CHAPTER IX--PSEUDO-CRITICS
A certain set of individuals calling themselves critics have attacked'Lavengro' with much virulence and malice. If what they call criticismhad been founded on truth, the author would have had nothing to say. Thebook contains plenty of blemishes, some of them, by-the-by, wilful ones,as the writer will presently show; not one of these, however, has beendetected and pointed out; but the best passages in the book, indeed,whatever was calculated to make the book valuable, have been assailedwith abuse and misrepresentation. The duty of the true critic is to playthe part of a leech, and not of a viper. Upon true and upon malignantcriticism there is an excellent fable by the Spaniard Iriarte. The vipersays to the leech, 'Why do people invite your bite, and flee from mine?''Because,' says the leech, 'people receive health from my bite, andpoison from yours.' 'There is as much difference,' says the cleverSpaniard, 'between true and malignant criticism as between poison andmedicine.' Certainly a great many meritorious writers have allowedthemselves to be poisoned by malignant criticism; the writer, however, isnot 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 thecreatures wriggling, blood and foam streaming from their broken jaws.First of all, however, he will notice one of their objections. 'The bookisn't true,' say they. Now one of the principal reasons with those thathave attacked 'Lavengro' for their abuse of it is, that it isparticularly true in one instance, namely, that it exposes their ownnonsense, their love of humbug, their slavishness, their dressings, theirgoings out, their scraping and bowing to great people; it is the showingup of 'gentility nonsense' in 'Lavengro' that has been one principalreason for the raising of the above cry; for in 'Lavengro' is denouncedthe besetting folly of the English people, a folly which those who callthemselves guardians of the public taste are far from being above. 'Wecan't abide anything that isn't true!' they exclaim. Can't they? Thenwhy are they so enraptured with any fiction that is adapted to purposesof humbug, which tends to make them satisfied with their own proceedings,with their own nonsense, which does not tell them to reform, to becomemore alive to their own failings, and less sensitive about the tyrannicalgoings on of the masters, and the degraded condition, the sufferings, andthe trials of the serfs, in the star Jupiter? Had 'Lavengro,' instead ofbeing the work of an independent mind, been written in order to furtherany of the thousand and one cants, and species of nonsense prevalent inEngland, 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,' {360} say the critics;and here the writer begs leave to observe, that it would be well forpeople who profess to have a regard for truth, not to exhibit in everyassertion which they make a most profligate disregard of it; thisassertion 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 takesthis 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 ininnumerable instances declared in public and private, both before andafter the work was published, that it was not what is generally termed anautobiography; but a set of people who pretend to write criticisms onbooks, hating the author for various reasons--amongst others, because,having the proper pride of a gentleman and a scholar, he did not, in theyear 1843, choose to permit himself to be exhibited and made a zany of inLondon, and especially because he will neither associate with, nor curryfavour with, them who are neither gentlemen nor scholars--attack his bookwith abuse and calumny. He is, perhaps, condescending too much when hetakes any notice of such people; as, however, the English public iswonderfully led by cries and shouts, and generally ready to take partagainst any person who is either unwilling or unable to defend himself,he deems it advisable not to be altogether quiet with those who assailhim. The best way to deal with vipers is to tear out their teeth; andthe best way to deal with pseudo-critics is to deprive them of theirpoison-bag, which is easily done by exposing their ignorance. The writerknew perfectly well the description of people with whom he would have todo, he therefore very quietly prepared a stratagem, by means of which hecould at any time exhibit them, powerless and helpless in his hand.Critics, when they review books, ought to have a competent knowledge ofthe subjects which those books discuss.
