book contains plenty of blemishes, some of them, by the bye, wilful ones,

as the writer will presently show; not one of these, however, has been

detected and pointed out; but the best passages in the book, indeed

whatever was calculated to make the book valuable, have been assailed

with abuse and misrepresentation. The duty of the true critic is to play

the part of a leech, and not of a viper. Upon true and upon malignant

criticism there is an excellent fable by the Spaniard Iriarte. The viper

says to the leech, "Why do people invite your bite, and flee from mine?"

"Because," says the leech, "people receive health from my bite, and

poison from yours." "There is as much difference," says the clever

Spaniard, "between true and malignant criticism, as between poison and

medicine." Certainly a great many meritorious writers have allowed

themselves to be poisoned by malignant criticism; the writer, however, is

not one of those who allow themselves to be poisoned by pseudo-critics;

no! no! he will rather hold them up by their tails, and show the

creatures wriggling, blood and foam streaming from their broken jaws.

First of all, however, he will notice one of their objections. "The book

isn't true," say they. Now one of the principal reasons with those that

have attacked Lavengro for their abuse of it is, that it is particularly

true in one instance, namely, that it exposes their own nonsense, their

love of humbug, their slavishness, their dressings, their goings out,

their scraping and bowing to great people; it is the showing up of

"gentility-nonsense" in Lavengro that has been one principal reason for

raising the above cry; for in Lavengro is denounced the besetting folly

of the English people, a folly which those who call themselves guardians

of the public taste are far from being above. "We can't abide anything

that isn't true!" they exclaim. Can't they? Then why are they so

enraptured with any fiction that is adapted to purposes of humbug, which

tends to make them satisfied with their own proceedings, with their own

nonsense, which does not tell them to reform, to become more alive to

their own failings, and less sensitive about the tyrannical goings on of

the masters, and the degraded condition, the sufferings, and the trials

of the serfs in the star Jupiter? Had Lavengro, instead of being the

work of an independent mind, been written in order to further any of the

thousand and one cants, and species of nonsense prevalent in England, the

author would have heard much less about its not being true, both from

public detractors and private censurers.

"But Lavengro pretends to be an autobiography," say the critics; and here

the writer begs leave to observe, that it would be well for people who

profess to have a regard for truth, not to exhibit in every assertion

which they make a most profligate disregard of it; this assertion of

theirs is a falsehood, and they know it to be a falsehood. In the

preface Lavengro is stated to be a dream; and the writer takes this

opportunity of stating that he never said it was an autobiography; never

authorized any person to say that it was one; and that he has in

innumerable instances declared in public and private, both before and

after the work was published, that it was not what is generally termed an

autobiography: but a set of people who pretend to write criticisms on

books, hating the author for various reasons,--amongst others, because,

having the proper pride of a gentleman and a scholar, he did not, in the

year '43, choose to permit himself to be exhibited and made a zany of in

London, and especially because he will neither associate with, nor curry

favour with, them who are neither gentlemen nor scholars,--attack his

book with abuse and calumny. He is, perhaps, condescending too much when

he takes any notice of such people; as, however, the English public is

wonderfully led by cries and shouts, and generally ready to take part

against any person who is either unwilling or unable to defend himself,

he deems it advisable not to be altogether quiet with those who assail

him. The best way to deal with vipers is to tear out their teeth; and

the best way to deal with pseudo-critics is to deprive them of their

poison-bag, which is easily done by exposing their ignorance. The writer

knew perfectly well the description of people with whom he would have to

do, he therefore very quietly prepared a stratagem, by means of which he

could at any time exhibit them, powerless and helpless, in his hand.

Critics, when they review books, ought to have a competent knowledge of

the subjects which those books discuss.

