether eminent
in the church or the state, or remarkable in private life; whether
exemplary for their virtues, or detestable for their crimes; whether
persecuted for religion, or executed for rebellion.

That memorable period of the English history, which begins with the
reign of king Charles the first, and ends with the Restoration, will
almost furnish a library alone; such is the number of volumes, pamphlets
and papers, which were published by either party; and such is the care
with which they have been preserved.

Nor is history without the necessary preparatives and attendants,
geography and chronology: of geography, the best writers and delineators
have been procured, and pomp and accuracy have been both regarded; the
student of chronology may here find, likewise, those authors who
searched the records of time, and fixed the periods of history.

With the historians and geographers may be ranked the writers of voyages
and travels, which may be read here in the Latin, English, Dutch,
German, French, Italian, and Spanish languages.

The laws of different countries, as they are in themselves equally
worthy of curiosity with their history, have, in this collection, been
justly regarded; and the rules by which the various communities of the
world are governed, may be here examined and compared. Here are the
ancient editions of the papal decretals, and the commentators on the
civil law, the edicts of Spain, and the statutes of Venice.

But with particular industry have the various writers on the laws of our
own country been collected, from the most ancient to the present time,
from the bodies of the statutes to the minutest treatise; not only the
reports, precedents, and readings of our own courts, but even the laws
of our West-Indian colonies, will be exhibited in our catalogue.

But neither history nor law have been so far able to engross this
library, as to exclude physick, philosophy, or criticism. Those have
been thought, with justice, worthy of a place, who have examined the
different species of animals, delineated their forms, or described their
properties and instincts; or who have penetrated the bowels of the
earth, treated on its different strata, and analyzed its metals; or who
have amused themselves with less laborious speculations, and planted
trees, or cultivated flowers.

Those that have exalted their thoughts above the minuter parts of the
creation, who have observed the motions of the heavenly bodies, and
attempted systems of the universe, have not been denied the honour which
they deserved by so great an attempt, whatever has been their success.
Nor have those mathematicians been rejected, who have applied their
science to the common purposes of life; or those that have deviated into
the kindred arts of tacticks, architecture, and fortification.

Even arts of far less importance have found their authors, nor have
these authors been despised by the boundless curiosity of the
proprietors of the Harleian library. The writers on horsemanship and
fencing are more numerous and more bulky than could be expected by those
who reflect, how seldom those excel in either, whom their education has
qualified to compose books.

The admirer of Greek and Roman literature will meet, in this collection,
with editions little known to the most inquisitive criticks, and which
have escaped the observation of those whose great employment has been
the collation of copies; nor will he find only the most ancient editions
of Faustus, Jenson, Spira, Sweynheim and Pannartz, but the most
accurate, likewise, and beautiful of Colinaeus, the Juntae, Plantin,
Aldus, the Stephens, and Elzevir, with the commentaries and observations
of the most learned editors.

Nor are they accompanied only with the illustrations of those who have
confined their attempts to particular writers, but of those, likewise,
who have treated on any part of the Greek or Roman antiquities, their
laws, their customs, their dress, their buildings, their wars, their
revenues, or the rites and ceremonies of their worship, and those that
have endeavoured to explain any of their authors from their statues or
their coins.

Next to the ancients, those writers deserve to be mentioned, who, at the
restoration of literature, imitated their language and their style with
so great success, or who laboured with so much industry to make them
understood: such were Philelphus and Politian, Scaliger and Buchanan,
and the poets of the age of Leo the tenth; these are, likewise, to be
found in this library, together with the Delicię, or collections of all
nations.

Painting is so nearly allied to poetry, that it cannot be wondered that
those who have so much esteemed the one, have paid an equal regard to
the other; and, therefore, it may be easily imagined, that the
collection of prints is numerous in an uncommon degree; but, surely, the
expectation of every man will be exceeded, when he is informed that
there are more than forty thousand engraven from Raphael, Titian, Guido,
the Carraccis, and a thousand others, by Nanteuil, Hollar, Callet,
Edelinck, and Dorigny, and other engravers of equal reputation.

Their is also a great collection of original drawings, of which three
seem to deserve a particular mention: the first exhibits a
representation of the inside of St. Peter's church at Rome; the second,
of that of St. John Lateran; and the third, of the high altar of St.
Ignatius; all painted with the utmost accuracy, in their proper colours.

As the value of this great collection may he conceived from this
account, however imperfect; as the variety of subjects must engage the
curiosity of men of different studies, inclinations, and employments, it
may be thought of very little use to mention any slighter advantages, or
to dwell on the decorations and embellishments which the generosity of
the proprietors has bestowed upon it; yet, since the compiler of the
Thuanian catalogue thought not even that species of elegance below his
observation, it may not be improper to observe, that the Harleian
library, perhaps, excels all others, not more in the number and
excellence, than in the splendour of its volumes[3].

We may now, surely, be allowed to hope, that our catalogue will not be
thought unworthy of the publick curiosity; that it will be purchased as
a record of this great collection, and preserved as one of the memorials
of learning.

The patrons of literature will forgive the purchaser of this library, if
he presumes to assert some claim to their protection and encouragement,
as he may have been instrumental in continuing to this nation the
advantage of it. The sale of Vossius's collection into a foreign
country, is, to this day, regretted by men of letters; and if this
effort for the prevention of another loss of the same kind should be
disadvantageous to him, no man will hereafter willingly risk his fortune
in the cause of learning.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This apology is no longer necessary, when the catalogue of Lord
    Spencer's library is published at 16_l_. 16_s_. See Dibdin's
    Bibliomania, Aedes Althorpianę, and the indignant complaints of the
    author of the Pursuits of Literature.--Ed.

[2] It is not quite clear to whom Johnson here alludes; perhaps to
    Bentley, and with reference to some of Garth's expressions:

    So diamonds take a lustre from their foil;
    And to a Bentley 'tis we owe a Boyle.
           Dispensary, Canto V.

[3] Mr. Dibdin informs us, that Lord Oxford gave 18,000_l_ for the
    _binding_ only the least part of the Harleian Library. See his
    Bibliomania.--Ed.




AN
ESSAY
ON THE
ORIGIN AND IMPORTANCE
OF
SMALL TRACTS AND FUGITIVE PIECES.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTRODUCTION TO
THE HARLEIAN MISCELLANY.

Though the scheme of the following miscellany is so obvious, that the
title alone is sufficient to explain it; and though several collections
have been formerly attempted, upon plans, as to the method, very little,
but, as to the capacity and execution, very different from ours; we,
being possessed of the greatest variety for such a work, hope for a more
general reception than those confined schemes had the fortune to meet
with; and, therefore, think it not wholly unnecessary to explain our
intentions, to display the treasure of materials out of which this
miscellany is to be compiled, and to exhibit a general idea of the
pieces which we intend to insert in it.

There is, perhaps, no nation in which it is so necessary, as in our own,
to assemble, from time to time, the small tracts and fugitive pieces,
which are occasionally published; for, besides the general subjects of
inquiry, which are cultivated by us, in common with every other learned
nation, our constitution in church and state naturally gives birth to a
multitude of performances, which would either not have been written, or
could not have been made publick in any other place.

The form of our government, which gives every man, that has leisure, or
curiosity, or vanity, the right of inquiring into the propriety of
publick measures, and, by consequence, obliges those who are intrusted
with the administration of national affairs, to give an account of their
conduct to almost every man who demands it, may be reasonably imagined
to have occasioned innumerable pamphlets, which would never have
appeared under arbitrary governments, where every man lulls himself in
indolence under calamities, of which he cannot promote the redress, or
thinks it prudent to conceal the uneasiness, of which he cannot complain
without danger.

The multiplicity of religious sects tolerated among us, of which every
one has found opponents and vindicators, is another source of
unexhaustible publication, almost peculiar to ourselves; for
controversies cannot be long continued, nor frequently revived, where an
inquisitor has a right to shut up the disputants in dungeons; or where
silence can be imposed on either party, by the refusal of a license.

Not, that it should be inferred from hence, that political or religious
controversies are the only products of the liberty of the British press;
the mind once let loose to inquiry, and suffered to operate without
restraint, necessarily deviates into peculiar opinions, and wanders in
new tracks, where she is, indeed, sometimes lost in a labyrinth, from
which though she cannot return, and scarce knows how to proceed; yet,
sometimes, makes useful discoveries, or finds out nearer paths to
knowledge.

The boundless liberty with which every man may write his own thoughts,
and the opportunity of conveying new sentiments to the publick, without
danger of suffering either ridicule or censure, which every man may
enjoy, whose vanity does not incite him too hastily to own his
performances, naturally invites those who employ themselves in
speculation, to try how their notions will be received by a nation,
which exempts caution from fear, and modesty from shame; and it is no
wonder, that where reputation may be gained, but needs not be lost,
multitudes are willing to try their fortune, and thrust their opinions
into the light; sometimes with unsuccessful haste, and sometimes with
happy temerity.

It is observed, that, among the natives of England, is to be found a
greater variety of humour, than in any other country; and, doubtless,
where every man has a full liberty to propagate his conceptions, variety
of humour must produce variety of writers; and, where the number of
authors is so great, there cannot but be some worthy of distinction.

All these, and many other causes, too tedious to be enumerated, have
contributed to make pamphlets and small tracts a very important part of
an English library; nor are there any pieces, upon which those, who
aspire to the reputation of judicious collectors of books, bestow more
attention, or greater expense; because many advantages may be expected
from the perusal of these small productions, which are scarcely to be
found in that of larger works.

If we regard history, it is well known, that most political treatises
have for a long time appeared in this form, and that the first relations
of transactions, while they are yet the subject of conversation, divide
the opinions, and employ the conjectures of mankind, are delivered by
these petty writers, who have opportunities of collecting the different
sentiments of disputants, of inquiring the truth from living witnesses,
and of copying their representations from the life; and, therefore, they
preserve a multitude of particular incidents, which are forgotten in a
short time, or omitted in formal relations, and which are yet to be
considered as sparks of truth, which, when united, may afford light in
some of the darkest scenes of state, as, we doubt not, will be
sufficiently proved in the course of this miscellany; and which it is,
therefore, the interest of the publick to preserve unextinguished.

The same observation may be extended to subjects of yet more importance.
In controversies that relate to the truths of religion, the first essays
of reformation are generally timorous; and those, who have opinions to
offer, which they expect to be opposed, produce their sentiments, by
degrees, and, for the most part, in small tracts: by degrees, that they
may not shock their readers with too many novelties at once; and in
small tracts, that they may be easily dispersed, or privately printed.
Almost every controversy, therefore, has been, for a time, carried on in
pamphlets, nor has swelled into larger volumes, till the first ardour of
the disputants has subsided, and they have recollected their notions
with coolness enough to digest them into order, consolidate them into
systems, and fortify them with authorities.

From pamphlets, consequently, are to be learned the progress of every
debate; the various state to which the questions have been changed; the
artifices and fallacies which have been used, and the subterfuges by
which reason has been eluded. In such writings may be seen how the mind
has been opened by degrees, how one truth has led to another, how errour
has been disentangled, and hints improved to demonstration, which
pleasure, and many others, are lost by him that only reads the larger
writers, by whom these scattered sentiments are collected, who will see
none of the changes of fortune which every opinion has passed through,
will have no opportunity of remarking the transient advantages which
errour may sometimes obtain, by the artifices of its patron, or the
successful rallies, by which truth regains the day, after a repulse; but
will be to him, who traces the dispute through into particular
gradations, as he that hears of a victory, to him that sees the battle.

Since the advantages of preserving these small tracts are so numerous,
our attempt to unite them in volumes cannot be thought either useless or
unseasonable; for there is no other method of securing them from
accidents; and they have already been so long neglected, that this
design cannot be delayed, without hazarding the loss of many pieces,
which deserve to be transmitted to another age.

The practice of publishing pamphlets on the most important subjects has
now prevailed more than two centuries among us; and, therefore, it
cannot be doubted, but that, as no large collections have been yet made,
many curious tracts must have perished; but it is too late to lament
that loss; nor ought we to reflect upon it, with any other view, than
that of quickening our endeavours for the preservation of those that yet
remain; of which we have now a greater number, than was, perhaps, ever
amassed by any one person.

The first appearance of pamphlets among us is generally thought to be at
the new opposition raised against the errours and corruptions of the
church of Rome. Those who were first convinced of the reasonableness of
the new learning, as it was then called, propagated their opinions in
small pieces, which were cheaply printed, and, what was then of great
importance, easily concealed. These treatises were generally printed in
foreign countries, and are not, therefore, always very correct. There
was not then that opportunity of printing in private; for the number of
printers was small, and the presses were easily overlooked by the
clergy, who spared no labour or vigilance for the suppression of heresy.
There is, however, reason to suspect, that some attempts were made to
carry on the propagation of truth by a secret press; for one of the
first treatises in favour of the Reformation, is said, at the end, to be
printed at "Greenwich, by the permission of the Lord of Hosts."

In the time of king Edward the sixth, the presses were employed in
favour of the reformed religion, and small tracts were dispersed over
the nation, to reconcile them to new forms of worship. In this reign,
likewise, political pamphlets may be said to have been begun, by the
address of the rebels of Devonshire; all which means of propagating the
sentiments of the people so disturbed the court, that no sooner was
queen Mary resolved to reduce her subjects to the Romish superstition,
but she artfully, by a charter[1], granted to certain freemen of London,
in whose fidelity, no doubt, she confided, entirely prohibited ALL
presses, but what should be licensed by them; which charter is that by
which the corporation of Stationers in London is, at this time,
incorporated.

Under the reign of queen Elizabeth, when liberty again began to
flourish, the practice of writing pamphlets became more general; presses
were multiplied, and books were dispersed; and, I believe, it may
properly be said, that the trade of writing began at this time, and that
it has, ever since, gradually increased in the number, though, perhaps,
not in the style of those that followed it.

In this reign was erected the first secret press against the church, as
now established, of which I have found any certain account. It was
employed by the Puritans, and conveyed from one part of the nation to
another, by them, as they found themselves in danger of discovery. From
this press issued most of the pamphlets against Whitgift and his
associates, in the ecclesiastical government; and, when it was at last
seized at Manchester, it was employed upon a pamphlet called More Work
for a Cooper.

In the peaceable reign of king James, those minds which might, perhaps,
with less disturbance of the world, have been engrossed by war, were
employed in controversy; and writings of all kinds were multiplied among
us. The press, however, was not wholly engaged in polemical
performances, for more innocent subjects were sometimes treated; and it
deserves to be remarked, because it is not generally known, that the
treatises of husbandry and agriculture, which were published about that
time, are so numerous, that it can scarcely be imagined by whom they
were written, or to whom they were sold.