'Lavengro' is a philological book, a poem if you chose to call it so.Now, what a fine triumph it would have been for those who wished tovilify the book and its author, provided they could have detected thelatter tripping in his philology--they might have instantly said that hewas an ignorant pretender to philology--they laughed at the idea of histaking up a viper up by its tail, a trick which hundreds of countryurchins do every September, but they were silent about the reallywonderful part of the book, the philological matter--they thoughtphilology was his stronghold, and that it would be useless to attack himthere; they of course would give him no credit as a philologist, foranything like fair treatment towards him was not to be expected at theirhands, but they were afraid to attack his philology--yet that was thepoint, and the only point, in which they might have attacked himsuccessfully; he was vulnerable there. How was this? Why, in order tohave an opportunity of holding up pseudo-critics by the tails, hewilfully spelt various foreign words wrong--Welsh words, and even Italianwords--did they detect these mis-spellings? Not one of them, even as heknew they would not, and he now taunts them with ignorance; and the powerof taunting them with ignorance is the punishment which he designed forthem--a power which they might, but for their ignorance, have usedagainst him. The writer, besides knowing something of Italian and Welsh,knows a little of Armenian language and literature; but who, knowinganything of the Armenian language, unless he had an end in view, wouldsay that the word for sea in Armenian is anything like the word tide inEnglish? The word for sea in Armenian is dzow, a word connected with theTebetian word for water, and the Chinese shuy, and the Turkish su,signifying the same thing; but where is the resemblance between dzow andtide? Again, the word for bread in ancient Armenian is hats; yet theArmenian on London Bridge is made to say zhats, which is not thenominative 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 not you discover that weak point? Why, because you wereignorant; so here ye are held up! Moreover, who with a name commencingwith Z, ever wrote fables in Armenian? There are two writers of fablesin Armenian--Varthan and Koscht, and illustrious writers they are, one inthe simple and the other in the ornate style of Armenian composition, butneither of their names begins with a Z. Oh, what a precious opportunityye lost, ye ravening crew, of convicting the poor, half-starved,friendless boy of the book, of ignorance or misrepresentation, by askingwho with a name beginning with Z ever wrote fables in Armenian; but yecouldn't help yourselves, ye are duncie. We duncie! Ay, duncie. Sohere ye are held up by the tails, blood and foam streaming from yourjaws.
The writer wishes to ask here, what do you think of all this, Messieursles Critiques? Were ye ever served so before? But don't you richlydeserve it? Haven't you been for years past bullying and insultingeverybody whom you deemed weak, and currying favour with everybody whomye thought strong? '_We_ approve of this. We disapprove of that. Oh,this will never do. These are fine lines!' The lines perhaps somehorrid sycophantic rubbish addressed to Wellington, or Lord So-and-so.To have your ignorance thus exposed, to be shown up in this manner, andby whom? A gypsy! Ay, a gypsy was the very right person to do it. Butis 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 withwhich it continually delivers itself, one would think that the mighty_we_ is omniscient; that it understands every lan
guage; is versed inevery literature; yet the mighty _we_ does not even know the word forbread in Armenian. It knows bread well enough by name in English, andfrequently bread in England only by its name, but the truth is, that themighty _we_, with all its pretension, is in general a very sorrycreature, who, instead of saying nous disons, should rather say nous dis:Porny in his 'Guerre des Dieux,' very profanely makes the three in onesay, Je faisons; now, Lavengro, who is anything but profane, wouldsuggest that critics, especially magazine and Sunday newspaper critics,should commence with nous dis, as the first word would be significant ofthe conceit and assumption of the critic, and the second of the extent ofthe critic's information. The _we_ says its say, but when fawningsycophancy or vulgar abuse are taken from that say, what remains? Why ablank, a void like Ginnungagap.