Lavengro is a philological book, a poem if you choose to call it so. Now,

what a fine triumph it would have been for those who wished to vilify the

book and its author, provided they could have detected the latter

tripping in his philology--they might have instantly said that he was an

ignorant pretender to philology--they laughed at the idea of his taking

up a viper by its tail, a trick which hundreds of country urchins do

every September, but they were silent about the really wonderful part of

the book, the philological matter--they thought philology was his

stronghold, and that it would be useless to attack him there; they of

course would give him no credit as a philologist, for anything like fair

treatment towards him was not to be expected at their hands, but they

were afraid to attack his philology--yet that was the point, and the only

point in which they might have attacked him successfully; he was

vulnerable there. How was this? Why, in order to have an opportunity of

holding up pseudo-critics by the tails, he wilfully spelt various foreign

words wrong--Welsh words, and even Italian words--did they detect these

misspellings? not one of them, even as he knew they would not, and he now

taunts them with ignorance; and the power of taunting them with ignorance

is the punishment which he designed for them--a power which they might

but for their ignorance have used against him. The writer besides

knowing something of Italian and Welsh, knows a little of Armenian

language and literature; but who knowing anything of the Armenian

language, unless he had an end in view, would say, that the word sea in

Armenian is anything like the word tide in English? The word for sea in

Armenian is dzow, a word connected with the Tebetian word for water, and

the Chinese shuy, and the Turkish su, signifying the same thing; but

where is the resemblance between dzow and tide? Again, the word for

bread in ancient Armenian is hats; yet the Armenian on London Bridge is

made to say zhats, which is not the nominative of the Armenian noun for

bread, but the accusative: now, critics, ravening against a man because

he is a gentleman and a scholar, and has not only the power but also the

courage to write original works, why did you not discover that weak

point? Why, because you were ignorant, so here ye are held up! Moreover,

who with a name commencing with Z, ever wrote fables in Armenian? There

are two writers of fables in Armenian--Varthan and Koscht, and

illustrious writers they are, one in the simple, and the other in the

ornate style of Armenian composition, but neither of their names begins

with a Z. Oh, what a precious opportunity ye lost, ye ravening crew, of

convicting the poor, half-starved, friendless boy of the book, of

ignorance or misrepresentation, by asking who with a name beginning with

Z ever wrote fables in Armenian; but ye couldn't help yourselves, ye are

duncie. We duncie! Ay, duncie. So here ye are held up by the tails,

blood and foam streaming from your jaws.

The writer wishes to ask here, what do you think of all this, Messieurs

les Critiques? Were ye ever served so before? But don't you richly

deserve it? Haven't you been for years past bullying and insulting

everybody whom you deemed weak, and currying favour with everybody whom

you thought strong? "We approve of this. We disapprove of that. Oh,

this will never do. These are fine lines!" The lines perhaps some

horrid sycophantic rubbish addressed to Wellington, or Lord So-and-so. To

have your ignorance thus exposed, to be shown up in this manner, and by

whom? A gypsy! Ay, a gypsy was the very right person to do it. But is

it not galling, after all?

"Ah, but _we_ don't understand Armenian, it cannot be expected that _we_

should understand Armenian, or Welsh, or--Hey, what's this? The mighty

_we_ not understand Armenian or Welsh, or--Then why does the mighty _we_

pretend to review a book like Lavengro? From the arrogance with which it

continually delivers itself, one would think that the mighty _we_ is

omniscient; that it understands every language; is versed in every

literature; yet the mighty _we_ does not even know the word for bread in

Armenian. It knows bread well enough by name in England, and frequently

bread in England only by its name, but the truth is, that the mighty

_we_, with all its pretension, is in general a very sorry creature, who,

instead of saying nous disons, should rather say nous dis: Porny in his

"Guerre des Dieux," very profanely makes the three in one say, Je

faisons; now, Lavengro, who is anything but profane, would suggest that

critics, especially magazine and Sunday newspaper critics, should

commence with nous dis, as the first word would be significant of the

conceit and assumption of the critic, and the second of the extent of the

critic's information. The _we_ says its say, but when fawning sycophancy

or vulgar abuse are taken from that say, what remains? Why a blank, a

void like Ginnungagap.

As the writer, of his own accord, has exposed some of the blemishes of

his book--a task, which a competent critic ought to have done--he will

now point out two or three of its merits, which any critic, not

altogether blinded with ignorance might have done, or not replete with

gall and envy would have been glad to do. The book has the merit of

communicating a fact connected with physiology, which in all the pages of

the multitude of books was never previously mentioned--the mysterious

practice of touching objects to baffle the evil chance. The miserable

detractor will, of course, instantly begin to rave about such a habit

being common: well and good; but was it ever before described in print,

or all connected with it dissected? He may then vociferate something

about Johnson having touched:--the writer cares not whether Johnson, who,

by the bye, during the last twenty or thirty years, owing to people

having become ultra Tory mad from reading Scott's novels and the

"Quarterly Review," has been a mighty favourite, especially with some who

were in the habit of calling him a half crazy old fool--touched, or

whether he did or not; but he asks where did Johnson ever describe the

feelings which induced him to perform the magic touch, even supposing

that he did perform it? Again, the history gives an account of a certain