'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[18].' The Doctor has not given a fair quotation from Swift. One would imagine that Swift had proposed to retain every word which is to be found in any of our popular authors, but he neither said nor meant any such thing. His words are these: 'They' (the members of the proposed society) 'will find many words _that deserve to be utterly thrown out of our language_!' And the Dean says nothing afterwards which infers a contradiction[19]. In his account of Lyttleton, the Doctor's good nature is evident. He speaks not a word as to the merit of the history of Henry II. but--'It was published with such anxiety as only _vanity_ can dictate.' We are next entertained with a page of dirty anecdotes concerning its publication, which the Doctor seems to have picked up from some printer's journeyman. 'The Persian Letters have something of that indistinct and headstrong ardour for liberty which a man of genius _always_ catches when he enters the world, and _always_ suffers to cool as he passes forward.' Of the admired monody to the memory of Lady Lyttleton, we are told only that it is _long_. 'His dialogues of the dead were very eagerly read, tho' the production rather, as it seems of leisure than of study, rather effusions than compositions. The names of his persons too often enable the reader to anticipate their conversation; and when they have met, they too often part without a conclusion.' These remarks apply with peculiar justice to Dr Johnson's dictionary, for that work is an _effusion_ rather than a _composition_. His reader is for the most part able to anticipate his definitions, and they generally end without conclusion. Lord Lyttleton's poems 'have _nothing_ to be _despised_ and _little_ to be _admired_.' But here, as usual, the Doctor contradicts himself, and in the very next line 'of his Progress of Love, _it is sufficient blame to say_ that it is pastoral. His blank verse in Blenheim has neither much force, nor much elegance. His little performances, whether songs or epigrams, are sometimes spritely, and sometimes _insipid_'--and of course _despicable_. The candid and accurate author of the Rambler has forgot the existence of that beautiful blossom of sensibility, that pure effusion of friendship, the prologue to Coriolanus.