The next reign is too well known to have been a time of confusion and
disturbance, and disputes of every kind; and the writings, which were
produced, bear a natural proportion to the number of the questions that
were discussed at that time; each party had its authors and its presses,
and no endeavours were omitted to gain proselytes to every opinion. I
know not whether this may not properly be called, The Age of Pamphlets;
for, though they, perhaps, may not arise to such multitudes as Mr.
Rawlinson imagined, they were, undoubtedly, more numerous than can be
conceived by any who have not had an opportunity of examining them.

After the Restoration, the same differences, in religious opinions, are
well known to have subsisted, and the same political struggles to have
been frequently renewed; and, therefore, a great number of pens were
employed, on different occasions, till, at length, all other disputes
were absorbed in the popish controversy.

From the pamphlets which these different periods of time produced, it is
proposed, that this miscellany shall be compiled, for which it cannot be
supposed that materials will be wanting; and, therefore, the only
difficulty will be in what manner to dispose them.

Those who have gone before us, in undertakings of this kind, have ranged
the pamphlets, which chance threw into their hands, without any regard
either to the subject on which they treated, or the time in which they
were written; a practice in no wise to be imitated by us, who want for
no materials; of which we shall choose those we think best for the
particular circumstances of times and things, and most instructing and
entertaining to the reader.

Of the different methods which present themselves, upon the first view
of the great heaps of pamphlets which the Harleian library exhibits[2],
the two which merit most attention are, to distribute the treatises
according to their subjects, or their dates; but neither of these ways
can be conveniently followed. By ranging our collection in order of
time, we must necessarily publish those pieces first, which least engage
the curiosity of the bulk of mankind; and our design must fall to the
ground, for want of encouragement, before it can be so far advanced as
to obtain general regard: by confining ourselves for any long time to
any single subject, we shall reduce our readers to one class; and, as we
shall lose all the grace of variety, shall disgust all those who read
chiefly to be diverted. There is, likewise, one objection of equal
force, against both these methods, that we shall preclude ourselves from
the advantage of any future discoveries; and we cannot hope to assemble
at once all the pamphlets which have been written in any age, or on any
subject.

It may be added, in vindication of our intended practice, that it is the
same with that of Photius, whose collections are no less miscellaneous
than ours, and who declares, that he leaves it to his reader, to reduce
his extracts under their proper heads.

Most of the pieces which shall be offered in this collection to the
publick, will be introduced by short prefaces, in which will be given
some account of the reasons for which they are inserted; notes will be
sometimes adjoined, for the explanation of obscure passages, or obsolete
expressions; and care will be taken to mingle use and pleasure through
the whole collection. Notwithstanding every subject may not be relished
by every reader, yet the buyer may be assured that each number will
repay his generous subscription.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Which begins thus, "Know ye, that We, considering and manifestly
    perceiving, that several seditious and heretical books or tracts--
    against the faith and sound catholick doctrine of holy mother, the
    Church," &c.

[2] The pamphlets in the Harleian collection amounted in number to about
400,000. See Gough's Brit. Topog. 1669.




PREFACE TO THE CATALOGUE
OF THE
HARLEIAN LIBRARY, VOL. III.

Having prefixed to the former volumes of my catalogue an account of the
prodigious collection accumulated in the Harleian library, there would
have been no necessity of any introduction to the subsequent volumes,
had not some censures, which this great undertaking has drawn upon me,
made it proper to offer to the publick an apology for my conduct.

The price, which I have set upon my catalogue, has been represented by
the booksellers as an avaricious innovation; and, in a paper published
in the Champion, they, or their mercenary, have reasoned so justly, as
to allege, that, if I could afford a very large price for the library, I
might, therefore, afford to give away the catalogue.

I should have imagined that accusations, concerted by such heads as
these, would have vanished of themselves, without any answer; but, since
I have the mortification to find that they have been in some degree
regarded by men of more knowledge than themselves, I shall explain the
motives of my procedure.

My original design was, as I have already explained, to publish a
methodical and exact catalogue of this library, upon the plan which has
been laid down, as I am informed, by several men of the first rank among
the learned. It was intended by those who undertook the work, to make a
very exact disposition of all the subjects, and to give an account of
the remarkable differences of the editions, and other peculiarities,
which make any book eminently valuable: and it was imagined, that some
improvements might, by pursuing this scheme, be made in literary
history.

With this view was the catalogue begun, when the price was fixed upon it
in publick advertisements; and it cannot be denied, that such a
catalogue would have been willingly purchased by those who understood
its use. But, when a few sheets had been printed, it was discovered,
that the scheme was impracticable, without more hands than could be
procured, or more time than the necessity of a speedy sale would allow:
the catalogue was, therefore, continued without notes, at least in the
greatest part; and, though it was still performed better than those
which are daily offered to the publick, fell much below the original
design.

It was then no longer proper to insist upon a price; and, therefore,
though money was demanded, upon delivery of the catalogue, it was only
taken as a pledge that the catalogue was not, as is very frequent,
wantonly called for, by those who never intended to peruse it, and I,
therefore, promised that it should be taken again in exchange for any
book rated at the same value.

It may be still said, that other booksellers give away their catalogues
without any such precaution, and that I ought not to make any new or
extraordinary demands. But I hope it will be considered, at how much
greater expense my catalogue was drawn up: and be remembered, that when
other booksellers give their catalogues, they give only what will be of
no use when their books are sold, and what, if it remained in their
hands, they must throw away: whereas I hope that this catalogue will
retain its use, and, consequently, its value, and be sold with the
catalogues of the Barberinian and Marckian libraries.

However, to comply with the utmost expectations of the world, I have now
published the second part of my catalogue, upon conditions still more
commodious for the purchaser, as I intend, that all those who are
pleased to receive them at the same price of five shillings a volume,
shall be allowed, at any time, within three months after the day of
sale, either to return them in exchange for books, or to send them back,
and receive their money.

Since, therefore, I have absolutely debarred myself from receiving any
advantage from the sale of the catalogue, it will be reasonable to
impute it rather to necessity than choice, that I shall continue it to
two volumes more, which the number of the single tracts which have been
discovered, makes indispensably requisite. I need not tell those who are
acquainted with affairs of this kind, how much pamphlets swell a
catalogue, since the title of the least book may be as long as that of
the greatest.

Pamphlets have been for many years, in this nation, the canals of
controversy, politicks, and sacred history, and, therefore, will,
doubtless, furnish occasion to a very great number of curious remarks.
And I take this opportunity of proposing to those who are particularly
delighted with this kind of study, that, if they will encourage me, by a
reasonable subscription, to employ men qualified to make the
observations, for which this part of the catalogue will furnish
occasion, I will procure the whole fifth and sixth volumes[1] to be
executed in the same manner with the most laboured part of this, and
interspersed with notes of the same kind.

If any excuse were necessary for the addition of these volumes, I have
already urged in my defence the strongest plea, no less than absolute
necessity, it being impossible to comprise in four volumes, however
large, or however closely printed, the titles which yet remain to be
mentioned.

But, I suppose, none will blame the multiplication of volumes, to
whatever number they may be continued, which every one may use without
buying them, and which are, therefore, published at no expense but my
own.

There is one accusation still remaining, by which I am more sensibly
affected, and which I am, therefore, desirous to obviate, before it has
too long prevailed. I hear that I am accused of rating my books at too
high a price, at a price which no other person would demand. To answer
this accusation, it is necessary to inquire what those who urge it, mean
by a high price. The price of things, valuable for their rarity, is
entirely arbitrary, and depends upon the variable taste of mankind, and
the casual fluctuation of the fashion, and can never be ascertained,
like that of things only estimable according to their use.

If, therefore, I have set a high value upon books: if I have vainly
imagined literature to be more fashionable than it really is, or idly
hoped to revive a taste well nigh extinguished, I know not why I should
be persecuted with clamour and invective, since I only shall suffer by
my mistake, and be obliged to keep those books, which I was in hopes of
selling.

If those who charge me with asking a _high price_, will explain their
meaning, it may be possible to give them an answer less general. If they
measure the price at which the books are now offered, by that at which
they were bought by the late possessor, they will find it diminished at
least three parts in four; if they would compare it with the demands of
other booksellers, they must first find the same books in their hands,
and they will be, perhaps, at last reduced to confess, that they mean,
by a high price, only a price higher than they are inclined to give.

I have, at least, a right to hope, that no gentleman will receive an
account of the price from the booksellers, of whom it may easily be
imagined that they will be willing, since they cannot depreciate the
books, to exaggerate the price: and I will boldly promise those who have
been influenced by malevolent reports, that, if they will be pleased, at
the day of sale, to examine the prices with their own eyes, they will
find them lower than they have been represented.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This scheme was never executed; the fifth volume, the only one
    subsequently published, was a mere shop catalogue.




A VIEW OF THE CONTROVERSY BETWEEN
MONS. CROUSAZ AND MR. WARBURTON,
ON THE SUBJECT OF
MR. POPE'S ESSAY ON MAN,

In a Letter to the Editor of the Gentleman's Magazine, vol. xiii. 1743.

Mr. Urban,

It would not be found useless in the learned world, if in written
controversies as in oral disputations, a moderator could be selected,
who might, in some degree, superintend the debate, restrain all needless
excursions, repress all personal reflections, and, at last, recapitulate
the arguments on each side; and who, though he should not assume the
province of deciding the question, might at least exhibit it in its true
state.

This reflection arose in my mind upon the consideration of Mr. Crousaz's
commentary on the Essay on Man, and Mr. Warburton's answer to it. The
importance of the subject, the reputation and abilities of the
controvertists, and, perhaps, the ardour with which each has endeavoured
to support his cause, have made an attempt of this kind necessary for
the information of the greatest number of Mr. Pope's readers.

Among the duties of a moderator, I have mentioned that of recalling the
disputants to the subject, and cutting off the excrescences of a debate,
which Mr. Crousaz will not suffer to be long unemployed, and the
repression of personal invectives which have not been very carefully
avoided on either part, and are less excusable, because it has not been
proved, that, either the poet, or his commentator, wrote with any other
design than that of promoting happiness by cultivating reason and piety.

Mr. Warburton has, indeed, so much depressed the character of his
adversary, that before I consider the controversy between them, I think
it necessary to exhibit some specimens of Mr. Crousaz's sentiments, by
which it will probably be shown, that he is far from deserving either
indignation or contempt; that his notions are just, though they are
sometimes introduced without necessity; and defended when they are not
opposed; and that his abilities and piety are such as may entitle him to
reverence from those who think his criticisms superfluous.

In page 35 of the English translation, he exhibits an observation which
every writer ought to impress upon his mind, and which may afford a
sufficient apology for his commentary.

On the notion of a ruling passion he offers this remark: "Nothing so
much hinders men from obtaining a complete victory over their ruling
passion, as that all the advantages gained in their days of retreat, by
just and sober reflections, whether struck out by their own minds, or
borrowed from good books, or from the conversation of men of merit, are
destroyed in a few moments by a free intercourse and acquaintance with
libertines; and, thus, the work is always to be begun anew. A gamester
resolves to leave off play, by which he finds his health impaired, his
family ruined, and his passions inflamed; in this resolution he persists
a few days, but soon yields to an invitation, which will give his
prevailing inclination an opportunity of reviving in all its force. The
case is the same with other men; but is reason to be charged with these
calamities and follies, or rather the man who refuses to listen to its
voice in opposition to impertinent solicitations?"

On the means, recommended for the attainment of happiness, he observes,
"that the abilities which our Maker has given us, and the internal and
external advantages with which he has invested us, are of two very
different kinds; those of one kind are bestowed in common upon us and
the brute creation, but the other exalt us far above other animals. To
disregard any of these gifts would be ingratitude; but to neglect those
of greater excellence, to go no farther than the gross satisfactions of
sense, and the functions of mere animal life, would be a far greater
crime. We are formed by our Creator capable of acquiring knowledge, and
regulating our conduct by reasonable rules; it is, therefore, our duty
to cultivate our understandings, and exalt our virtues. We need but make
the experiment to find, that the greatest pleasures will arise from such
endeavours.

"It is trifling to allege, in opposition to this truth, that knowledge
cannot be acquired, nor virtue pursued, without toil and efforts, and
that all efforts produce fatigue. God requires nothing disproportioned
to the powers he has given, and in the exercise of those powers consists
the highest satisfaction.

"Toil and weariness are the effects of vanity: when a man has formed a
design of excelling others in merit, he is disquieted by their advances,
and leaves nothing unattempted, that he may step before them: this
occasions a thousand unreasonable emotions, which justly bring their
punishment along with them.

"But let a man study and labour to cultivate and improve his abilities
in the eye of his Maker, and with the prospect of his approbation; let
him attentively reflect on the infinite value of that approbation, and
the highest encomiums that men can bestow will vanish into nothing at
the comparison. When we live in this manner, we find that we live for a
great and glorious end.

"When this is our frame of mind, we find it no longer difficult to
restrain ourselves in the gratifications of eating and drinking, the
most gross enjoyments of sense. We take what is necessary to preserve
health and vigour, but are not to give ourselves up to pleasures that
weaken the attention, and dull the understanding."

And the true sense of Mr. Pope's assertion, that "Whatever is, is
right," and, I believe, the sense in which it was written, is thus
explained:--"A sacred and adorable order is established in the
government of mankind. These are certain and unvaried truths: he that
seeks God, and makes it his happiness to live in obedience to him, shall
obtain what he endeavours after, in a degree far above his present
comprehension. He that turns his back upon his Creator, neglects to obey
him, and perseveres in his disobedience, shall obtain no other happiness
than he can receive from enjoyments of his own procuring; void of
satisfaction, weary of life, wasted by empty cares and remorses, equally
harassing and just, he will experience the certain consequences of his
own choice. Thus will justice and goodness resume their empire, and that
order be restored which men have broken."

I am afraid of wearying you or your readers with more quotations, but if
you shall inform me that a continuation of my correspondence will be
well received, I shall descend to particular passages, show how Mr. Pope
gave sometimes occasion to mistakes, and how Mr. Crousaz was misled by
his suspicion of the system of fatality[1].

I am, Sir, yours, &c.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] It does not appear that Dr. Johnson found leisure or encouragement
to continue this subject any farther.




PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE
TO
THE LONDON CHRONICLE,

JANUARY 1, 1757.

It has always been lamented, that of the little time allotted to man,
much must be spent upon superfluities. Every prospect has its
obstructions, which we must break to enlarge our view; every step of our
progress finds impediments, which, however eager to go forward, we must
stop to remove. Even those who profess to teach the way to happiness,
have multiplied our encumbrances, and the author of almost every book
retards his instructions by a preface.

The writers of the Chronicle hope to be easily forgiven, though they
should not be free from an infection that has seized the whole
fraternity, and instead of falling immediately to their subjects, should
detain the reader for a time with an account of the importance of their
design, the extent of their plan, and the accuracy of the method which
they intend to prosecute. Such premonitions, though not always necessary
when the reader has the book complete in his hand, and may find, by his
own eyes, whatever can be found in it, yet may be more easily allowed to
works published gradually in successive parts, of which the scheme can
only be so far known as the author shall think fit to discover it.

