 Part 2 of Preface to the Dictionary, by Samuel Johnson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. A Preface to the Dictionary, from A Dictionary of the English Language by Samuel Johnson. Part 2. In 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 lesses in the twelve tables means a funeral song or morning garment, and Aristotle doubts whether aureus in the Iliad signifies a mule or mule tear, I may freely, without shame, leave some obscurities to happier industry or future information. The rigor of interpretive lexicography requires that the explanation and the word explained should always be reciprocal. This I have always endeavored, 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. Kendred 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 labors 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 commicture 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 Ardor 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 commogiously 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. These equally easy in themselves are not all equally easy to any single mind. Every writer of a long work commits errors, 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 sepulcher or interment, drier into desiccative, dryness into sissity 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 endeavored frequently to join a Teutonic 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 first I 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 chemists complete processes, from devines 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 is the most important part of my work, and the most important part 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 labor of verbal searches, and interspersed with vergera and flowers, the dusty deserts of barren philology. The examples thus mutilated are no longer to be considered as conveying the sentiments or doctrines of their authors. The word for the sake of which they are inserted, with all its appendent clauses, has been carefully preserved, but it may sometimes happen by hasty detrunkation 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, imminent 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 strupulousness 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 co-temporaries 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 admissions for a favorite name. So far have I been from any care to grace my pages with modern decorations that I have studiously endeavored 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 Teutonic character and deviating towards a Gaelic structure and phraseology, from which it ought to be our endeavor to recall it by making our ancient volumes the groundwork 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 and decedent 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 Spencer and Sidney, and the diction of common life from Shakespeare, few ideas would be lost 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 tenor 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 charred with superflates. Those quotations which, too careless or unskillful perusers appear only to repeat the same sense, will often exhibit, to a more accurate examiner, diversities of signification, 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 determinant. The word, how often so ever 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 thought's indiction 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 endeavored to direct the choice. Thus have I labored to settle the orthography, display the analogy, regulate the structures, and ascertain 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 or attention it may exhibit, is yet capable of many improvements. The orthography, which I recommend, is still controversial. 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 subtlety 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 purported 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 everyone whose fancy is active, and whose views are comprehensive, nor is any man satisfied with himself because he has done much, and 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, the obscure recesses of northern learning, which I should enter and ransack, the treasures with which I expected every search into those neglected minds to reward my labor, 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 Peru's 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 encumbrance than assistance. By this I obtained at least one advantage, that I set limits to my work which would in time be finished, 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 subtle 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 ever shall be accurately compiled or skillfully examined. Some senses, however, there are, which, though not the same, are yet so clearly 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 favorable accident or easy inquiry brought within my reach has not been neglected, but it had been a hopeless labor to glean up words by courting living information and contesting with the sullenness of one and the roughness of the other. To furnish the academicians de la Cruzca, with words of this kind, a series of comedies called La Fiera, or the fair, was professedly written by Buenarati. 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 forebore 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 see, unexamplified. 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 labor, 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 labored 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 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 sub-lunary nature, or clear the world at once from folly, vanity, and affectation. With his 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 subtle 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 Amalot's translation of Father Paul is observed by Le Corrier to be un peu passé, and no Italian will maintain that the diction of any modern writer is not perceptibly different from that of Bocasse, Machiavelle, or Cairo. 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 superior 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, that they 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 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 conveniences of life, either without books, or like some of the Mahometan countries with very few. Men thus busied and unlearned it, 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 labor 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 Cordier's Zenith, or the eccentric Frichu of a wild hero, and the Physician of Sanguine Expectations and Phlegmatic Delays. Copiousness of speech will give opportunities to capricious choice, by which some words will be preferred and others degraded. Vecissitudes 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 use. Pronunciation will be varied by levity or ignorance, and the pen must at length comply with the tongue. Eliterate writers will, at one time or other, by public 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 by disuse become unfamiliar, and by unfamiliarity unpleasing. 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 or negligence, refinement or affectation will uptrude borrowed terms and exotic 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 fabric 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 dependence multiplied, hope the spirit of English liberty will hinder or destroy, let them, instead of compiling grammars and dictionaries, endeavor 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. In hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature forbids to be immortal, I have devoted this book, The Labor of Years, to the honor of my country, that we may no longer yield the palm of philology to the nations of the continent. The chief glory of every people arises from its authors. Whether I shall add anything 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 laborers afford light to the repositories of science and add celebrity to bacon, to hooker, to Milton, and to boil. 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 endeavored 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 in 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 diligence, 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 tomorrow. 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 preceded 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 academic bowers, but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow. And 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 cooperating diligence of the Italian academicians did not secure them from the censure of Benny, if the embodied critics 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 wish 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. The Preface to the Dictionary of English Read for LibriVox by Denis Ayers in Modesto, California, Fall 2007