As the writer, of his own accord, has exposed some of the blemishes ofhis book--a task, which a competent critic ought to have done--he willnow point out two or three of its merits, which any critic, notaltogether blinded with ignorance, might have done, or not replete withgall and envy would have been glad to do. The book has the merit ofcommunicating a fact connected with physiology, which in all the pages ofthe multitude of books was never previously mentioned--the mysteriouspractice of touching objects to baffle the evil chance. The miserabledetractor will, of course, instantly begin to rave about such a habitbeing common--well and good; but was it ever before described in print,or all connected with it dissected? He may then vociferate somethingabout Johnson having touched--the writer cares not whether Johnson--who,by the by, during the last twenty or thirty years, owing to people havingbecome ultra Tory mad from reading Scott's novels and the _QuarterlyReview_, has been a mighty favourite, especially with some who were inthe habit of calling him a half-crazy old fool--touched, or whether hedid not; but he asks where did Johnson ever describe the feelings whichinduced him to perform the magic touch, even supposing that he didperform it? Again, the history gives an account of a certain book calledthe 'Sleeping Bard,' the most remarkable prose work of the most difficultlanguage but one, of modern Europe; a book, for a notice of which, hebelieves, one might turn over in vain the pages of any review printed inEngland, or, indeed, elsewhere. So here are two facts, one literary andthe other physiological, for which any candid critic was bound to thankthe author, even as in 'The Romany Rye' there is a fact connected withIro Norman Myth, for the disclosing of which any person who pretends tohave a regard for literature is bound to thank him, namely, that themysterious Finn or Fingal of 'Ossian's Poems' is one and the same personas the Sigurd Fofnisbane of the Edda and the Wilkina, and the SiegfriedHorn of the Lay of the Niebelungs.
The writer might here conclude, and, he believes, most triumphantly; as,however, he is in the cue for writing, which he seldom is, he will forhis own gratification, and for the sake of others, dropping metaphorsabout vipers and serpents, show up in particular two or three sets orcliques of people, who, he is happy to say, have been particularlyvirulent against him and his work, for nothing indeed could have givenhim greater mortification than their praise.
In the first place, he wishes to dispose of certain individuals who callthemselves men of wit and fashion--about town--who he is told have abusedhis book 'vaustly'--their own word. These people paint their cheeks,wear white kid gloves, and dabble in literature, or what they conceive tobe literature. For abuse from such people, the writer was prepared.Does anyone imagine that the writer was not well aware, before hepublished his book, that, whenever he gave it to the world, he should beattacked by every literary coxcomb in England who had influence enough toprocure the insertion of a scurrilous article in a magazine or newspaper!He has been in Spain, and has seen how invariably the mule attacks thehorse; now why does the mule attack the horse? Why, because the lattercarries about with him that which the envious hermaphrodite does notpossess.
They consider, forsooth, that his book is low--but he is not going towaste words about them--one or two of whom, he is told, have written veryduncie books about Spain, and are highly enraged with him, becausecertain books which he wrote about Spain were not considered duncie. No,he is not going to waste words upon them, for verily he dislikes theircompany, and so he'll pass them by, and proceed to others.
The Scotch Charlie o'er the water people have been very loud in the abuseof 'Lavengro'--this again might be expected; the sarcasms of the Priestabout the Charlie o'er the water nonsense of course stung them. Oh! itis one of the claims which 'Lavengro' has to respect, that it is thefirst, if not the only work, in which that nonsense is, to a certainextent, exposed. Two or three of their remarks on passages of 'Lavengro'he will reproduce and laugh at. Of course your Charlie o'er the waterpeople are genteel exceedingly, and cannot abide anything low. Gypsyismthey think is particularly low, and the use of gypsy words in literaturebeneath its gentility; so they object to gypsy words being used in'Lavengro' where gypsies are introduced speaking. 'What is Romanyforsooth?' say they. Very good! And what is Scotch? Has not the publicbeen nauseated with Scotch for the last thirty years? 'Ay, but Scotch isnot--' The writer believes he knows much better than the Scotch whatScotch is, and what it is not; he has told them before what it is, a verysorry jargon. He will now tell them what it's not--a sister or animmediate daughter of the Sanscrit, which Romany is. 'Ay, but the Scotchare'--foxes, foxes, nothing else than foxes, even like the gypsies--thedifference between the gypsy and Scotch fox being that the first is wild,with a mighty brush, the other a sneak, with a gilt collar and without atail.