The paper which we now invite the publick to add to the papers with
which it is already rather wearied than satisfied, consists of many
parts, some of which it has in common with other periodical sheets, and
some peculiar to itself.

The first demand, made by the reader of a journal, is, that he should
find an accurate account of foreign transactions and domestick
incidents. This is always expected, but this is very rarely performed.
Of those writers who have taken upon themselves the task of
intelligence, some have given and others have sold their abilities,
whether small or great, to one or other of the parties that divide us;
and without a wish for truth or thought of decency, without care of any
other reputation than that of a stubborn adherence to their abettors,
carry on the same tenour of representation through all the vicissitudes
of right and wrong, neither depressed by detection, nor abashed by
confutation, proud of the hourly increase of infamy, and ready to boast
of all the contumelies that falsehood and slander may bring upon them,
as new proofs of their zeal and fidelity.

With these heroes we have no ambition to be numbered; we leave to the
confessors of faction the merit of their sufferings, and are desirous to
shelter ourselves under the protection of truth. That all our facts will
be authentick, or all our remarks just, we dare not venture to promise:
we can relate but what we hear, we can point out but what we see. Of
remote transactions, the first accounts are always confused, and
commonly exaggerated: and in domestick affairs, if the power to conceal
is less, the interest to misrepresent is often greater; and, what is
sufficiently vexatious, truth seems to fly from curiosity, and as many
inquiries produce many narratives, whatever engages the publick
attention is immediately disguised by the embellishments of fiction. We
pretend to no peculiar power of disentangling contradiction or denuding
forgery, we have no settled correspondence with the antipodes, nor
maintain any spies in the cabinets of princes. But as we shall always be
conscious that our mistakes are involuntary, we shall watch the gradual
discoveries of time, and retract whatever we have hastily and
erroneously advanced.

In the narratives of the daily writers every reader perceives somewhat
of neatness and purity wanting, which, at the first view, it seems easy
to supply; but it must be considered, that those passages must be
written in haste, and, that there is often no other choice, but that
they must want either novelty or accuracy; and that, as life is very
uniform, the affairs of one week are so like those of another, that by
any attempt after variety of expression, invention would soon be
wearied, and language exhausted. Some improvements, however, we hope to
make; and for the rest we think that, when we commit only common faults,
we shall not be excluded from common indulgence.

The accounts of prices of corn and stocks are to most of our readers of
more importance than narratives of greater sound; and, as exactness is
here within the reach of diligence, our readers may justly require it
from us.

Memorials of a private and personal kind, which relate deaths,
marriages, and preferments, must always be imperfect by omission, and
often erroneous by misinformation; but even in these there shall not be
wanting care to avoid mistakes, or to rectify them, whenever they shall
be found.

That part of our work, by which it is distinguished from all others, is
the literary journal, or account of the labours and productions of the
learned. This was for a long time among the deficiencies of English
literature; but, as the caprice of man is always starting from too
little to too much, we have now, amongst other disturbers of human
quiet, a numerous body of reviewers and remarkers.

Every art is improved by the emulation of competitors; those who make no
advances towards excellence, may stand as warnings against faults. We
shall endeavour to avoid that petulance which treats with contempt
whatever has hitherto been reputed sacred. We shall repress that elation
of malignity, which wantons in the cruelties of criticism, and not only
murders reputation, but murders it by torture. Whenever we feel
ourselves ignorant we shall at least be modest. Our intention is not to
preoccupy judgment by praise or censure, but to gratify curiosity by
early intelligence, and to tell rather what our authors have attempted,
than what they have performed. The titles of books are necessarily
short, and, therefore, disclose but imperfectly the contents; they are
sometimes fraudulent and intended to raise false expectations. In our
account this brevity will be extended, and these frauds, whenever they
are detected, will be exposed; for though we write without intention to
injure, we shall not suffer ourselves to be made parties to deceit.

If any author shall transmit a summary of his work, we shall willingly
receive it; if any literary anecdote, or curious observation, shall be
communicated to us, we will carefully insert it. Many facts are known
and forgotten, many observations are made and suppressed; and
entertainment and instruction are frequently lost, for want of a
repository in which they may be conveniently preserved.

No man can modestly promise what he cannot ascertain: we hope for the
praise of knowledge and discernment, but we claim only that of diligence
and candour[1].

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Dr. Johnson received the humble reward of a guinea from Mr. Dodsley
for this composition.




INTRODUCTION
TO THE
WORLD DISPLAYED[1].

Navigation, like other arts, has been perfected by degrees. It is not
easy to conceive that any age or nation was without some vessel, in
which rivers might be passed by travellers, or lakes frequented by
fishermen; but we have no knowledge of any ship that could endure the
violence of the ocean before the ark of Noah.

As the tradition of the deluge has been transmitted to almost all the
nations of the earth, it must be supposed that the memory of the means,
by which Noah and his family were preserved, would be continued long
among their descendants, and that the possibility of passing the seas
could never be doubted.

What men know to be practicable, a thousand motives will incite them to
try; and there is reason to believe, that from the time that the
generations of the postdiluvian race spread to the seashores, there were
always navigators that ventured upon the sea, though, perhaps, not
willingly beyond the sight of land.

Of the ancient voyages little certain is known, and it is not necessary
to lay before the reader such conjectures as learned men have offered to
the world. The Romans, by conquering Carthage, put a stop to great part
of the trade of distant nations with one another, and because they
thought only on war and conquest, as their empire increased, commerce
was discouraged; till under the latter emperours, ships seem to have
been of little other use than to transport soldiers.

Navigation could not be carried to any great degree of certainty without
the compass, which was unknown to the ancients. The wonderful quality by
which a needle or small bar of steel, touched with a loadstone or
magnet, and turning freely by equilibration on a point, always preserves
the meridian, and directs its two ends north and south, was discovered,
according to the common opinion, in 1299, by John Gola of Amalfi, a town
in Italy.

From this time it is reasonable to suppose that navigation made
continual, though slow, improvements, which the confusion and barbarity
of the times, and the want of communication between orders of men so
distant as sailors and monks, hindered from being distinctly and
successively recorded.

It seems, however, that the sailors still wanted either knowledge or
courage, for they continued for two centuries to creep along the coast,
and considered every head-land as impassable, which ran far into the
sea, and against which the waves broke with uncommon agitation.

The first who is known to have formed the design of new discoveries, or
the first who had power to execute his purposes, was Don Henry the
fifth[2], son of John, the first king of Portugal, and Philippina,
sister of Henry the fourth of England. Don Henry, having attended his
father to the conquest of Ceuta, obtained, by conversation with the
inhabitants of the continent, some accounts of the interiour kingdoms
and southern coast of Africa; which, though rude and indistinct, were
sufficient to raise his curiosity, and convince him, that there were
countries yet unknown and worthy of discovery.

He, therefore, equipped some small vessels, and commanded that they
should pass, as far as they could, along that coast of Africa which
looked upon the great Atlantick ocean, the immensity of which struck the
gross and unskilful navigators of those times with terrour and
amazement. He was not able to communicate his own ardour to his seamen,
who proceeded very slowly in the new attempt; each was afraid to venture
much farther than he that went before him, and ten years were spent
before they had advanced beyond cape Bajador, so called from its
progression into the ocean, and the circuit by which it must be doubled.
The opposition of this promontory to the course of the sea, produced a
violent current and high waves, into which they durst not venture, and
which they had not yet knowledge enough to avoid, by standing off from
the land into the open sea.

The prince was desirous to know something of the countries that lay
beyond this formidable cape, and sent two commanders, named John
Gonzales Zarco, and Tristan Vas, in 1418, to pass beyond Bajador, and
survey the coast behind it. They were caught by a tempest, which drove
them out into the unknown ocean, where they expected to perish by the
violence of the wind, or, perhaps, to wander for ever in the boundless
deep. At last, in the midst of their despair, they found a small island,
where they sheltered themselves, and which the sense of their
deliverance disposed them to call Puerto Santo, or the Holy Haven.

When they returned with an account of this new island, Henry performed a
publick act of thanksgiving, and sent them again with seeds and cattle;
and we are told by the Spanish historian, that they set two rabbits on
shore, which increased so much in a few years, that they drove away the
inhabitants, by destroying their corn and plants, and were suffered to
enjoy the island without opposition.

In the second or third voyage to Puerto Santo, (for authors do not agree
which,) a third captain, called Perello, was joined to the two former.
As they looked round the island upon the ocean, they saw at a distance
something which they took for a cloud, till they perceived that it did
not change its place. They directed their course towards it, and, in
1419, discovered another island covered with trees, which they,
therefore, called Madera, or the Isle of Wood.

Madera was given to Vaz or Zarco, who set fire to the woods, which are
reported by Souza to have burnt for seven years together, and to have
been wasted, till want of wood was the greatest inconveniency of the
place. But green wood is not very apt to burn, and the heavy rains which
fall in these countries must, surely, have extinguished the
conflagration, were it ever so violent.

There was yet little progress made upon the southern coast, and Henry's
project was treated as chimerical by many of his countrymen. At last
Gilianes, in 1433, passed the dreadful cape, to which he gave the name
of Bajador, and came back, to the wonder of the nation.

In two voyages more, made in the two following years, they passed
forty-two leagues farther, and in the latter, two men with horses being
set on shore, wandered over the country, and found nineteen men, whom,
according to the savage mariners of that age, they attacked; the
natives, having javelins, wounded one of the Portuguese, and received
some wounds from them. At the mouth of a river they found sea-wolves in
great numbers, and brought home many of their skins, which were much
esteemed.

Antonio Gonzales, who had been one of the associates of Gilianes, was
sent again, in 1440, to bring back a cargo of the skins of sea-wolves.
He was followed in another ship by Nunno Tristam. They were now of
strength sufficient to venture upon violence; they, therefore, landed,
and, without either right or provocation, made all whom they seized
their prisoners, and brought them to Portugal, with great commendations
both from the prince and the nation.

Henry now began to please himself with the success of his projects, and,
as one of his purposes was the conversion of infidels, he thought it
necessary to impart his undertaking to the pope, and to obtain the
sanction of ecclesiastical authority. To this end Fernando Lopez
d'Azevedo was despatched to Rome, who related to the pope and cardinals
the great designs of Henry, and magnified his zeal for the propagation
of religion. The pope was pleased with the narrative, and by a formal
bull, conferred upon the crown of Portugal all the countries which
should be discovered as far as India, together with India itself, and
granted several privileges and indulgences to the churches which Henry
had built in his new regions, and to the men engaged in the navigation
for discovery. By this bull all other princes were forbidden to encroach
upon the conquests of the Portuguese, on pain of the censures incurred
by the crime of usurpation.

The approbation of the pope, the sight of men, whose manners and
appearance were so different from those of Europeans, and the hope of
gain from golden regions, which has been always the great incentive to
hazard and discovery, now began to operate with full force. The desire
of riches and of dominion, which is yet more pleasing to the fancy,
filled the court of the Portuguese prince with innumerable adventurers
from very distant parts of Europe. Some wanted to be employed in the
search after new countries, and some to be settled in those which had
been already found.

Communities now began to be animated by the spirit of enterprise, and
many associations were formed for the equipment of ships, and the
acquisition of the riches of distant regions, which, perhaps, were
always supposed to be more wealthy, as more remote. These undertakers
agreed to pay the prince a fifth part of the profit, sometimes a greater
share, and sent out the armament at their own expense.

The city of Lagos was the first that carried on this design by
contribution. The inhabitants fitted out six vessels, under the command
of Lucarot, one of the prince's household, and soon after fourteen more
were furnished for the same purpose, under the same commander; to those
were added many belonging to private men, so that, in a short time,
twenty-six ships put to sea in quest of whatever fortune should present.

The ships of Lagos were soon separated by foul weather, and the rest,
taking each its own course, stopped at different parts of the African
coast, from cape Blanco to cape Verd. Some of them, in 1444, anchored at
Gomera, one of the Canaries, where they were kindly treated by the
inhabitants, who took them into their service against the people of the
isle of Palma, with whom they were at war; but the Portuguese, at their
return to Gomera, not being made so rich as they expected, fell upon
their friends, in contempt of all the laws of hospitality and
stipulations of alliance, and, making several of them prisoners and
slaves, set sail for Lisbon.

The Canaries are supposed to have been known, however imperfectly, to
the ancients; but, in the confusion of the subsequent ages, they were
lost and forgotten, till, about the year 1340, the Biscayners found
Lucarot, and invading it, (for to find a new country, and invade it has
always been the same,) brought away seventy captives, and some
commodities of the place. Louis de la Cerda, count of Clermont, of the
blood royal both of France and Spain, nephew of John de la Cerda, who
called himself the Prince of Fortune, had once a mind to settle in those
islands, and applying himself first to the king of Arragon, and then to
Clement the sixth, was by the pope crowned at Avignon, king of the
Canaries, on condition that he should reduce them to the true religion;
but the prince altered his mind, and went into France to serve against
the English. The kings both of Castile and Portugal, though they did not
oppose the papal grant, yet complained of it, as made without their
knowledge, and in contravention of their rights.

The first settlement in the Canaries was made by John de Betancour, a
French gentleman, for whom his kinsman Robin de Braquement, admiral of
France, begged them, with the title of king, from Henry the magnificent
of Castile, to whom he had done eminent services. John made himself
master of some of the isles, but could never conquer the grand Canary;
and having spent all that he had, went back to Europe, leaving his
nephew, Massiot de Betancour, to take care of his new dominion. Massiot
had a quarrel with the vicar-general, and was, likewise, disgusted by
the long absence of his uncle, whom the French king detained in his
service, and being able to keep his ground no longer, he transferred his
rights to Don Henry, in exchange for some districts in the Madera, where
he settled his family.

Don Henry, when he had purchased those islands, sent thither, in 1424,
two thousand five hundred foot, and a hundred and twenty horse; but the
army was too numerous to be maintained by the country. The king of
Castile afterwards claimed them, as conquered by his subjects under
Betancour, and held under the crown of Castile by fealty and homage: his
claim was allowed, and the Canaries were resigned.

It was the constant practice of Henry's navigators, when they stopped at
a desert island, to land cattle upon it, and leave them to breed, where,
neither wanting room nor food, they multiplied very fast, and furnished
a very commodious supply to those who came afterwards to the same place.
This was imitated, in some degree, by Anson, at the isle of Juan
Fernandez.

The island of Madera he not only filled with inhabitants, assisted by
artificers of every kind, but procured such plants as seemed likely to
flourish in that climate, and introduced the sugar-canes and vines which
afterwards produced a very large revenue.

