of that science. He confounds _melody_ with _harmony_; the one
consisting in a succession of agreeable sounds, and the other arising
from coexisting sounds. His account of a _tune_ is curious. And we may
say in his own stile, that his dictionary is 'a diversity of _words_ put
together.' His numerous omissions on this head will neither afflict, nor
surprise us; but we must be mortified and amazed to reflect on the
partial and injurious distribution of fame. For his book exhibits in
every page, perhaps without a single exception, a variety of errors and
absurdities. They are clear to the darkest ignorance. They are level to
the lowest understanding, and yet our language is exhausted in praise of
_their_ author. _Pronis animis audiendum!_
Poem. 'The work of a poet; a _metrical_ composition.' Poet. 'An
inventor; an author of fiction; a writer of poems; one who writes in
measure.' Poetess. 'A _she_ poet.' Poetry. '_Metrical_ composition; the
art or practice of writing poems. 2. Poems, poetical pieces.' _To
circumscribe poetry by a_ DEFINITION _will only shew the narrowness of
the definer_[123]. Tragedy. 'A dramatic representation of a _serious_
action.' Comedy. 'A dramatic representation of the _lighter faults_ of
mankind.' Eclogue. 'A pastoral poem, so called, because Virgil called
his pastorals eclogues.' Tragic-comedy. 'A drama compounded of _merry_
and _serious_ events.' Farce. 'A dramatic representation written
_without_ regularity.' Elegy. '1. A mournful song. 2. A funeral song. 3.
A short poem, without points or turns.' Idyl. 'A small short poem.'
Epigram. 'A short poem terminating in a _point_.' Epic, _a._ 'Narrative;
comprising narrations, not acted, but rehearsed. It is usually supposed
to be heroic.' Epistle. 'A letter;' and a letter again is 'an epistle.'
Ode. 'A poem written to be _sung_ to music; a lyric poem.' Ballad. 'A
song.' Song. 'A poem to be _modulated_ by the voice.' Catch. 'A song
sung in _succession_.'
I believe that Dr Johnson has written better verses than any man now
alive in England. He is said to be the first critic in that country,
and therefore we had the highest reason to expect elegant entertainment
and philosophical instruction, when the poet and critic was to speak in
his own character.
But here, as in the rest of this work, the native vigour of his mind
seems entirely to leave him. We look around us in vain for the well
known hand of the Rambler, for the sensible and feeling historian of
Savage, the caustic and elegant imitator of Juvenal, the man of
learning, and taste, and genius. The reader's eye is repelled from the
Doctor's pages, by their hopeless sterility, and their horrid nakedness.
Most of the definitions in this work may be divided into three classes;
the erroneous, oenigmatical, and superfluous. And of the nineteen last
quoted, every one comes under some, or all of these heads.
A poem is said to be the work of a _poet_: And so were Dryden's
prefaces. Again it is _a metrical composition_. No age had ever a
greater profusion of rhimes than the present. In Oxford there are two
thousand persons all of whom can occasionally make verses. Yet in this
abundance of _metrical composition_, we have very few poems.
A poet is--1. '_An inventor_,' but so was Tubal Cain. 2. '_An author of
fiction_,' but so was Des Cartes. 3. '_A writer of poems_;' but as he
has not been able to point out what a poem is, the definition goes for
nothing. 4. 'One who writes _in measure_.' But in Cowley's life, the
Doctor himself speaks of men, who thought they were writing _poetry_,
when they were only writing _verses_. We are still exactly where we set
out.
The third definition is superfluous, and the fourth is very clumsy. The
fifth and sixth are still worse, for comedy[124] is frequently very
_serious_ and tender, as well as tragedy; and that again represents the
_lighter_ faults of mankind, as well as comedy. By the way, what are
these _lighter_ faults, which our comedy is said to represent. In our
comic scenes, adultery, and profaneness, appear to be the chief pulse
of merriment. What the Doctor says of a farce is not true, nor is elegy
_always_ mournful[125]. What can he mean by a poem without points or
turns? An Idyll is a small short poem. An Epigram is a _short_ poem; but
so is an Epitaph, or a Sonnet, and often an Ode, a Fable, &c. An Epigram
terminates in a _point_. Wonderful! Of the rest of these definitions,
the reader will determine whether they be not every one of them pitiful;
and if it was possible for the Doctor, or any other man, to convey
_less_ information, on so plain a subject.
