The insincerity of prefaces arises whenever an author would disguise his solicitude for his work, by appearing negligent, and even undesirous of its success.  A writer will rarely conclude such a preface without betraying himself.  I think that even Dr. Johnson forgot his sound dialectic in the admirable Preface to his Dictionary.  In one part he says, “having laboured this work with so much application, I cannot but have some degree of parental fondness.”  But in his conclusion he tells us, “I dismiss it with frigid tranquillity, having little to fear or hope from censure or from praise.”  I deny the doctor’s “frigidity.”  This polished period exhibits an affected stoicism, which no writer ever felt for the anxious labour of a great portion of life, addressed not merely to a class of readers, but to literary Europe.

But if prefaces are rarely sincere or just, they are, notwithstanding, literary opuscula in which the author is materially concerned.  A work with a poor preface, like a person who comes with an indifferent recommendation, must display uncommon merit to master our prejudices, and to please us, as it were, in spite of ourselves.  Works ornamented by a finished preface, such as Johnson not infrequently presented to his friends or his booksellers, inspire us with awe; we observe a veteran guard placed in the porch, and we are induced to conclude from this appearance that some person of eminence resides in the place itself.

The public are treated with contempt when an author professes to publish his puerilities.  This Warburton did, in his pompous edition of Shakspeare.  In the preface he informed the public, that his notes “were among his younger amusements, when he turned over these sort of writers.” This ungracious compliment to Shakspeare and the public, merited that perfect scourging which our haughty commentator received from the sarcastic “Canons of Criticism."[A] Scudery was a writer of some genius, and great variety.  His prefaces are remarkable for their gasconades.  In his epic poem of Alaric, he says, “I have such a facility in writing verses, and also in my invention, that a poem of double its length would have cost me little trouble.  Although it contains only eleven thousand lines, I believe that longer epics do not exhibit more embellishments than mine.”  And to conclude with one more student of this class, Amelot de la Houssaie, in the preface to his translation of “The Prince” of Machiavel, instructs us, that “he considers his copy as superior to the original, because it is everywhere intelligible, and Machiavel is frequently obscure.”  I have seen in the play-bills of strollers, a very pompous description of the triumphant entry of Alexander into Babylon; had they said nothing about the triumph, it might have passed without exciting ridicule; and one might not so maliciously have perceived how ill the four candle-snuffers crawled as elephants, and the triumphal car discovered its want of a lid.  But having pre-excited attention, we had full leisure to sharpen our eye.  To these imprudent authors and actors we may apply a Spanish proverb, which has the peculiar quaintness of that people, Aviendo pregonado vino, venden vinagre: “Having cried up their wine, they sell us vinegar.”