The trade of Africa now began to be profitable, but a great part of the
gain arose from the sale of slaves, who were annually brought into
Portugal, by hundreds, as Lafitau relates, and without any appearance of
indignation or compassion; they, likewise, imported gold dust in such
quantities, that Alphonso the fifth coined it into a new species of
money called Crusades, which is still continued in Portugal.

In time they made their way along the south coast of Africa, eastward to
the country of the negroes, whom they found living in tents, without any
political institutions, supporting life, with very little labour, by the
milk of their kine, and millet, to which those who inhabited the coast
added fish dried in the sun. Having never seen the natives, or heard of
the arts of Europe, they gazed with astonishment on the ships, when they
approached their coasts, sometimes thinking them birds, and sometimes
fishes, according as their sails were spread or lowered; and sometimes
conceiving them to be only phantoms, which played to and fro in the
ocean. Such is the account given by the historian, perhaps, with too
much prejudice against a negro's understanding, who, though he might
well wonder at the bulk and swiftness of the first ship, would scarcely
conceive it to be either a bird or a fish, but having seen many bodies
floating in the water, would think it, what it really is, a large boat;
and, if he had no knowledge of any means by which separate pieces of
timber may be joined together, would form very wild notions concerning
its construction, or, perhaps, suppose it to be a hollow trunk of a
tree, from some country where trees grow to a much greater height and
thickness than in his own.

When the Portuguese came to land, they increased the astonishment of the
poor inhabitants, who saw men clad in iron, with thunder and lightning
in their hands. They did not understand each other, and signs are a very
imperfect mode of communication, even to men of more knowledge than the
negroes, so that they could not easily negotiate or traffick: at last
the Portuguese laid hands on some of them, to carry them home for a
sample; and their dread and amazement was raised, says Lafitau, to the
highest pitch, when the Europeans fired their cannons and muskets among
them, and they saw their companions fall dead at their feet, without any
enemy at hand, or any visible cause of their destruction.

On what occasion, or for what purpose, cannons and muskets were
discharged among a people harmless and secure, by strangers who, without
any right, visited their coast, it is not thought necessary to inform
us. The Portuguese could fear nothing from them, and had, therefore, no
adequate provocation; nor is there any reason to believe but that they
murdered the negroes in wanton merriment, perhaps, only to try how many
a volley would destroy, or what would be the consternation of those that
should escape. We are openly told, that they had the less scruple
concerning their treatment of the savage people, because they scarcely
considered them as distinct from beasts; and, indeed, the practice of
all the European nations, and among others, of the English barbarians
that cultivate the southern islands of America, proves, that this
opinion, however absurd and foolish, however wicked and injurious, still
continues to prevail. Interest and pride harden the heart, and it is in
vain to dispute against avarice and power.

By these practices the first discoverers alienated the natives from
them; and whenever a ship appeared, every one that could fly betook
himself to the mountains and the woods, so that nothing was to be got
more than they could steal: they sometimes surprised a few fishers, and
made them slaves, and did what they could to offend the negroes, and
enrich themselves. This practice of robbery continued till some of the
negroes, who had been enslaved, learned the language of Portugal, so as
to be able to interpret for their countrymen, and one John Fernandez
applied himself to the negro tongue.

From this time began something like a regular traffick, such as can
subsist between nations where all the power is on one side; and a
factory was settled in the isle of Arguin, under the protection of a
fort. The profit of this new trade was assigned, for a certain term, to
Ferdinando Gomez; which seems to be the common method of establishing a
trade, that is yet too small to engage the care of a nation, and can
only be enlarged by that attention which is bestowed by private men upon
private advantage. Gomez continued the discoveries to cape Catharine,
two degrees and a half beyond the line.

In the latter part of the reign of Alphonso the fifth, the ardour of
discovery was somewhat intermitted, and all commercial enterprises were
interrupted by the wars in which he was engaged with various success.
But John the second, who succeeded, being fully convinced both of the
honour and advantage of extending his dominions in countries hitherto
unknown, prosecuted the designs of prince Henry with the utmost vigour,
and in a short time added to his other titles, that of king of Guinea
and of the coast of Africa.

In 1463, in the third year of the reign of John the second, died prince
Henry, the first encourager of remote navigation, by whose incitement,
patronage and example, distant nations have been made acquainted with
each other, unknown countries have been brought into general view, and
the power of Europe has been extended to the remotest parts of the
world. What mankind has lost and gained by the genius and designs of
this prince, it would be long to compare, and very difficult to
estimate. Much knowledge has been acquired, and much cruelty been
committed; the belief of religion has been very little propagated, and
its laws have been outrageously and enormously violated. The Europeans
have scarcely visited any coast, but to gratify avarice, and extend
corruption; to arrogate dominion without right, and practise cruelty
without incentive. Happy had it, then, been for the oppressed, if the
designs of Henry had slept in his bosom, and surely more happy for the
oppressors. But there is reason to hope that out of so much evil, good
may sometimes be produced; and that the light of the gospel will at last
illuminate the sands of Africa, and the deserts of America, though its
progress cannot but be slow, when it is so much obstructed by the lives
of Christians.

The death of Henry did not interrupt the progress of king John, who was
very strict in his injunctions, not only to make discoveries, but to
secure possession of the countries that were found. The practice of the
first navigators was only to raise a cross upon the coast, and to carve
upon trees the device of Don Henry, the name which they thought it
proper to give to the new coast, and any other information, for those
that might happen to follow them; but now they began to erect piles of
stone with a cross on the top, and engraved on the stone the arms of
Portugal, the name of the king, and of the commander of the ship, with
the day and year of the discovery. This was accounted sufficient to
prove their claim to the new lands; which might be pleaded, with justice
enough, against any other Europeans, and the rights of the original
inhabitants were never taken into notice. Of these stone records, nine
more were erected in the reign of king John, along the coast of Africa,
as far as the cape of Good Hope.

The fortress in the isle of Arguin was finished, and it was found
necessary to build another at S. Georgio de la Mina, a few degrees north
of the line, to secure the trade of gold dust, which was chiefly carried
on at that place. For this purpose a fleet was fitted out, of ten large
and three smaller vessels, freighted with materials for building the
fort, and with provisions and ammunition for six hundred men, of whom
one hundred were workmen and labourers. Father Lafitau relates, in very
particular terms, that these ships carried hewn stones, bricks, and
timber, for the fort, so that nothing remained but barely to erect it.
He does not seem to consider how small a fort could be made out of the
lading often ships.

The command of this fleet was given to Don Diego d'Azambue, who set sail
December 11, 1481, and reaching La Mina January 19, 1482, gave immediate
notice of his arrival to Caramansa, a petty prince of that part of the
country, whom he very earnestly invited to an immediate conference.

Having received a message of civility from the negro chief, he landed,
and chose a rising ground, proper for his intended fortress, on which he
planted a banner with the arms of Portugal, and took possession in the
name of his master. He then raised an altar at the foot of a great tree,
on which mass was celebrated, the whole assembly, says Lafitau, breaking
out into tears of devotion at the prospect of inviting these barbarous
nations to the profession of the true faith. Being secure of the
goodness of the end, they had no scruple about the means, nor ever
considered how differently from the primitive martyrs and apostles they
were attempting to make proselytes. The first propagators of
Christianity recommended their doctrines by their sufferings and
virtues; they entered no defenceless territories with swords in their
hands; they built no forts upon ground to which they had no right, nor
polluted the purity of religion with the avarice of trade, or insolence
of power.

What may still raise higher the indignation of a Christian mind, this
purpose of propagating truth appears never to have been seriously
pursued by any European nation; no means, whether lawful or unlawful,
have been practised with diligence and perseverance for the conversion
of savages. When a fort is built, and a factory established, there
remains no other care than to grow rich. It is soon found that ignorance
is most easily kept in subjection, and that by enlightening the mind
with truth, fraud and usurpation would be made less practicable and less
secure.

In a few days an interview was appointed between Caramansa and Azambue.
The Portuguese uttered, by his interpreter, a pompous speech, in which
he made the negro prince large offers of his master's friendship,
exhorting him to embrace the religion of his new ally; and told him,
that, as they came to form a league of friendship with him, it was
necessary that they should build a fort, which might serve as a retreat
from their common enemies, and in which the Portuguese might be always
at hand to lend him assistance.

The negro, who seemed very well to understand what the admiral intended,
after a short pause, returned an answer full of respect to the king of
Portugal, but appeared a little doubtful what to determine with relation
to the fort. The commander saw his diffidence, and used all his art of
persuasion to overcome it. Caramansa, either induced by hope, or
constrained by fear, either desirous to make them friends, or not daring
to make them enemies, consented, with a show of joy, to that which it
was not in his power to refuse; and the new comers began the next day to
break the ground for the foundation of a fort.

Within the limit of their intended fortification were some spots
appropriated to superstitious practices; which the negroes no sooner
perceived in danger of violation by the spade and pickaxe, than they ran
to arms, and began to interrupt the work. The Portuguese persisted in
their purpose, and there had soon been tumult and bloodshed, had not the
admiral, who was at a distance to superintend the unlading the materials
for the edifice, been informed of the danger. He was told, at the same
time, that the support of their superstition was only a pretence, and
that all their rage might be appeased by the presents which the prince
expected, the delay of which had greatly offended him.

The Portuguese admiral immediately ran to his men, prohibited all
violence, and stopped the commotion; he then brought out the presents,
and spread them with great pomp before the prince; if they were of no
great value, they were rare, for the negroes had never seen such wonders
before; they were, therefore, received with ecstacy, and, perhaps, the
Portuguese derided them for their fondness of trifles, without
considering how many things derive their value only from their scarcity,
and that gold and rubies would be trifles, if nature had scattered them
with less frugality.

The work was now peaceably continued, and such was the diligence with
which the strangers hastened to secure the possession of the country,
that in twenty days they had sufficiently fortified themselves against
the hostility of the negroes. They then proceeded to complete their
design.

A church was built in the place where the first altar had been raised,
on which a mass was established to be celebrated for ever once a day,
for the repose of the soul of Henry, the first mover of these
discoveries.

In this fort the admiral remained with sixty soldiers, and sent back the
rest in the ships, with gold, slaves, and other commodities. It may be
observed that slaves were never forgotten, and that, wherever they went,
they gratified their pride, if not their avarice, and brought some of
the natives, when it happened that they brought nothing else.

The Portuguese endeavoured to extend their dominions still farther. They
had gained some knowledge of the Jaloffs, a nation inhabiting the coast
of Guinea, between the Gambia and Senegal. The king of the Jaloffs being
vicious and luxurious, committed the care of the government to Bemoin,
his brother by the mother's side, in preference to two other brothers by
his father. Bemoin, who wanted neither bravery nor prudence, knew that
his station was invidious and dangerous, and, therefore, made an
alliance with the Portuguese, and retained them in his defence by
liberality and kindness. At last the king was killed by the contrivance
of his brothers, and Bemoin was to lose his power, or maintain it by
war.

He had recourse, in this exigence, to his great ally the king of
Portugal, who promised to support him, on condition that he should
become a Christian, and sent an ambassador, accompanied with
missionaries. Bemoin promised all that was required, objecting only,
that the time of a civil war was not a proper season for a change of
religion, which would alienate his adherents; but said, that when he was
once peaceably established, he would not only embrace the true religion
himself, but would endeavour the conversion of the kingdom.

This excuse was admitted, and Bemoin delayed his conversion for a year,
renewing his promise from time to time. But the war was unsuccessful,
trade was at a stand, and Bemoin was not able to pay the money which he
had borrowed of the Portuguese merchants, who sent intelligence to
Lisbon of his delays, and received an order from the king, commanding
them, under severe penalties, to return home.

Bemoin here saw his ruin approaching, and, hoping that money would
pacify all resentment, borrowed of his friends a sum sufficient to
discharge his debts; and finding that even this enticement would not
delay the departure of the Portuguese, he embarked his nephew in their
ships with a hundred slaves, whom he presented to the king of Portugal,
to solicit his assistance. The effect of this embassy he could not stay
to know; for being soon after deposed, he sought shelter in the fortress
of Arguin, whence he took shipping for Portugal, with twenty-five of his
principal followers.

The king of Portugal pleased his own vanity and that of his subjects, by
receiving him with great state and magnificence, as a mighty monarch who
had fled to an ally for succour in misfortune. All the lords and ladies
of the court were assembled, and Bemoin was conducted with a splendid
attendance into the hall of audience, where the king rose from his
throne to welcome him. Bemoin then made a speech with great ease and
dignity, representing his unhappy state, and imploring the favour of his
powerful ally. The king was touched with his affliction, and struck by
his wisdom.

The conversion of Bemoin was much desired by the king; and it was,
therefore, immediately, proposed to him that he should become a
Christian. Ecclesiasticks were sent to instruct him; and having now no
more obstacles from interest, he was easily persuaded to declare himself
whatever would please those on whom he now depended. He was baptized on
the third day of December, 1489, in the palace of the queen, with great
magnificence, and named John, after the king.

Some time was spent in feasts and sports on this great occasion, and the
negroes signalized themselves by many feats of agility, far surpassing
the power of Europeans, who, having more helps of art, are less diligent
to cultivate the qualities of nature. In the mean time twenty large
ships were fitted out, well manned, stored with ammunition, and laden
with materials necessary for the erection of a fort. With this powerful
armament were sent a great number of missionaries under the direction of
Alvarez the king's confessor. The command of this force, which filled
the coast of Africa with terrour, was given to Pedro Vaz d'Acugna,
surnamed Bisagu; who, soon after they had landed, not being well pleased
with his expedition, put an end to its inconveniencies, by stabbing
Bemoin suddenly to the heart. The king heard of this outrage with great
sorrow, but did not attempt to punish the murderer.

The king's concern for the restoration of Bemoin was not the mere effect
of kindness, he hoped by his help to facilitate greater designs. He now
began to form hopes of finding a way to the East Indies, and of
enriching his country by that gainful commerce: this he was encouraged
to believe practicable, by a map which the Moors had given to prince
Henry, and which subsequent discoveries have shown to be sufficiently
near to exactness, where a passage round the south-east part of Africa
was evidently described.

The king had another scheme, yet more likely to engage curiosity, and
not irreconcilable with his interest. The world had, for some time, been
filled with the report of a powerful Christian prince, called Prester
John, whose country was unknown, and whom some, after Paulus Venetus,
supposed to reign in the midst of Asia, and others in the depth of
Ethiopia, between the ocean and Red sea. The account of the African
Christians was confirmed by some Abyssinians who had travelled into
Spain, and by some friars that had visited the Holy Land; and the king
was extremely desirous of their correspondence and alliance.