'In comparing this with other dictionaries of the same kind, it will be
found that the senses of each word are more _copiously_ enumerated, and
more _clearly_ explained[126].'
Of his _clear_ and _copious_ explanations, here is an additional
specimen.
Beast. 'An animal distinguished from birds, insects, fishes, and man.'
It is also distinguished from _reptiles_, though the Doctor cannot tell
us _how_. A Reptile is (but sometimes only) '_An animal that creeps upon
many feet_.' A Snail is 'A slimy animal that creeps upon plants.' Many
animals creep on plants besides a Snail. He dare not venture to say that
a Snail is _a Reptile_, for he had said that a Reptile creeps upon many
feet, and a Snail has none. Locke is quoted to prove that a _Bird_ is a
_fowl_, and we are edified by hearing that a _fowl_ is a '_bird_, or a
_winged_ animal.' But this may be the butterfly, the bat, or the flying
fish. He should have said a _feathered_ animal. We are informed from
Creech and Shakespeare, that a fish is _an animal that inhabits the
water_. But besides amphibious animals, from the crocodile down to the
water-mouse, we have seen _Erucae Aquaticae_, or Water Caterpillars, which
are truly aquatic animals, yet are perfectly different from all fish.
Insects are 'so called from a separation in the middle of their bodies,
whereby they they are cut into two parts, which are joined together by a
small ligature, as we see in common flies.'
_Quere._ How many insects answer this description?
Dr. Johnson had certainly no great occasion to quote Peacham and Swift
before he durst tell us, (as he does) that a _Lily_ is a _flower_, and
_Posteriors_ the _hinder_ parts. He forgot to introduce the Dean when
affirming, that a T----d is _excrement_; but both Pope and Swift (among
others) are cited for P--ss and F--t.
His learning and his ignorance amaze us in every page. Pox are, '1.
_Pustules_; _efflorescencies_; _exanthematous_ eruptions. 2. The
venereal disease.' A particular species of it _only_. The first part of
this _clear_ explanation would puzzle every old woman in England, though
most of them know more of small pox than the Rambler himself.
Day. '1. The time between the rising and the setting of the sun, called
the _artificial_ day. 2. The time from noon to noon, called the
_natural_ day.' Natural. 'What is produced by nature,' therefore as the
day from sunrise to sunset is 'produced by nature,' _that_, and that
only, must be the _natural_ day. Artificial. 'Made by _art_, not
natural, fictitious, not genuine.' The day from noon to noon is
certainly _not_ natural, and of consequence, _that_, and that only, must
be the _artificial_ day.
Night is, '1. The time of darkness. 2. The time between sunset, and
sunrise.' When the Doctor acquires the first elements of geography, he
will learn, that in no climate of the world is the time between sunset
and sunrise all of it a time of _darkness_. Even at the equator, night
does not succeed till half an hour after sunset. If he has ever seen the
sun rise here, he must also have seen that we have always day light long
before the sun appears. In June our nights are never entirely dark.
Neither is _night_, when it really comes on, constantly the 'time of
darkness,' for the Doctor may frequently see to read his own mistakes by
moonshine. Of this profound period, the first part contradicts the
second, and every body sees the absurdity of both. What are we to think
of such a definer of 'scientific terms,' when his errors have not even
the negative merit of consistency.
Snowbroth, _s._ (_snow_ and _broth_) 'very cold liquor.' And Shakespeare
is quoted; but when the poet said[127] that the blood of an old courtier
was as cold as _Snowbroth_, he meant _melted snow_. Now it is somewhat
odd that every body can see Shakespeare's idea exactly, except this
learned commentator. Lion. 'The fiercest and most magnanimous of
four-footed beasts.' But fierceness cannot consist with
magnanimity[128]. Other animals exceed the Lion in fierceness; and a
Horse, an Elephant, or a Dog, equal his magnanimity. This definition
contains nothing but a glaring contradiction, of which neither end is
true! Thunder 'Thunder is a most _bright flame_ rising on a sudden,
moving with great violence, and with a very _rapid_ velocity, through
the air, _according_ to any determination, and commonly ending with a
loud noise or rattling.' _Shakespeare._ _Milton._
It is needless to say that the learned and ingenious Pensioner has
confounded thunder with lightning. The inelegance and tautology of this
definition I pass by; but why should he profane the names of Milton and
Shakespeare to support such monstrous nonsense?
