[Footnote A:  See the essay on Warburton and his disputes in “Quarrels of Authors,”—­ED.]

A ridiculous humility in a preface is not less despicable.  Many idle apologies were formerly in vogue for publication, and formed a literary cant, of which now the meanest writers perceive the futility.  A literary anecdote of the Romans has been preserved, which is sufficiently curious.  One Albinus, in the preface to his Roman History, intercedes for pardon for his numerous blunders of phraseology; observing that they were the more excusable, as he had composed his history in the Greek language, with which he was not so familiar as his maternal tongue.  Cato severely rallies him on this; and justly observes, that our Albinus had merited the pardon he solicits, if a decree of the senate had compelled him thus to have composed it, and he could not have obtained a dispensation.  The avowal of our ignorance of the language we employ is like that excuse which some writers make for composing on topics in which they are little conversant.  A reader’s heart is not so easily mollified; and it is a melancholy truth for literary men that the pleasure of abusing an author is generally superior to that of admiring him.  One appears to display more critical acumen than the other, by showing that though we do not choose to take the trouble of writing, we have infinitely more genius than the author.  These suppliant prefacers are described by Boileau.

  Un auteur a genoux dans une humble preface
  Au lecteur qu’il ennuie a beau demander grace;
  Il ne gagnera rien sur ce juge irrite,
  Qui lui fait son proces de pleine autorite.

  Low in a humble preface authors kneel;
  In vain, the wearied reader’s heart is steel. 
  Callous, that irritated judge with awe,
  Inflicts the penalties and arms the law.

The most entertaining prefaces in our language are those of Dryden; and though it is ill-naturedly said, by Swift, that they were merely formed

  To raise the volume’s price a shilling,

yet these were the earliest commencements of English criticism, and the first attempt to restrain the capriciousness of readers, and to form a national taste.  Dryden has had the candour to acquaint us with his secret of prefatory composition; for in that one to his Tales he says, “the nature of preface-writing is rambling; never wholly out of the way, nor in it.  This I have learnt from the practice of honest Montaigne.”  There is no great risk in establishing this observation as an axiom in literature; for should a prefacer loiter, it is never difficult to get rid of lame persons, by escaping from them; and the reader may make a preface as concise as he chooses.