Some obscure intelligence had been obtained, which made it seem probable
that a way might be found from the countries lately discovered, to those
of this far-famed monarch. In 1486, an ambassador came from the king of
Bemin, to desire that preachers might be sent to instruct him and his
subjects in the true religion. He related that, in the inland country,
three hundred and fifty leagues eastward from Bemin, was a mighty
monarch, called Ogane, who had jurisdiction, both spiritual and
temporal, over other kings; that the king of Bemin and his neighbours,
at their accession, sent ambassadors to him with rich presents, and
received from him the investiture of their dominions, and the marks of
sovereignty, which were a kind of sceptre, a helmet, and a latten cross,
without which they could not be considered as lawful kings; that this
great prince was never seen but on the day of audience, and then held
out one of his feet to the ambassador, who kissed it with great
reverence, and who, at his departure, had a cross of latten hung on his
neck, which ennobled him thenceforward, and exempted him from all
servile offices.

Bemoin had, likewise, told the king, that to the east of the kingdom of
Tombut, there was, among other princes, one that was neither Mahometan
nor idolater, but who seemed to profess a religion nearly resembling the
Christian. These informations, compared with each other, and with the
current accounts of Prester John, induced the king to an opinion, which,
though formed somewhat at hazard, is still believed to be right, that by
passing up the river Senegal his dominions would be found. It was,
therefore, ordered that, when the fortress was finished, an attempt
should be made to pass upward to the source of the river. The design
failed then, and has never yet succeeded.

Other ways, likewise, were tried of penetrating to the kingdom of
Prester John; for the king resolved to leave neither sea nor land
unsearched, till he should be found. The two messengers who were sent
first on this design, went to Jerusalem, and then returned, being
persuaded that, for want of understanding the language of the country,
it would be vain or impossible to travel farther. Two more were then
despatched, one of whom was Pedro de Covillan, the other, Alphonso de
Pavia; they passed from Naples to Alexandria, and then travelled to
Cairo, from whence they went to Aden, a town of Arabia, on the Red sea,
near its mouth. From Aden, Pavia set sail for Ethiopia, and Covillan for
the Indies. Covillan visited Canavar, Calicut, and Goa in the Indies,
and Sosula in the eastern Africa, thence he returned to Aden, and then
to Cairo, where he had agreed to meet Pavia. At Cairo he was informed
that Pavia was dead, but he met with two Portuguese Jews, one of whom
had given the king an account of the situation and trade of Ormus: they
brought orders to Covillan, that he should send one of them home with
the journal of his travels, and go to Ormus with the other.

Covillan obeyed the orders, sending an exact account of his adventures
to Lisbon, and proceeding with the other messenger to Ormus; where,
having made sufficient inquiry, he sent his companion homewards, with
the caravans that were going to Aleppo, and embarking once more on the
Red sea, arrived in time at Abyssinia, and found the prince whom he had
sought so long, and with such danger.

Two ships were sent out upon the same search, of which Bartholomew Diaz
had the chief command; they were attended by a smaller vessel laden with
provisions, that they might not return, upon pretence of want either
felt or feared.

Navigation was now brought nearer to perfection. The Portuguese claim
the honour of many inventions by which the sailor is assisted, and which
enable him to leave sight of land, and commit himself to the boundless
ocean. Diaz had orders to proceed beyond the river Zaire, where Diego
Can had stopped, to build monuments of his discoveries, and to leave
upon the coasts negro men and women well instructed, who might inquire
after Prester John, and fill the natives with reverence for the
Portuguese.

Diaz, with much opposition from his crew, whose mutinies he repressed,
partly by softness, and partly by steadiness, sailed on till he reached
the utmost point of Africa, which from the bad weather that he met
there, he called cabo Tormentoso, or the cape of Storms. He would have
gone forward, but his crew forced him to return. In his way back he met
the victualler, from which he had been parted nine months before; of the
nine men, which were in it at the separation, six had been killed by the
negroes, and of the three remaining, one died for joy at the sight of
his friends. Diaz returned to Lisbon in December, 1487, and gave an
account of his voyage to the king, who ordered the cape of Storms to be
called thenceforward cabo de Buena Esperanza, or the cape of Good Hope.

Some time before the expedition of Diaz, the river Zaire and the kingdom
of Congo had been discovered by Diego Can, who found a nation of negroes
who spoke a language which those that were in his ships could not
understand. He landed, and the natives, whom he expected to fly, like
the other inhabitants of the coast, met them with confidence, and
treated them with kindness; but Diego, finding that they could not
understand each other, seized some of their chiefs, and carried them to
Portugal, leaving some of his own people in their room to learn the
language of Congo.

The negroes were soon pacified, and the Portuguese left to their mercy
were well treated; and, as they by degrees grew able to make themselves
understood, recommended themselves, their nation, and their religion.
The king of Portugal sent Diego back in a very short time with the
negroes whom he had forced away; and when they were set safe on shore,
the king of Congo conceived so much esteem for Diego, that he sent one
of those, who had returned, back again in the ship to Lisbon, with two
young men despatched as ambassadors, to desire instructors to be sent
for the conversion of his kingdom.

The ambassadors were honourably received, and baptized with great pomp,
and a fleet was immediately fitted out for Congo, under the command of
Gonsalvo Sorza, who dying in his passage, was succeeded in authority by
his nephew Roderigo.

When they came to land, the king's uncle, who commanded the province,
immediately requested to be solemnly initiated into the Christian
religion, which was granted to him and his young son, on Easter day,
1491. The father was named Manuel, and the son Antonio. Soon afterwards
the king, queen, and eldest prince, received at the font the names of
John, Eleanor, and Alphonso; and a war breaking out, the whole army was
admitted to the rites of Christianity, and then sent against the enemy.
They returned victorious, but soon forgot their faith, and formed a
conspiracy to restore paganism; a powerful opposition was raised by
infidels and apostates, headed by one of the king's younger sons; and
the missionaries had been destroyed, had not Alphonso pleaded for them
and for Christianity.

The enemies of religion now became the enemies of Alphonso, whom they
accused to his father of disloyalty. His mother, queen Eleanor, gained
time by one artifice after another, till the king was calmed; he then
heard the cause again, declared his son innocent, and punished his
accusers with death.

The king died soon after, and the throne was disputed by Alphonso,
supported by the Christians, and Aquitimo his brother, followed by the
infidels. A battle was fought, Aquitimo was taken and put to death, and
Christianity was for a time established in Congo; but the nation has
relapsed into its former follies.

Such was the state of the Portuguese navigation, when, in 1492, Columbus
made the daring and prosperous voyage, which gave a new world to
European curiosity and European cruelty. He had offered his proposal,
and declared his expectations to king John of Portugal, who had slighted
him as a fanciful and rash projector, that promised what he had not
reasonable hopes to perform. Columbus had solicited other princes, and
had been repulsed with the same indignity; at last, Isabella of Arragon
furnished him with ships, and having found America, he entered the mouth
of the Tagus in his return, and showed the natives of the new country.
When he was admitted to the king's presence, he acted and talked with so
much haughtiness, and reflected on the neglect which he had undergone
with so much acrimony, that the courtiers, who saw their prince
insulted, offered to destroy him; but the king, who knew that he
deserved the reproaches that had been used, and who now sincerely
regretted his incredulity, would suffer no violence to be offered him,
but dismissed him with presents and with honours.

The Portuguese and Spaniards became now jealous of each other's claim to
countries which neither had yet seen; and the pope, to whom they
appealed, divided the new world between them by a line drawn from north
to south, a hundred leagues westward from cape Verd and the Azores,
giving all that lies west from that line to the Spaniards, and all that
lies east to the Portuguese. This was no satisfactory division, for the
east and west must meet at last, but that time was then at a great
distance.

According to this grant, the Portuguese continued their discoveries
eastward, and became masters of much of the coast both of Africa and the
Indies; but they seized much more than they could occupy, and while they
were under the dominion of Spain, lost the greater part of their Indian
territories.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A collection of Voyages and Travels, selected from the writers of
    all nations, in twenty small pocket volumes, and published by
    Newbery; to oblige whom, it is conjectured that Johnson drew up this
    curious and learned paper, which appeared in the first volume,
    1759.

[2] Read Mickle's very excellent introduction to his translation of
    Camoens' Lusiad.--Ed.




THE PREFACE
TO THE PRECEPTOR,
CONTAINING
A GENERAL PLAN OF EDUCATION[1]

The importance of education is a point so generally understood and
confessed, that it would be of little use to attempt any new proof or
illustration of its necessity and advantages.

At a time, when so many schemes of education have been projected, so
many proposals offered to the publick, so many schools opened for
general knowledge, and so many lectures in particular sciences attended;
at a time when mankind seems intent rather upon familiarizing than
enlarging the several arts; and every age, sex, and profession, is
invited to an acquaintance with those studies, which were formerly
supposed accessible only to such as had devoted themselves to literary
leisure, and dedicated their powers to philosophical inquiries; it seems
rather requisite that an apology should be made for any further attempt
to smooth a path so frequently beaten, or to recommend attainments so
ardently pursued, and so officiously directed.

That this general desire may not be frustrated, our schools seem yet to
want some book, which may excite curiosity by its variety, encourage
diligence by its facility, and reward application by its usefulness. In
examining the treatises, hitherto offered to the youth of this nation,
there appeared none that did not fail in one or other of these essential
qualities; none that were not either unpleasing, or abstruse, or crowded
with learning very rarely applicable to the purposes of common life.

Every man, who has been engaged in teaching, knows with how much
difficulty youthful minds are confined to close application, and how
readily they deviate to any thing, rather than attend to that which is
imposed as a task. That this disposition, when it becomes inconsistent
with the forms of education, is to be checked, will readily be granted;
but since, though it may be in some degree obviated, it cannot wholly be
suppressed, it is surely rational to turn it to advantage, by taking
care that the mind shall never want objects on which its faculties may
be usefully employed. It is not impossible, that this restless desire of
novelty, which gives so much trouble to the teacher, may be often the
struggle of the understanding starting from that to which it is not by
nature adapted, and travelling in search of something on which it may
fix with greater satisfaction. For, without supposing each man
particularly marked out by his genius for particular performances, it
may be easily conceived, that when a numerous class of boys is confined
indiscriminately to the same forms of composition, the repetition of the
same words, or the explication of the same sentiments, the employment
must, either by nature or accident, be less suitable to some than
others; that the ideas to be contemplated may be too difficult for the
apprehension of one, and too obvious for that of another: they may be
such as some understandings cannot reach, though others look down upon
them, as below their regard. Every mind, in its progress through the
different stages of scholastick learning, must be often in one of these
conditions; must either flag with the labour, or grow wanton with the
facility of the work assigned; and in either state it naturally turns
aside from the track before it. Weariness looks out for relief, and
leisure for employment, and, surely, it is rational to indulge the
wanderings of both. For the faculties which are too lightly burdened
with the business of the day, may, with great propriety, add to it some
other inquiry; and he that finds himself overwearied by a task, which,
perhaps, with all his efforts, he is not able to perform, is undoubtedly
to be justified in addicting himself rather to easier studies, and
endeavouring to quit that which is above his attainment, for that which
nature has not made him incapable of pursuing with advantage.

That, therefore, this roving curiosity may not be unsatisfied, it seems
necessary to scatter in its way such allurements as may withhold it from
an useless and unbounded dissipation; such as may regulate it without
violence, and direct it without restraint; such as may suit every
inclination, and fit every capacity; may employ the stronger genius, by
operations of reason, and engage the less active or forcible mind, by
supplying it with easy knowledge, and obviating that despondence, which
quickly prevails, when nothing appeals but a succession of difficulties,
and one labour only ceases that another may be imposed.

A book, intended thus to correspond with all dispositions, and afford
entertainment for minds of different powers, is necessarily to contain
treatises on different subjects. As it is designed for schools, though
for the higher classes, it is confined wholly to such parts of knowledge
as young minds may comprehend; and, as it is drawn up for readers yet
unexperienced in life, and unable to distinguish the useful from the
ostentatious or unnecessary parts of science, it is requisite that a
very nice distinction should be made, that nothing unprofitable should
be admitted for the sake of pleasure, nor any arts of attraction
neglected, that might fix the attention upon more important studies.

These considerations produced the book which is here offered to the
publick, as better adapted to the great design of pleasing by
instruction, than any which has hitherto been admitted into our
seminaries of literature. There are not indeed wanting in the world
compendiums of science, but many were written at a time when philosophy
was imperfect, as that of G. Valla; many contain only naked schemes, or
synoptical tables, as that of Stierius; and others are too large and
voluminous, as that of Alstedius; and, what is not to be considered as
the least objection, they are generally in a language, which, to boys,
is more difficult than the subject; and it is too hard a task to be
condemned to learn a new science in an unknown tongue. As in life, so in
study, it is dangerous to do more things than one at a time; and the
mind is not to be harassed with unnecessary obstructions, in a way, of
which the natural and unavoidable asperity is such as too frequently
produces despair.

If the language, however, had been the only objection to any of the
volumes already extant, the schools might have been supplied at a small
expense by a translation; but none could be found that was not so
defective, redundant, or erroneous, as to be of more danger than use. It
was necessary then to examine, whether upon every single science there
was not some treatise written for the use of scholars, which might be
adapted to this design, so that a collection might be made from
different authors, without the necessity of writing new systems. This
search was not wholly without success; for two authors were found, whose
performances might be admitted with little alteration. But so widely
does this plan differ from all others, so much has the state of many
kinds of learning been changed, or so unfortunately have they hitherto
been cultivated, that none of the other subjects were explained in such
a manner as was now required; and, therefore, neither care nor expense
has been spared to obtain new lights, and procure to this book the merit
of an original.

With what judgment the design has been formed, and with what skill it
has been executed, the learned world is now to determine. But before
sentence shall pass, it is proper to explain more fully what has been
intended, that censure may not be incurred by the omission of that which
the original plan did not comprehend; to declare more particularly who
they are to whose instructions these treatises pretend, that a charge of
arrogance and presumption may be obviated; to lay down the reasons which
directed the choice of the several subjects; and to explain more
minutely the manner in which each particular part of these volumes is to
be used.

The title has already declared, that these volumes are particularly
intended for the use of schools, and, therefore, it has been the care of
the authors to explain the several sciences, of which they have treated,
in the most familiar manner; for the mind, used only to common
expressions, and inaccurate ideas, does not suddenly conform itself to
scholastick modes of reasoning, or conceive the nice distinctions of a
subtile philosophy, and may be properly initiated in speculative studies
by an introduction like this, in which the grossness of vulgar
conception is avoided, without the observation of metaphysical
exactness. It is observed, that in the course of the natural world no
change is instantaneous, but all its vicissitudes are gradual and slow;
the motions of intellect proceed in the like imperceptible progression,
and proper degrees of transition from one study to another are,
therefore, necessary; but let it not be charged upon the writers of this
book, that they intended to exhibit more than the dawn of knowledge, or
pretended to raise in the mind any nobler product than the blossoms of
science, which more powerful institutions may ripen into fruit.