Stone. 'Stones are bodies insipid, hard, not _ductile_ or _malleable_,
nor _soluble_ in water.' This definition answers wood, or glass, or the
bones of an animal. One. 'Less than two; single; denoted by an unit.'
_Raleigh._
Without consulting Raleigh, we know that a man may have 'less than
_two_' guineas in his pocket, and yet have more than _one_. But still we
are not sure, that he has even a single farthing. One is _single_, but
we are only where we started, for _single_ (_more Lexiphanico_) is
'_one_, not double; not more than one.' The matter is little mended,
when he subjoins that one is _that which is expressed by an unit_, for
this may be the numerator of _any_ fraction. Take his book to pieces,
put it into the scales of common sense, and see how it kicks the beam.
A circle is, '1. A line continued till it ends where it began. 2. The
space inclosed in a _circular_ line. 3. A round body, an orb.'
The first of these definitions does not distinguish a circle from a
triangle, or any other plain figure. He might have found a circle
properly defined in Euclid, and a hundred other books. What are we to
think of the rest of his mathematical definitions? Well, but he clears
up this point, for a circle is 'the _space inclosed_ in a _circular_
line,' The third definition is no less erroneous than the second, for if
a man were to mention the circle of the earth, we could not suspect that
he meant the globe itself.
Botany and the electrical fluid, are not inserted. Electricity he terms
_a property_ in bodies. From this expression, and from all he says on
the subject, we can ascertain his ignorance of that most curious and
important branch of natural philosophy. _Electricity_ in general
signifies 'the operations of a very subtile fluid, commonly invisible,
but sometimes the object of our sight and other senses. It is one of the
chief agents employed in producing the phaenomena of nature.' Its
identity with lightning was discovered in 1752, three years before the
publication of Dr. Johnson's folio dictionary. For the author then to
talk of it as 'a _peculiar_ property, supposed once to belong chiefly to
amber,' is shameful. It shews us the depth of his learning, and the
degree of attention which he thought proper to bestow on his _great_
work.
Elasticity. 'Force in bodies, by which they endeavour to _restore_
themselves.' To what? To their former figure, after some external
pressure? And without adding some words like these the definition
conveys no meaning.
Of Water, we get a very long winded account, which neither Dr. Johnson
nor any body else can comprehend, for he sinks into mere jargon. Canst
thou conceive (gentle reader) what are 'small, _smooth_, hard, _porous_,
spherical particles' of water! _Water_, says Newton, 'is a fluid
tasteless salt, which nature changes by heat, into vapour, and by cold
into ice, which is a hard fusible brittle stone, and this stone returns
into water by heat[129].' Boerhaave calls water, 'a kind of glass that
melts at a heat any thing greater than 32 degrees of Farenheit's
thermometer. The boundary between water and ice[130].'
Claw. 'The _foot_ of a beast or bird armed with sharp nails.' Nail. 'The
talons of birds or beasts.' Talon. 'The claw of a bird of prey.' _Dict.
4th edit._
Here a _nail_ is _talons_; Talons are a _claw_; and a claw is said to be
a _foot_ (alias a _nail_) armed with _nails_. The quotations are literal
and complete. The words are all plain English. And if you cannot
comprehend _a nail armed with nails_, wait upon Dr. Johnson, and perhaps
he will explain it.
Legion. 'A body of Roman soldiers, consisting of about _five_ thousand.'
This is not accurate. The number of men in a Roman legion rose by
degrees from about 3200 to about 7000.
Decemvirate. 'The dignity and office of the _ten_ governors of Rome.'
Tribune. 'An officer of Rome chosen by the people.' Censor. 'An officer
of Rome, who had the power of correcting manners.' Consul. 'The chief
magistrate in the Roman republic.'
