 the Abhorrence which he deserves, and I am more
afraid to assign the Reason of this criminal Lenity shewn towards him; yet it is
certain that the Thief looks innocent in the Comparison; nay, the Murderer
himself can seldom stand in Competition with his Guilt: For Slander is a more
cruel Weapon than a Sword, as the Wounds which the former gives are always
incurable. One Method, indeed, there is of killing, and that the basest and most
execrable of all, which bears an exact Analogy to the Vice here disclaimed
against, and that is Poison. A Means of Revenge so base, and yet so horrible,
that it was once wisely distinguished by our Laws from all other Murders, in the
peculiar Severity of the Punishment.
    Besides the dreadful Mischiefs done by Slander, and the Baseness of the
Means by which they are effected, there are other Circumstances that highly
aggravate its atrocious Quality: For it often proceeds from no Provocation, and
seldom promises itself any Reward, unless some black and infernal Mind may
propose a Reward in the Thoughts of having procured the Ruin and Misery of
another.
    Shakespear hath nobly touched this Vice, when he says,
 
Who steals my Purse steals Trash, 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and hath been Slave to Thousands:
But he that filches from me my good Name,
Robs 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 will probably
seem too severe, when applied to the Slanderer of Books. But let it here be
considered, that both proceed from the same wicked Disposition of Mind, and are
alike void of the Excuse of Temptation. Nor shall we conclude the Injury done
this Way to be very slight, when we consider a Book as the Author's Offspring,
and indeed as the Child of his Brain.
    The Reader who hath suffered his Muse to continue hitherto in a Virgin
State, can have but a very inadequate Idea of this Kind of paternal Fondness. To
such we may parody the tender Exclamation of Macduff. Alas! Thou hast written no
Book. But the Author whose Muse hath brought forth, will feel the pathetic
Strain, perhaps will accompany me with Tears (especially if his Darling be
already no more) while I mention 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