For this reason it must not be expected, that in the following pages
should be found a complete circle of the sciences; or that any authors,
now deservedly esteemed, should be rejected to make way for what is here
offered. It was intended by the means of these precepts, not to deck the
mind with ornaments, but to protect it from nakedness; not to enrich it
with affluence, but to supply it with necessaries. The inquiry,
therefore, was not what degrees of knowledge are desirable, but what are
in most stations of life indispensably required; and the choice was
determined, not by the splendour of any part of literature, but by the
extent of its use, and the inconvenience which its neglect was likely to
produce.

1. The prevalence of this consideration appears in the first part, which
is appropriated to the humble purposes of teaching to read, and speak,
and write letters; an attempt of little magnificence, but in which no
man needs to blush for having employed his time, if honour be estimated
by use. For precepts of this kind, however neglected, extend their
importance as far as men are found who communicate their thoughts one to
another; they are equally useful to the highest and the lowest; they may
often contribute to make ignorance less inelegant; and may it not be
observed, that they are frequently wanted for the embellishment even of
learning?

In order to show the proper use of this part, which consists of various
exemplifications of such differences of style as require correspondent
diversities of pronunciation, it will be proper to inform the scholar,
that there are, in general, three forms of style, each of which demands
its particular mode of elocution: the familiar, the solemn, and the
pathetick. That in the familiar, he that reads is only to talk with a
paper in his hand, and to indulge himself in all the lighter liberties
of voice, as when he reads the common articles of a newspaper, or a
cursory letter of intelligence or business. That the solemn style, such
as that of a serious narrative, exacts an uniform steadiness of speech,
equal, clear, and calm. That for the pathetick, such as an animated
oration, it is necessary the voice be regulated by the sense, varying
and rising with the passions. These rules, which are the most general,
admit a great number of subordinate observations, which must be
particularly adapted to every scholar; for it is observable, that though
very few read well, yet every man errs in a different way. But let one
remark never be omitted: inculcate strongly to every scholar the danger
of copying the voice of another; an attempt which, though it has been
often repeated, is always unsuccessful.

The importance of writing letters with propriety, justly claims to be
considered with care, since, next to the power of pleasing with his
presence, every man would wish to be able to give delight at a distance.
This great art should be diligently taught, the rather, because of those
letters which are most useful, and by which the general business of life
is transacted, there are no examples easily to be found. It seems the
general fault of those who undertake this part of education, that they
propose for the exercise of their scholars, occasions which rarely
happen; such as congratulations and condolences, and neglect those
without which life cannot proceed. It is possible to pass many years
without the necessity of writing panegyricks or epithalamiums; but every
man has frequent occasion to state a contract, or demand a debt, or make
a narrative of some minute incidents of common life. On these subjects,
therefore, young persons should be taught to think justly, and write
clearly, neatly, and succinctly, lest they come from school into the
world without any acquaintance with common affairs, and stand idle
spectators of mankind, in expectation that some great event will give
them an opportunity to exert their rhetorick.

2. The second place is assigned to geometry; on the usefulness of which
it is unnecessary to expatiate in an age when mathematical studies have
so much engaged the attention of all classes of men. This treatise is
one of those which have been borrowed, being a translation from the work
of Mr. Le Clerc; and is not intended as more than the first initiation.
In delivering the fundamental principles of geometry, it is necessary to
proceed by slow steps, that each proposition may be fully understood
before another is attempted. For which purpose it is not sufficient,
that when a question is asked in the words of the book, the scholar,
likewise, can in the words of the book return the proper answer; for
this may be only an act of memory, not of understanding: it is always
proper to vary the words of the question, to place the proposition in
different points of view, and to require of the learner an explanation
in his own terms, informing him, however, when they are improper. By
this method the scholar will become cautious and attentive, and the
master will know with certainty the degree of his proficiency. Yet,
though this rule is generally right, I cannot but recommend a precept of
Pardie's[2], that when the student cannot be made to comprehend some
particular part, it should be, for that time, laid aside, till new light
shall arise from subsequent observation.

When this compendium is completely understood, the scholar may proceed
to the perusal of Tacquet, afterwards of Euclid himself, and then of the
modern improvers of geometry, such as Barrow, Keil, and Sir Isaac
Newton.

3. The necessity of some acquaintance with geography and astronomy will
not be disputed. If the pupil is born to the ease of a large fortune, no
part of learning is more necessary to him than the knowledge of the
situation of nations, on which their interests generally depend; if he
is dedicated to any of the learned professions, it is scarcely possible
that he will not be obliged to apply himself, in some part of his life,
to these studies, as no other branch of literature can be fully
comprehended without them; if he is designed for the arts of commerce or
agriculture, some general acquaintance with these sciences will be found
extremely useful to him; in a word, no studies afford more extensive,
more wonderful, or more pleasing scenes; and, therefore, there can be no
ideas impressed upon the soul, which can more conduce to its future
entertainment.

In the pursuit of these sciences, it will be proper to proceed with the
same gradation and caution as in geometry. And it is always of use to
decorate the nakedness of science, by interspersing such observations
and narratives as may amuse the mind, and excite curiosity. Thus, in
explaining the state of the polar regions, it might be fit to read the
narrative of the Englishmen that wintered in Greenland, which will make
young minds sufficiently curious after the cause of such a length of
night, and intenseness of cold; and many stratagems of the same kind
might be practised to interest them in all parts of their studies, and
call in their passions to animate their inquiries. When they have read
this treatise, it will be proper to recommend to them Varenius's
Geography, and Ferguson's Astronomy.

4. The study of chronology and history seems to be one of the most
natural delights of the human mind. It is not easy to live, without
inquiring by what means every thing was brought into the state in which
we now behold it, or without finding in the mind some desire of being
informed, concerning the generations of mankind that have been in
possession of the world before us, whether they were better or worse
than ourselves; or what good or evil has been derived to us from their
schemes, practices, and institutions. These are inquiries which history
alone can satisfy; and history can only be made intelligible by some
knowledge of chronology, the science by which events are ranged in their
order, and the periods of computation are settled; and which, therefore,
assists the memory by method, and enlightens the judgment by showing the
dependence of one transaction on another. Accordingly it should be
diligently inculcated to the scholar, that, unless he fixes in his mind
some idea of the time in which each man of eminence lived, and each
action was performed, with some part of the contemporary history of the
rest of the world, he will consume his life in useless reading, and
darken his mind with a crowd of unconnected events; his memory will be
perplexed with distant transactions resembling one another, and his
reflections be like a dream in a fever, busy and turbulent, but confused
and indistinct.

The technical part of chronology, or the art of computing and adjusting
time, as it is very difficult, so it is not of absolute necessity, but
should, however, be taught, so far as it can be learned without the loss
of those hours which are required for attainments of nearer concern. The
student may join with this treatise Le Clerc's Compendium of History;
and afterwards may, for the historical part of chronology, procure
Helvicus's and Isaacson's Tables; and, if he is desirous of attaining
the technical part, may first peruse Holder's Account of Time, Hearne's
Ductor Historicus, Strauchius, the first part of Petavius's Rationarium
Temporum; and, at length, Scaliger de Emendatiene Temporum. And, for
instruction in the method of his historical studies, he may consult
Hearne's Ductor Historicus, Wheare's Lectures, Rawlinson's Directions
for the Study of History; and, for ecclesiastical history, Cave and
Dupin, Baronius and Fleury.

5. Rhetorick and poetry supply life with its highest intellectual
pleasures; and, in the hands of virtue, are of great use for the
impression of just sentiments, and recommendation of illustrious
examples. In the practice of these great arts, so much more is the
effect of nature than the effect of education, that nothing is attempted
here but to teach the mind some general heads of observation, to which
the beautiful passages of the best writers may commonly be reduced. In
the use of this, it is not proper that the teacher should confine
himself to the examples before him; for, by that method, he will never
enable his pupils to make just application of the rules; but, having
inculcated the true meaning of each figure, he should require them to
exemplify it by their own observations, pointing to them the poem, or,
in longer works, the book or canto in which an example may be found, and
leaving them to discover the particular passage, by the light of the
rules which they have lately learned.

For a farther progress in these studies, they may consult Quintilian,
and Vossius's Rhetorick; the art of poetry will be best learned from
Bossu and Bohours in French, together with Dryden's Essays and Prefaces,
the critical Papers of Addison, Spence on Pope's Odyssey, and Trapp's
Praelectiones Poeticae: but a more accurate and philosophical account is
expected from a commentary upon Aristotle's Art of Poetry, with which
the literature of this nation will be, in a short time, augmented.

6. With regard to the practice of drawing, it is not necessary to give
any directions, the use of the treatise being only to teach the proper
method of imitating the figures which are annexed. It will be proper to
incite the scholars to industry, by showing in other books the use of
the art, and informing them how much it assists the apprehension, and
relieves the memory; and if they are obliged sometimes to write
descriptions of engines, utensils, or any complex pieces of workmanship,
they will more fully apprehend the necessity of an expedient which so
happily supplies the defects of language, and enables the eye to
conceive what cannot be conveyed to the mind any other way. When they
have read this treatise, and practised upon these figures, their theory
may be improved by the Jesuit's Perspective, and their manual operations
by other figures which may be easily procured.

7. Logick, or the art of arranging and connecting ideas, of forming and
examining arguments, is universally allowed to be an attainment, in the
utmost degree, worthy the ambition of that being whose highest honour is
to be endued with reason; but it is doubted whether that ambition has
yet been gratified, and whether the powers of ratiocination have been
much improved by any systems of art, or methodical institutions. The
logick, which for so many ages kept possession of the schools, has at
last been condemned as a mere art of wrangling, of very little use in
the pursuit of truth; and later writers have contented themselves with
giving an account of the operations of the mind, marking the various
stages of her progress, and giving some general rules for the regulation
of her conduct. The method of these writers is here followed; but
without a servile adherence to any, and with endeavours to make
improvements upon all. This work, however laborious, has yet been
fruitless, if there be truth in an observation very frequently made,
that logicians out of the school do not reason better than men
unassisted by those lights which their science is supposed to bestow. It
is not to be doubted but that logicians may be sometimes overborne by
their passions, or blinded by their prejudices; and that a man may
reason ill, as he may act ill, not because he does not know what is
right, but because he does not regard it; yet it is no more the fault of
his art that it does not direct him, when his attention is withdrawn
from it, than it is the defect of his sight that he misses his way, when
he shuts his eyes. Against this cause of errour there is no provision to
be made, otherwise than by inculcating the value of truth, and the
necessity of conquering the passions. But logick may, likewise, fail to
produce its effects upon common occasions, for want of being frequently
and familiarly applied, till its precepts may direct the mind
imperceptibly, as the fingers of a musician are regulated by his
knowledge of the tune. This readiness of recollection is only to be
procured by frequent impression; and, therefore, it will be proper, when
logick has been once learned, the teacher take frequent occasion, in the
most easy and familiar conversation, to observe when its rules are
preserved, and when they are broken; and that afterwards he read no
authors, without exacting of his pupil an account of every remarkable
exemplification or breach of the laws of reasoning.

When this system has been digested, if it be thought necessary to
proceed farther in the study of method, it will be proper to recommend
Crousaz, Watts, Le Clerc, Wolfius, and Locke's Essay on Human
Understanding; and if there be imagined any necessity of adding the
peripatetick logick, which has been, perhaps, condemned without a candid
trial, it will be convenient to proceed to Sanderson, Wallis,
Crackanthorp, and Aristotle.

8. To excite a curiosity after the works of God, is the chief design of
the small specimen of natural history inserted in this collection;
which, however, may be sufficient to put the mind in motion, and in some
measure to direct its steps; but its effects may easily be improved by a
philosophick master, who will every day find a thousand opportunities of
turning the attention of his scholars to the contemplation of the
objects that surround them, of laying open the wonderful art with which
every part of the universe is formed, and the providence which governs
the vegetable and animal creation. He may lay before them the Religious
Philosopher, Ray, Derham's Physico-Theology, together with the Spectacle
de la Nature; and in time recommend to their perusal Rondoletius,
Aldrovandus, and Linnęus.

9. But how much soever the reason may be strengthened by logick, or the
conceptions of the mind enlarged by the study of nature, it is necessary
the man be not suffered to dwell upon them so long as to neglect the
study of himself, the knowledge of his own station in the ranks of
being, and his various relations to the innumerable multitudes which
surround him, and with which his Maker has ordained him to be united for
the reception and communication of happiness. To consider these aright
is of the greatest importance, since from these arise duties which he
cannot neglect. Ethicks, or morality, therefore, is one of the studies
which ought to begin with the first glimpse of reason, and only end with
life itself. Other acquisitions are merely temporary benefits, except as
they contribute to illustrate the knowledge, and confirm the practice of
morality and piety, which extend their influence beyond the grave, and
increase our happiness through endless duration.

This great science, therefore, must be inculcated with care and
assiduity, such as its importance ought to incite in reasonable minds;
and for the prosecution of this design, fit opportunities are always at
hand. As the importance of logick is to be shown by detecting false
arguments, the excellence of morality is to be displayed by proving the
deformity, the reproach, and the misery of all deviations from it. Yet
it is to be remembered, that the laws of mere morality are of no
coercive power; and, however they may, by conviction, of their fitness
please the reasoner in the shade, when the passions stagnate without
impulse, and the appetites are secluded from their objects, they will be
of little force against the ardour of desire, or the vehemence of rage,
amidst the pleasures and tumults of the world. To counteract the power
of temptations, hope must be excited by the prospect of rewards, and
fear by the expectation of punishment; and virtue may owe her
panegyricks to morality, but must derive her authority from religion.

When, therefore, the obligations of morality are taught, let the
sanctions of Christianity never be forgotten; by which it will be shown
that they give strength and lustre to each other; religion will appear
to be the voice of reason, and morality the will of God. Under this
article must be recommended Tully's Offices, Grotius, Puffendorf,
Cumberland's Laws of Nature, and the excellent Mr. Addison's Moral and
Religious Essays.

10. Thus far the work is composed for the use of scholars, merely as
they are men. But it was thought necessary to introduce something that
might be particularly adapted to that country for which it is designed;
and, therefore, a discourse has been added upon trade and commerce, of
which it becomes every man of this nation to understand, at least, the
general principles, as it is impossible that any should be high or low
enough not to be, in some degree, affected by their declension or
prosperity. It is, therefore, necessary that it should be universally
known among us, what changes of property are advantageous, or when the
balance of trade is on our side; what are the products or manufactures
of other countries; and how far one nation may in any species of
traffick obtain or preserve superiority over another. The theory of
trade is yet but little understood, and, therefore, the practice is
often without real advantage to the publick; but it might be carried on
with more general success, if its principles were better considered; and
to excite that attention is our chief design. To the perusal of this
part of our work may succeed that of Mun upon Foreign Trade, Sir Josiah
Child, Locke upon Coin, Davenant's Treatises, the British Merchant,
Dictionnaire de Commerce, and, for an abstract or compendium, Gee, and
an improvement that may, hereafter, be made upon his plan.