Wherein did the Decemviri differ from the King, the Consul, the
Dictator, the Triumvir, the Military Tribune, the Caesar, and the
Emperor, for all these were likewise 'Governors of Rome?' The Decemviri
were also an inferior set of men appointed to take care of the Sybil's
books, to conduct colonies, &c. So that this definition is very
incompleat. A Tribune was 'chosen by the people.' But this does not
distinguish him from many other magistrates. The Censor had 'the power
of correcting manners;' but he had other powers beside that, and every
magistrate had that power as well as he, though it was a province more
peculiarly his. The Censor is an officer still known in Venice, and in
countries where the liberty and abuse of the press are unknown, the
licensers of books are called Censors, though the Doctor does not give
us these two explanations of the word. A Consul is 'the chief magistrate
in the Roman republic.' He was a magistrate long after the republic was
dissolved; for Caligula made his horse a Consul! But tho' the Consul was
commonly _one_ of the chief magistrates in Rome, he was never the
_chief_, as the Doctor roundly expresses it, for he had always a
colleague. The Censor was at least his equal, and the Dictator was by
law his superior. What we learn of the Centurion, the Triumvir, and the
Lictor, is very trifling. Innumerable words which puzzle the plain
reader of a Roman historian are wanting, such as an AEdile, a Praetor, a
Quaestor, a Caesar, a Military Tribune, the Hastati, Principes, Triarii,
Velites, the Labarum, or Imperial Standard, the Balistae, the Balearians,
&c. A _Maniple_ is 'a small band of soldiers.' And a Cohort is 'a troop
of soldiers, containing about 500 foot.' A Cohort was in general the
tenth part of the foot in a Roman Legion, consequently their number
varied, and the Praetorian Cohort, or that to which the standard was
intrusted, contained, at least in latter ages, many more men than any of
the rest. But in the very page where this concise author thus blunders
about a Cohort, he takes care to tell us, that _Coition_, is
_copulation_; _the act of generation_. That cold is '_not hot_, not
warm, chill, having sense of cold, having cold qualities.' That _coldly_
is '_without heat_.' that coldness is '_want of heat_;' and a heap of
similar jargon. Blot. 'A blur.' Blur. 'A blot.'
The Doctor's admirers will answer, that in so large a work there was no
room for full definitions. I reply, that his account of Whipgrafting, of
Will-with-a-Wisp, of a Wood-louse, and of the Stool of Repentance, are
very full; that if he was to say no more of a Roman Consul, he should
have said nothing at all; but that there are other books of the same
kind, and of half the price too, which find room for copious and useful
definitions. Pardon's dictionary is not much less than the Doctor's
octavo, though its price is only six shillings; (7th edition) and of
many useful articles, such as the Roman Legion, there is a very clear
and full explanation. Besides which, it contains a description of the
counties, the cities, and the market towns in England; and in the end of
the book there is inserted a list of near 7000 proper names, none of
which are to be found in the Doctor's dictionary. With what then has Dr.
Johnson filled his book? With words of his own coining, with roots, and
authorities often ridiculous, and always useless; or with definitions
impertinent and erroneous. A Bashaw he calls 'the viceroy of a
province;' and he might as well have said that every man in England is
six feet high. A Condoler is 'one who _compliments_ another upon his
misfortunes.'
From the Rambler's _accurate_ and _profound_ knowledge of anatomy, we
must form very high expectations as to his knowledge of medicine, and we
are not disappointed; for ARTHRITIS is 'the Gout' and the GOUT is
'Arthritis; a _periodical_ disease attended with great pain.' The first
part of this definition is not true; and the second will not distinguish
the Gout from the Gravel, the Tooth-ach, &c. &c. GRAVEL is 'sandy matter
concreted in the kidneys,' and as often in the bladder too. His account
of a Gonnorhoea is no less incomplete. A _Headach_ is 'a pain in the
head.' _Jaundice_ is 'a distemper from obstructions of the glands of the
liver, which prevent the gall being duly separated from the blood.' The
Doctor seems to have borrowed his system of anatomy from the antients;
for the moderns have discovered that the liver (which he ingeniously
calls 'one of the entrails') is itself an indivisible gland. The
Jaundice arises from an obstruction in the biliary ducts. Tympany is 'a
kind of obstructed _flatulence_, that swells the body like a drum.'
_Flatulence_ is not inserted; but Flatulency is said to be 'windiness;
fulness of wind.' And what does he mean by an obstructed fullness of
wind, or by his elegant simile of a drum? His descriptions of the
Rickets, Rupture, Rheumatism, Scrophula, Dropsy, Scurvy, &c. are equally
perspicuous and perfect. The Doctor had no great occasion to attest,
that '_the_ English dictionary was written with little assistance of the
_learned_[131].' For in almost every department of learning, from
astronomy down to the first principles of grammar, his ignorance seems
amazing. His book is a mass of words without ideas. Through the whole
there runs a radical corruption of truth and common sense. It is most
astonishing that the _Idler_ has hardly ever been attacked in this
quarter by any of his innumerable invidious and inveterate enemies.