A Charlie o'er the water person attempts to be witty because the writerhas said that perhaps a certain old Edinburgh high-school porter, of thename of Boee, was perhaps of the same blood as a certain Bui, a NorthernKemp, who distinguished himself at the battle of Horinger Bay. A prettymatter, forsooth, to excite the ridicule of a Scotchman! Why, is there abeggar or trumpery fellow in Scotland who does not pretend to besomebody, or related to somebody? Is not every Scotchman descended fromsome king, kemp, or cow-stealer of old, by his own account at least?Why, the writer would even go so far as to bet a trifle that the poorcreature who ridicules Boee's supposed ancestry has one of his own, atleast, as grand and as apocryphal as old Boee's of the high school.
The same Charlie o'er the water person is mightily indignant thatLavengro should have spoken disrespectfully of William Wallace; Lavengro,when he speaks of that personage, being a child of about ten years old,and repeating merely what he had heard. All the Scotch, by-the-by, for agreat many years past, have been great admirers of William Wallace,particularly the Charlie o'er the water people, who in theirnonsense-verses about Charlie generally contrive to bring in the name ofWilliam, Willie, or Wullie Wallace. The writer begs leave to say that heby no means wishes to bear hard against William Wallace, but he cannothelp asking why, if William, Willie, or Wullie Wallace was such aparticularly nice person, did his brother Scots betray him to a certainrenowned southern warrior, called Edward Longshanks, who caused him to behanged and cut into four in London, and his quarters to be placed overthe gates of certain towns? They got gold, it is true, and titles, verynice things no doubt; but surely the life of a patriot is better than allthe gold and titles in the world--at least, Lavengro thinks so; butLavengro has lived more with gypsies than Scotchmen, and gypsies do notbetray their brothers. It would be some time before a gypsy would handover his brother to the harum-beck, {365} even supposing you would notonly make him a king, but a justice of the peace, and not only give himthe world, but the best farm on the Holkham estate; but gypsies are wildfoxes, and there is certainly a wonderful difference between the way ofthinking of the wild fox who retains his brush, and that of the scurvykennel creature who has lost his tail.
Ah! but thousands of Scotch, and particularly the Charlie o'er the waterpeople, will say: 'We didn't sell Willie Wallace; it was our forbears whosold Willie Wallace. . . . If Edward Longshanks had asked us to sellWullie Wallace we would soon have shown him that--' Lord better ye, yepoor trumpery set of creatures, ye wo
uld not have acted a bit better thanyour forefathers; remember how ye have ever treated the few amongst yewho, though born in the kennel, have shown something of the spirit of thewood. Many of ye are still alive who delivered over men, quite as honestand patriotic as William Wallace, into the hands of an English minister,to be chained and transported for merely venturing to speak and write inthe cause of humanity, at the time when Europe was beginning to fling offthe chains imposed by kings and priests. And it is not so very longsince Burns, to whom ye are now building up obelisks rather higher thanhe deserves, was permitted by his countrymen to die in poverty and miserybecause he would not join with them in songs of adulation to kings andthe trumpery great. So say not that ye would have acted with respect toWilliam Wallace one whit better than your fathers; and you in particular,ye children of Charlie, whom do ye write nonsense-verses about? A familyof dastard despots, who did their best, during a century and more, totread out the few sparks of independent feeling still glowing inScotland; but enough has been said about ye.
Amongst those who have been prodigal in abuse and defamation of'Lavengro' have been your modern Radicals, and particularly a set ofpeople who filled the country with noise against the King and Queen,Wellington and the Tories, in '32. About these people the writer willpresently have occasion to say a good deal, and also of real Radicals.As, however, it may be supposed that he is one of those who delight toplay the sycophant to kings and queens, to curry favour with Tories, andto bepraise Wellington, he begs leave to state that such is not the case.
About kings and queens he has nothing to say; about Tories simply that hebelieves them to be a bad set; about Wellington, however, it will benecessary for him to say a good deal of mixed import, as he willsubsequently frequently have occasion to mention him in connection withwhat he has to say about pseudo-Radicals.
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