11. The principles of laws and government come next to be considered; by
which men are taught to whom obedience is due, for what it is paid, and
in what degree it may be justly required. This knowledge, by peculiar
necessity, constitutes a part of the education of an Englishman, who
professes to obey his prince, according to the law, and who is himself a
secondary legislator, as he gives his consent, by his representative, to
all the laws by which he is bound, and has a right to petition the great
council of the nation, whenever he thinks they are deliberating upon an
act detrimental to the interest of the community. This is, therefore, a
subject to which the thoughts of a young man ought to be directed; and,
that he may obtain such knowledge as may qualify him to act and judge as
one of a free people, let him be directed to add to this introduction
Fortescue's Treatises, N. Bacon's Historical Discourse on the Laws and
Government of England, Blackstone's Commentaries, Temple's Introduction,
Locke on Government, Zouch's Elementa Juris Civilis, Plato Redivivus,
Gurdon's History of Parliaments, and Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity.

12. Having thus supplied the young student with knowledge, it remains
now that he learn its application; and that thus qualified to act his
part, he be at last taught to choose it. For this purpose a section is
added upon human life and manners; in which he is cautioned against the
danger of indulging his passions, of vitiating his habits, and depraving
his sentiments. He is instructed in these points by three fables, two of
which were of the highest authority in the ancient pagan world. But at
this he is not to rest; for, if he expects to be wise and happy, he must
diligently study the Scriptures of God.

Such is the book now proposed, as the first initiation into the
knowledge of things, which has been thought by many to be too long
delayed in the present forms of education. Whether the complaints be not
often ill-grounded, may, perhaps, be disputed; but it is at least
reasonable to believe, that greater proficiency might sometimes be made;
that real knowledge might be more early communicated; and that children
might be allowed, without injury to health, to spend many of those hours
upon useful employments, which are generally lost in idleness and play;
therefore the publick will surely encourage an experiment, by which, if
it fails, nobody is hurt; and, if it succeeds, all the future ages of
the world may find advantage; which may eradicate or prevent vice, by
turning to a better use those moments in which it is learned or
indulged; and in some sense lengthen life, by teaching posterity to
enjoy those years which have hitherto been lost. The success, and even
the trial of this experiment, will depend upon those to whom the care of
our youth is committed; and a due sense of the importance of their trust
will easily prevail upon them to encourage a work which pursues the
design of improving education. If any part of the following performance
shall, upon trial, be found capable of amendment; if any thing can be
added or altered, so as to render the attainment of knowledge more easy;
the editor will be extremely obliged to any gentleman, particularly
those who are engaged in the business of teaching, for such hints or
observations as may tend towards the improvement, and will spare neither
expense nor trouble in making the best use of their information.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] In this year, 1748, Mr. Dodsley brought out his Preceptor, one of
    the most valuable books for the improvement of young minds, that has
    appeared in any language; and to this meritorious work Johnson
    furnished the preface. Boswell's Life of Johnson, i.

[2] "And albeit the reader shall not at any one day (do what he can)
    reach to the meaning of our author, or of our commentaries, yet let
    him not discourage himself, but proceed; for, on some other day, in
    some other place, that doubt will be cleared." This is the advice of
    Lord Coke to the student bewildered in the mazes of legal
    investigation. Preface to the first Institute.




PREFACE TO ROLT'S DICTIONARY[1].


No expectation is more fallacious than that which authors form of the
reception which their labours will find among mankind. Scarcely any man
publishes a book, whatever it be, without believing that he has caught
the moment when the publick attention is vacant to his call, and the
world is disposed, in a particular manner, to learn the art which he
undertakes to teach.

The writers of this volume are not so far exempt from epidemical
prejudices, but that they, likewise, please themselves with imagining
that they have reserved their labours to a propitious conjuncture, and
that this is the proper time for the publication of a dictionary of
commerce.

The predictions of an author are very far from infallibility; but, in
justification of some degree of confidence, it may be properly observed,
that there was never, from the earliest ages, a time in which trade so
much engaged the attention of mankind, or commercial gain was sought
with such general emulation. Nations which have hitherto cultivated no
art but that of war, nor conceived any means of increasing riches but by
plunder, are awakened to more inoffensive industry. Those whom the
possession of subterraneous treasures have long disposed to accommodate
themselves by foreign industry, are at last convinced that idleness
never will be rich. The merchant is now invited to every port;
manufactures are established in all cities; and princes, who just can
view the sea from some single corner of their dominions, are enlarging
harbours, erecting mercantile companies, and preparing to traffick in
the remotest countries.

Nor is the form of this work less popular than the subject. It has
lately been the practice of the learned to range knowledge by the
alphabet, and publish dictionaries of every kind of literature. This
practice has, perhaps, been carried too far by the force of fashion.
Sciences, in themselves systematical and coherent, are not very properly
broken into such fortuitous distributions. A dictionary of arithmetick
or geometry can serve only to confound; but commerce, considered in its
whole extent, seems to refuse any other method of arrangement, as it
comprises innumerable particulars unconnected with each other, among
which there is no reason why any should be first or last, better than is
furnished by the letters that compose their names.

We cannot, indeed, boast ourselves the inventors of a scheme so
commodious and comprehensive. The French, among innumerable projects for
the promotion of traffick, have taken care to supply their merchants
with a Dictionnaire de Commerce, collected with great industry and
exactness, but too large for common use, and adapted to their own trade.
This book, as well as others, has been carefully consulted, that our
merchants may not be ignorant of any thing known by their enemies or
rivals.

Such, indeed, is the extent of our undertaking, that it was necessary to
solicit every information, to consult the living and the dead. The great
qualification of him that attempts a work thus general is diligence of
inquiry. No man has opportunity or ability to acquaint himself with all
the subjects of a commercial dictionary, so as to describe from his own
knowledge, or assert on his own experience. He must, therefore, often
depend upon the veracity of others, as every man depends in common life,
and have no other skill to boast than that of selecting judiciously, and
arranging properly.

But to him who considers the extent of our subject, limited only by the
bounds of nature and of art, the task of selection and method will
appear sufficient to overburden industry and distract attention. Many
branches of commerce are subdivided into smaller and smaller parts,
till, at last, they become so minute, as not easily to be noted by
observation. Many interests are so woven among each other, as not to be
disentangled without long inquiry; many arts are industriously kept
secret, and many practices, necessary to be known, are carried on in
parts too remote for intelligence.

But the knowledge of trade is of so much importance to a maritime
nation, that no labour can be thought great by which information may be
obtained; and, therefore, we hope the reader will not have reason to
complain, that, of what he might justly expect to find, any thing is
omitted.

To give a detail or analysis of our work is very difficult; a volume
intended to contain whatever is requisite to be known by every trader,
necessarily becomes so miscellaneous and unconnected, as not to be
easily reducible to heads; yet, since we pretend in some measure to
treat of traffick as a science, and to make that regular and
systematical which has hitherto been, to a great degree, fortuitous and
conjectural, and has often succeeded by chance rather than by conduct,
it will be proper to show that a distribution of parts has been
attempted, which, though rude and inadequate, will, at least, preserve
some order, and enable the mind to take a methodical and successive view
of this design.

In the dictionary which we here offer to the publick, we propose to
exhibit the materials, the places, and the means of traffick.

The materials or subjects of traffick are whatever is bought and sold,
and include, therefore, every manufacture of art, and almost every
production of nature.

In giving an account of the commodities of nature, whether those which
are to be used in their original state, as drugs and spices, or those
which become useful when they receive a new form from human art, as
flax, cotton, and metals, we shall show the places of their production,
the manner in which they grow, the art of cultivating or collecting
them, their discriminations and varieties, by which the best sorts are
known from the worse, and genuine from fictitious, the arts by which
they are counterfeited, the casualties by which they are impaired, and
the practices by which the damage is palliated or concealed. We shall,
likewise, show their virtues and uses, and trace them through all the
changes which they undergo.

The history of manufactures is, likewise, delivered. Of every artificial
commodity the manner in which it is made is, in some measure, described,
though it must be remembered, that manual operations are scarce to be
conveyed by any words to him that has not seen them. Some general
notions may, however, be afforded: it is easy to comprehend, that plates
of iron are formed by the pressure of rollers, and bars by the strokes
of a hammer; that a cannon is cast, and that an anvil is forged. But, as
it is to most traders of more use to know when their goods are well
wrought, than by what means, care has been taken to name the places
where every manufacture has been carried furthest, and the marks by
which its excellency may be ascertained.

By the places of trade, are understood all ports, cities, or towns,
where staples are established, manufactures are wrought, or any
commodities are bought and sold advantageously. This part of our work
includes an enumeration of almost all the remarkable places in the
world, with such an account of their situation, customs, and products,
as the merchant would require, who, being to begin a new trade in any
foreign country, was yet ignorant of the commodities of the place, and
the manners of the inhabitants.

But the chief attention of the merchant, and, consequently, of the
author who writes for merchants, ought to be employed upon the means of
trade, which include all the knowledge and practice necessary to the
skilful and successful conduct of commerce.

The first of the means of trade is proper education, which may confer a
competent skill in numbers; to be afterwards completed in the
counting-house, by observation of the manner of stating accounts, and
regulating books, which is one of the few arts which, having been studied
in proportion to its importance, is carried as far as use can require. The
counting-house of an accomplished merchant is a school of method, where
the great science may be learned of ranging particulars under generals,
of bringing the different parts of a transaction together, and of
showing, at one view, a long series of dealing and exchange. Let no man
venture into large business while he is ignorant of the method of
regulating books; never let him imagine that any degree of natural
abilities will enable him to supply this deficiency, or preserve
multiplicity of affairs from inextricable confusion.

This is the study, without which all other studies will be of little
avail; but this alone is not sufficient. It will be necessary to learn
many other things, which, however, may be easily included in the
preparatory institutions, such as an exact knowledge of the weights and
measures of different countries, and some skill in geography and
navigation, with which this book may, perhaps, sufficiently supply him.

In navigation, considered as part of the skill of a merchant, is
included not so much the art of steering a ship, as the knowledge of the
seacoast, and of the different parts to which his cargoes are sent; the
customs to be paid; the passes, permissions, or certificates to be
procured; the hazards of every voyage, and the true rate of insurance.
To this must be added, an acquaintance with the policies and arts of
other nations, as well those to whom the commodities are sold, as of
those who carry goods of the same kind to the same market; and who are,
therefore, to be watched as rivals endeavouring to take advantage of
every errour, miscarriage, or debate.

The chief of the means of trade is money, of which our late refinements
in traffick have made the knowledge extremely difficult. The merchant
must not only inform himself of the various denominations and value of
foreign coins, together with their method of counting and reducing; such
as the milleries of Portugal, and the livres of France; but he must
learn what is of more difficult attainment; the discount of exchanges,
the nature of current paper, the principles upon which the several banks
of Europe are established, the real value of funds, the true credit of
trading companies, with all the sources of profit, and possibilities of
loss.

All this he must learn, merely as a private dealer, attentive only to
his own advantage; but, as every man ought to consider himself as part
of the community to which he belongs, and while he prosecutes his own
interest to promote, likewise, that of his country, it is necessary for
the trader to look abroad upon mankind, and study many questions which
are, perhaps, more properly political than mercantile.

He ought, therefore, to consider very accurately the balance of trade,
or the proportion between things exported and imported; to examine what
kinds of commerce are unlawful, either as being expressly prohibited,
because detrimental to the manufactures or other interest of his
country, as the exportation of silver to the East-Indies, and the
introduction of French commodities; or unlawful in itself, as the
traffick for negroes. He ought to be able to state with accuracy the
benefits and mischiefs of monopolies, and exclusive companies; to
inquire into the arts which have been practised by them to make
themselves necessary, or by their opponents to make them odious. He
should inform himself what trades are declining, and what are
improvable; when the advantage is on our side, and when on that of our
rivals.

The state of our colonies is always to be diligently surveyed, that no
advantage may be lost which they can afford, and that every opportunity
may be improved of increasing their wealth and power, or of making them
useful to their mother country.

There is no knowledge of more frequent use than that, of duties and
impost, whether customs paid at the ports, or excises levied upon the
manufacturer. Much of the prosperity of a trading nation depends upon
duties properly apportioned; so that what is necessary may continue
cheap, and what is of use only to luxury may, in some measure, atone to
the publick for the mischief done to individuals. Duties may often be so
regulated as to become useful even to those that pay them; and they may
be, likewise, so unequally imposed as to discourage honesty, and depress
industry, and give temptation to fraud and unlawful practices.

To teach all this is the design of the Commercial Dictionary; which,
though immediately and primarily written for the merchants, will be of
use to every man of business or curiosity. There is no man who is not,
in some degree, a merchant, who has not something to buy and something
to sell, and who does not, therefore, want such instructions as may
teach him the true value of possessions or commodities.

The descriptions of the productions of the earth and water, which this
volume will contain, may be equally pleasing and useful to the
speculatist with any other natural history; and the accounts of various
manufactures will constitute no contemptible body of experimental
philosophy. The descriptions of ports and cities may instruct the
geographer, as well as if they were found in books appropriated only to
his own science; and the doctrines of funds, insurances, currency,
monopolies, exchanges, and duties, is so necessary to the politician,
that without it he can be of no use either in the council or the senate,
nor can speak or think justly either on war or trade.

We, therefore, hope that we shall not repent the labour of compiling
this work; nor flatter ourselves unreasonably, in predicting a
favourable reception to a book which no condition of life can render
useless, which may contribute to the advantage of all that make or
receive laws, of all that buy or sell, of all that wish to keep or
improve their possessions, of all that desire to be rich, and all that
desire to be wise[2].

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A new Dictionary of Trade and Commerce, compiled from the
    information of the most eminent merchants, and from the works of the
    best writers on commercial subjects in all languages, by Mr. Rolt.
    Folio, 1757.

[2] Of this preface, Mr. Boswell informs us that Dr. Johnson said he
    never saw Rolt, and never read the book. "The booksellers wanted a
    preface to a dictionary of trade and commerce. I knew very well what
    such a dictionary should be, and I wrote a preface accordingly."
    This may be believed; but the book is a most wretched farrago of
    articles plundered without acknowledgment, or judgment, which,
    indeed, was the case with most of Rolt's compilations.




PREFACE
TO THE TRANSLATION OF
FATHER LOBO'S VOYAGE TO ABYSSINIA[1].

The following relation is so curious and entertaining, and the
dissertations that accompany it so judicious and instructive, that the
translator is confident his attempt stands in need of no apology,
whatever censures may fall on the performance.

The Portuguese traveller, contrary to the general vein of his
countrymen, has amused his reader with no romantick absurdities or
incredible fictions: whatever he relates, whether true or not, is at
least probable; and he who tells nothing exceeding the bounds of
probability, has a right to demand that they should believe him who
cannot contradict him.