I anticipate the answer of his admirers, viz. That 'the _nature_ of his
work did not admit of a copious explanation for every word.' But let
them first tell why he gave such a strange jumble of quotations, to
support a word of which he himself knows not the meaning, and are we to
be told that the _nature_ of _any_ work whatever, can entitle its author
to write nonsense, or to write on a subject of which he knows nothing.
Indeed the Doctor himself has repeatedly declared, that his book is
deformed by a profusion of errors, and those who decline to credit my
assertion, ought, PERHAPS, to credit _his own_. He says, '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_[132], be _frequently
entangled_, &c.[133]' Here is a beautiful confession, which he
afterwards recants: for 'despondency has never so far prevailed, as to
depress me to _negligence_,' &c.[134] But his recantation is in effect
immediately _re-recanted_, and we are informed, 'That 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[135].' That this distrust
of his own merit did not arise from want of pride or vanity we discover
within a few lines: For 'in this work' (_the_ English dictionary, as its
author modestly terms it) 'when it shall be found that _much is
omitted_, let it not be forgotten that _much_ likewise _is performed_.
If our language is not here fully displayed, I have only failed in an
attempt, which no human powers have hitherto completed.--I may surely be
contented without the praise of perfection, which _if_ I could obtain,
in this gloom of solitude' (_London_, or its neighbourhood) 'what would
it avail me[136]?' And again, 'I have devoted this book, the labour of
years, to the honour of my country[137].' _Item._ 'I cannot but have
some degree of parental fondness.' But after all this parental fondness,
this zeal for the honour of his country, the Doctor's extraordinary
preface concludes in perhaps the most extraordinary language that ever
flowed from an author's pen. 'Success and miscarriage are _empty
sounds_, I therefore dismiss it' (his dictionary) 'with frigid
tranquillity, having little to fear or _hope_ from censure, or from
praise.' All this is surely despicable. The booksellers had paid their
workman on the nail, or the Doctor would have had something to hope and
fear. But an honest and sensible tradesman, though paid before-hand,
will always wish and endeavour to please his employers. From this
writer's own words, it would appear that he is incapable of a sentiment
so generous.
Bawd 'A Procurer, or Procuress.' To bawd, _v. n._ 'To procure.' Bawdily
(from _bawdy_) 'obscenely.' Bawdiness (from _bawdy_) 'obsceneness.'
Bawdry, _s._ '1. A wicked practise of procuring and bringing whores and
_rogues_ together. 2. Obscenity.' Bawdy, _a._ (from _bawdy_) 'Obscene,
unchaste.' Bawdyhouse. 'A house where traffic is made by wickedness and
debauchery.' Baggage. 'A worthless woman.' Bitch. '1. The female of the
_canine_ kind. 2. A name of reproach for a woman.' Blackguard[138]. 'A
dirty fellow.' Block. 'A Blockhead.' Blockhead. 'A stupid fellow; a
dolt; a man without parts,' Blunderer. 'A blockhead.' Blockhead 'A
stupid fellow' Bloodletter. '_A Phlebotomist._' Suds. '_A Lixivium_ of
soap and water.' Sun. 'The luminary that makes the day.'
_The_ English dictionary is prodigiously defective--_Nervi desunt._ It
has no force of thought. This wilderness of words displays a mind,
patient, but almost incapable of reasoning; ignorant, but oppressed by a
load of frivolous ideas; proud of its own powers, but languishing in the
last stage of hopeless debility. We have long extolled it with the
wildest luxuriance of adulation, and we pretend to despise the
worshippers of _the golden calf_.
No man has done more honour to England, than Mr Locke. What would he
have said or thought, had Dr Johnson's dictionary been published in his
days? We can easily determine his opinion from several passages in his
works. I select the following, because it is both short and decisive;
and he who feels any respect for Mr Locke will retain little for the
author of the Rambler. His words are these: 'If any one asks _what this
solidity is_[139], I send him to his senses to inform him. Let him put a
flint, or a football between his hands, and then endeavour to join them
_and he will know_. If he thinks this not a sufficient explication of
_solidity_, what it is, and wherein it consists, I promise to tell him,
what it is, and wherein it consists, when he tells me, what _thinking_
is, or wherein it consists, or explains to me what _extension_ or
_motion_ is, which perhaps seems much easier. The simple ideas we have
are such as experience teaches them us; but _if, beyond that, we
endeavour by words to make them clearer_ in the mind, we shall succeed
no better, than if we went about to clear up the darkness of a blind
man's mind by talking, and discourse into him the ideas of light and
colours[140].'