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the means by which they are effected, there are other circumstancesthat highly aggravate its atrocious quality; for it often proceedsfrom no provocation, and seldom promises itself any reward, unlesssome black and infernal mind may propose a reward in the thoughts ofhaving procured the ruin and misery of another.Shakespear hath nobly touched this vice, when he says--"Who steals my purse steals trash; 't is something, nothing;'Twas mine, 'tis his, and hath been slave to thousands:But he that filches from me my good nameRobs me of that WHICH NOT ENRICHES HIM,BUT MAKES ME POOR INDEED."With all this my good reader will doubtless agree; but much of it willprobably seem too severe, when applied to the slanderer of books. Butlet it here be considered that both proceed from the same wickeddisposition of mind, and are alike void of the excuse of temptation.Nor shall we conclude the injury done this way to be very slight, whenwe consider a book as the author's offspring, and indeed as the childof his brain.The reader who hath suffered his muse to continue hitherto in a virginstate can have but a very inadequate idea of this kind of paternalfondness. To such we may parody the tender exclamation of Macduff,"Alas! Thou hast written no book." But the author whose muse hathbrought forth will feel the pathetic strain, perhaps will accompany mewith tears (especially if his darling be already no more), while Imention the uneasiness with which the big muse bears about her burden,the painful labour with which she produces it, and, lastly, the care,the fondness, with which the tender father nourishes his favourite,till it be brought to maturity, and produced into the world.Nor is there any paternal fondness which seems less to savour ofabsolute instinct, and which may so well be reconciled to worldlywisdom, as this. These children may most truly be called the riches oftheir father; and many of them have with true filial piety fed theirparent in his old age: so that not only the affection, but theinterest, of the author may be highly injured by these slanderers,whose poisonous breath brings his book to an untimely end.Lastly, the slander of a book is, in truth, the slander of the author:for, as no one can call another bastard, without calling the mother awhore, so neither can any one give the names of sad stuff, horridnonsense, &c., to a book, without calling the author a blockhead;which, though in a moral sense it is a preferable appellation to thatof villain, is perhaps rather more injurious to his worldly interest.Now, however ludicrous all this may appear to some, others, I doubtnot, will feel and acknowledge the truth of it; nay, may, perhaps,think I have not treated the subject with decent solemnity; but surelya man may speak truth with a smiling countenance. In reality, todepreciate a book maliciously, or even wantonly, is at least a veryill-natured office; and a morose snarling critic may, I believe, besuspected to be a bad man.I will therefore endeavour, in the remaining part of this chapter, toexplain the marks of this character, and to show what criticism I hereintend to obviate: for I can never be understood, unless by the very