He appears, by his modest and unaffected narration, to have described
things as he saw them, to have copied nature from the life, and to have
consulted his senses, not his imagination. He meets with no basilisks
that destroy with their eyes; his crocodiles devour their prey without
tears; and his cataracts fall from the rock without deafening the
neighbouring inhabitants.

The reader will here find no regions cursed with irremediable
barrenness, or blest with spontaneous fecundity; no perpetual gloom or
unceasing sunshine; nor are the nations here described either devoid of
all sense of humanity, or consummate in all private and social virtues:
here are no Hottentots without religion, polity, or articulate language;
no Chinese perfectly polite, and completely skilled in all sciences: he
will discover what will always be discovered by a diligent and impartial
inquirer, that wherever human nature is to be found, there is a mixture
of vice and virtue, a contest of passion and reason; and that the
Creator doth not appear partial in his distributions, but has balanced
in most countries their particular inconveniencies by particular
favours.

In his account of the mission, where his veracity is most to be
suspected, he neither exaggerates overmuch the merits of the Jesuits, if
we consider the partial regard paid by the Portuguese to their
countrymen, by the Jesuits to their society, and by the papists to their
church; nor aggravates the vices of the Abyssinians; but if the reader
will not be satisfied with a popish account of a popish mission, he may
have recourse to the history of the church of Abyssinia, written by Dr.
Geddes, in which he will find the actions and sufferings of the
missionaries placed in a different light, though the same in which Mr.
LeGrand, with all his zeal for the Roman church, appears to have seen
them.

This learned dissertator, however valuable for his industry and
erudition, is yet more to be esteemed for having dared so freely, in the
midst of France, to declare his disapprobation of the patriarch Oviedo's
sanguinary zeal, who was continually importuning the Portuguese to beat
up their drums for missionaries who might preach the gospel with swords
in their hands, and propagate, by desolation and slaughter, the true
worship of the God of peace.

It is not easy to forbear reflecting with how little reason these men
profess themselves the followers of JESUS, who left this great
characteristick to his disciples, that they should be known by loving
one another, by universal and unbounded charity and benevolence.

Let us suppose an inhabitant of some remote and superiour region, yet
unskilled in the ways of men, having read and considered the precepts of
the gospel, and the example of our Saviour, to come down in search of
the true church. If he would not inquire after it among the cruel, the
insolent, and the oppressive; among those who are continually grasping
at dominion over souls as well as bodies; among those who are employed
in procuring to themselves impunity for the most enormous villanies, and
studying methods of destroying their fellow-creatures, not for their
crimes, but their errours; if he would not expect to meet benevolence
engage in massacres, or to find mercy in a court of inquisition,--he
would not look for the true church in the church of Rome.

Mr. LeGrand has given, in one dissertation, an example of great
moderation, in deviating from the temper of his religion; but, in the
others, has left proofs, that learning and honesty are often too weak to
oppose prejudice. He has made no scruple of preferring the testimony of
father Du Bernat to the writings of all the Portuguese jesuits, to whom
he allows great zeal, but little learning, without giving any other
reason than that his favourite was a Frenchman. This is writing only to
Frenchmen and to papists: a protestant would be desirous to know, why he
must imagine that father Du Bernat had a cooler head or more knowledge,
and why one man, whose account is singular, is not more likely to be
mistaken than many agreeing in the same account.

If the Portuguese were biassed by any particular views, another bias
equally powerful may have deflected the Frenchman from the truth; for
they evidently write with contrary designs: the Portuguese, to make
their mission seem more necessary, endeavoured to place, in the
strongest light, the differences between the Abyssinian and Roman
church; but the great Ludolfus, laying hold on the advantage, reduced
these later writers to prove their conformity.

Upon the whole, the controversy seems of no great importance to those
who believe the holy Scriptures sufficient to teach the way of
salvation; but, of whatever moment it may be thought, there are no
proofs sufficient to decide it.

His discourses on indifferent subjects will divert, as well as instruct;
and if either in these, or in the relation of father Lobo, any argument
shall appear unconvincing, or description obscure, they are defects
incident to all mankind, which, however, are not rashly to be imputed to
the authors, being sometimes, perhaps, more justly chargeable on the
translator.

In this translation (if it may be so called) great liberties have been
taken, which, whether justifiable or not, shall be fairly confessed, and
let the judicious part of mankind pardon or condemn them.

In the first part, the greatest freedom has been used, in reducing the
narration into a narrow compass; so that it is by no means a
translation, but an epitome, in which, whether every thing either useful
or entertaining be comprised, the compiler is least qualified to
determine.

In the account of Abyssinia, and the continuation, the authors have been
followed with more exactness; and as few passages appeared either
insignificant or tedious, few have been either shortened or omitted.

The dissertations are the only part in which an exact translation has
been attempted; and even in those, abstracts are sometimes given,
instead of literal quotations, particularly in the first; and sometimes
other parts have been contracted.

Several memorials and letters, which are printed at the end of the
dissertations to secure the credit of the foregoing narrative, are
entirely left out.

It is hoped that, after this confession, whoever shall compare this
attempt with the original, if he shall find no proofs of fraud or
partiality, will candidly overlook any failure of judgment.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] This translation was Johnson's first literary production, and was
    published in 1735, with London on the title page, though, according
    to Boswell, it was printed at Birmingham. In the preface and
    dedication, the elegant structure of the sentences, and the harmony
    of their cadence, are such as characterize his maturer works. Here
    we may adopt the words of Mr. Murphy, and affirm that "we see the
    infant Hercules." In the merely translated parts, no vestige of the
    translator's own style appears. For Burke's opinion on the work, see
    Boswell's Life of Johnson, i.; and for Johnson's own, see Boswell,
    iii. In Murphy's Essay on the Life and Genius of Dr. Johnson, there
    is a compendious account of the benevolent travels of the Portuguese
    missionary, who may fairly be called the precursor of Bruce.
    Independent of its intrinsic merits, this translation is interesting
    as illustrative of Johnson's early fondness for voyages and travels;
    the perusal of which, refreshed Gray when weary of heavier labours,
    and were pronounced by Warburton to constitute an important part of
    a philosopher's library.




AN ESSAY ON EPITAPHS[1].
[1] From the Gentleman's Magazine.

Though criticism has been cultivated in every age of learning, by men of
great abilities and extensive knowledge, till the rules of writing are
become rather burdensome than instructive to the mind; though almost
every species of composition has been the subject of particular
treatises and given birth to definitions, distinctions, precepts and
illustrations; yet no critick of note, that has fallen within my
observation, has hitherto thought sepulchral inscriptions worthy of a
minute examination, or pointed out, with proper accuracy, their beauties
and defects.

The reasons of this neglect it is useless to inquire, and, perhaps,
impossible to discover; it might be justly expected that this kind of
writing would have been the favourite topick of criticism, and that
self-love might have produced some regard for it, in those authors that
have crowded libraries with elaborate dissertations upon Homer; since to
afford a subject for heroick poems is the privilege of very few, but
every man may expect to be recorded in an epitaph, and, therefore, finds
some interest in providing that his memory may not suffer by an
unskilful panegyrick.

If our prejudices in favour of antiquity deserve to have any part in the
regulation of our studies, epitaphs seem entitled to more than common
regard, as they are, probably, of the same age with the art of writing.
The most ancient structures in the world, the pyramids, are supposed to
be sepulchral monuments, which either pride or gratitude erected; and
the same passions which incited men to such laborious and expensive
methods of preserving their own memory, or that of their benefactors,
would, doubtless, incline them not to neglect any easier means by which
the same ends might be obtained. Nature and reason have dictated to
every nation, that to preserve good actions from oblivion, is both the
interest and duty of mankind: and, therefore, we find no people
acquainted with the use of letters, that omitted to grace the tombs of
their heroes and wise men with panegyrical inscriptions.

To examine, therefore, in what the perfection of epitaphs consists, and
what rules are to be observed in composing them, will be, at least, of
as much use as other critical inquiries; and for assigning a few hours
to such disquisitions, great examples, at least, if not strong reasons,
may be pleaded.

An epitaph, as the word itself implies, is an inscription on a tomb,
and, in its most extensive import, may admit, indiscriminately, satire
or praise. But as malice has seldom produced monuments of defamation,
and the tombs, hitherto raised, have been the work of friendship and
benevolence, custom has contracted the original latitude of the word, so
that it signifies, in the general acceptation, an inscription engraven
on a tomb in honour of the person deceased.

As honours are paid to the dead, in order to incite others to the
imitation of their excellencies, the principal intention of epitaphs is
to perpetuate the examples of virtue, that the tomb of a good man may
supply the want of his presence, and veneration for his memory produce
the same effect as the observation of his life. Those epitaphs are,
therefore, the most perfect, which set virtue in the strongest light,
and are best adapted to exalt the readers ideas, and rouse his
emulation.

To this end it is not always necessary to recount the actions of a hero,
or enumerate the writings of a philosopher; to imagine such informations
necessary, is to detract from their characters, or to suppose their
works mortal, or their achievements in danger of being forgotten. The
bare name of such men answers every purpose of a long inscription.

Had only the name of Sir Isaac Newton been subjoined to the design upon
his monument, instead of a long detail of his discoveries, which no
philosopher can want, and which none but a philosopher can understand,
those, by whose direction it was raised, had done more honour both to
him and to themselves.

This, indeed, is a commendation which it requires no genius to bestow,
but which can never become vulgar or contemptible, if bestowed with
judgment; because no single age produces many men of merit superiour to
panegyrick. None but the first names can stand unassisted against the
attacks of time; and if men raised to reputation by accident or caprice,
have nothing but their names engraved on their tombs, there is danger
lest, in a few years, the inscription require an interpreter. Thus have
their expectations been disappointed who honoured Picus of Mirandola
with this pompous epitaph:

  Hic situs est PICUS MIRANDOLA, caetera norunt
    Et Tagus et Ganges, forsan et Antipodes.

His name, then celebrated in the remotest corners of the earth, is now
almost forgotten; and his works, then studied, admired, and applauded,
are now mouldering in obscurity.

Next in dignity to the bare name is a short character simple and
unadorned, without exaggeration, superlatives, or rhetorick. Such were
the inscriptions in use among the Romans, in which the victories gained
by their emperours were commemorated by a single epithet; as Cęsar
Germanicus, Cęsar Dacicus, Germanicus, Illyricus. Such would be this
epitaph, ISAACUS NEWTONUS, naturae legibus investigatis, hic quiescit.

But to far the greatest part of mankind a longer encomium is necessary
for the publication of their virtues, and the preservation of their
memories; and, in the composition of these it is, that art is
principally required, and precepts, therefore, may be useful.

In writing epitaphs, one circumstance is to be considered, which affects
no other composition; the place in which they are now commonly found
restrains them to a particular air of solemnity, and debars them from
the admission of all lighter or gayer ornaments. In this, it is that,
the style of an epitaph necessarily differs from that of an elegy. The
customs of burying our dead, either in or near our churches, perhaps,
originally founded on a rational design of fitting the mind for
religious exercises, by laying before it the most affecting proofs of
the uncertainty of life, makes it proper to exclude from our epitaphs
all such allusions as are contrary to the doctrines, for the propagation
of which the churches are erected, and to the end for which those who
peruse the monuments must be supposed to come thither. Nothing is,
therefore, more ridiculous than to copy the Roman inscriptions, which
were engraven on stones by the highway, and composed by those who
generally reflected on mortality only to excite in themselves and others
a quicker relish of pleasure, and a more luxurious enjoyment of life,
and whose regard for the dead extended no farther than a wish that "the
earth might be light upon them."

All allusions to the heathen mythology are, therefore, absurd, and all
regard for the senseless remains of a dead man impertinent and
superstitious. One of the first distinctions of the primitive
Christians, was their neglect of bestowing garlands on the dead, in
which they are very rationally defended by their apologist in Manutius
Felix. "We lavish no flowers nor odours on the dead," says he, "because
they have no sense of fragrance or of beauty." We profess to reverence
the dead, not for their sake, but for our own. It is, therefore, always
with indignation or contempt that I read the epitaph on Cowley, a man
whose learning and poetry were his lowest merits.

  Aurea dum late volitant tua scripta per orbem,
  Et fama eternum vivis, divine poeta,
  Hic placida jaceas requie, custodiat urnam
  Cana fides, vigilenique perenni lampade muse!
  Sit sacer ille locus, nec quis temerarius ausit
  Sacrilega turbare manu venerabile bustum.
  Intacti maneant, maneant per sęcula dulces
  COWLEII cineres, serventque immobile saxum.

To pray that the ashes of a friend may lie undisturbed, and that the
divinities that favoured him in his life may watch for ever round him,
to preserve his tomb from violation, and drive sacrilege away, is only
rational in him who believes the soul interested in the repose of the
body, and the powers which he invokes for its protection able to
preserve it. To censure such expressions, as contrary to religion, or as
remains of heathen superstition, would be too great a degree of
severity. I condemn them only as uninstructive and unaffecting, as too
ludicrous for reverence or grief, for Christianity and a temple.

That the designs and decorations of monuments ought, likewise, to be
formed with the same regard to the solemnity of the place, cannot be
denied; it is an established principle, that all ornaments owe their
beauty to their propriety. The same glitter of dress, that adds graces
to gaiety and youth, would make age and dignity contemptible. Charon
with his boat is far from heightening the awful grandeur of the
universal judgment, though drawn by Angelo himself; nor is it easy to
imagine a greater absurdity than that of gracing the walls of a
Christian temple, with the figure of Mars leading a hero to battle, or
Cupids sporting round a virgin. The pope who defaced the statues of the
deities at the tomb of Sannazarius is, in my opinion, more easily to be
defended, than he that erected them.

It is, for the same reason, improper to address the epitaph to the
passenger, a custom which an injudicious veneration for antiquity
introduced again at the revival of letters, and which, among many
others, Passeratius suffered to mislead him in his epitaph upon the
heart of Henry, king of France, who was stabbed by Clement the monk,
which yet deserves to be inserted, for the sake of showing how beautiful
even improprieties may become in the hands of a good writer.

    Adsta, viator, et dole regum vices.
  Cor regis isto conditur sub marmore,
  Qui jura Gallis, jura Sarmatis dedit;
  Tectus cucullo hunc sustulit sicarius.
    Abi, viator, et dole regum vices.

In the monkish ages, however ignorant and unpolished, the epitaphs were
drawn up with far greater propriety than can be shown in those which
more enlightened times have produced.

  Orate pro anima miserrimi peccatoris,

was an address, to the last degree, striking and solemn, as it flowed
naturally from the religion then believed, and awakened in the reader
sentiments of benevolence for the deceased, and of concern for his own
happiness. There was nothing tr