A certain set of individuals calling themselves critics have attacked ‘Lavengro’ with much virulence and malice. If what they call criticism had been founded on truth, the author would have had nothing to say. The book contains plenty of blemishes, some of them, by-the-by, 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 the raising of 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 ‘But “Lavengro” pretends to be an autobiography,’ ‘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 to vilify the book and its author, provided they could The writer wishes to ask here, what do you think of all this, Messieurs les Critiques? Were ye ever served so before? But 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 English, 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 by, 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 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 for his own gratification, and for the sake of others, dropping metaphors about vipers and serpents, show up in particular two or three sets or cliques of people, who, he is happy to say, have been particularly virulent against him and his work, for nothing indeed could have given him greater mortification than their praise. In the first place, he wishes to dispose of certain individuals who call themselves men of wit and fashion—about town—who he is told have abused his book ‘vaustly’—their own word. These people paint their cheeks, wear white kid gloves, and dabble in literature, or what they conceive to be literature. For abuse from such people, the writer was prepared. Does anyone imagine that the writer was not well aware, before he published his book, that, whenever he gave it to the world, he should be attacked by every literary coxcomb in England who had influence enough to procure the insertion of a scurrilous article in a magazine or newspaper! He has been in Spain, and has seen how invariably the mule attacks the horse; now why does the mule attack the horse? Why, because the latter carries about with him that which the envious hermaphrodite does not possess. They consider, forsooth, that his book is low—but he is not going to waste words about them—one or two of whom, he is told, have written very duncie books about Spain, and are highly enraged with him, because certain books which he wrote about Spain were not considered duncie. No, he is not going to waste words upon them, for verily he dislikes their company, and so he’ll pass them by, and proceed to others. A Charlie o’er the water person attempts to be witty because the writer has said that perhaps a certain old Edinburgh high-school porter, of the name of Boee, was perhaps of the same blood as a certain Bui, a Northern Kemp, who distinguished himself at the battle of Horinger Bay. A pretty matter, forsooth, to excite the ridicule of a Scotchman! Why, is there a beggar or trumpery fellow in Scotland who does not pretend to be somebody, or related to somebody? Is not every Scotchman descended from some 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 poor creature who ridicules Boee’s supposed ancestry has one of his own, at least, as grand and as apocryphal as old Boee’s of the high school. The same Charlie o’er the water person is mightily indignant that Lavengro 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 a great many years past, have been great admirers of William Wallace, particularly the Charlie o’er the water people, who in their nonsense-verses about Charlie generally contrive to bring in the name of William, Willie, or Wullie Wallace. The writer begs leave to say that he by no means wishes to bear hard against William Wallace, but he cannot help asking why, if William, Willie, or Wullie Ah! but thousands of Scotch, and particularly the Charlie o’er the water people, will say: ‘We didn’t sell Willie Wallace; it was our forbears who sold Willie Wallace. . . . If Edward Longshanks had asked us to sell Wullie Wallace we would soon have shown him that—’ Lord better ye, ye poor trumpery set of creatures, ye would not have acted a bit better than your forefathers; remember how ye have ever treated the few amongst ye who, though born in the kennel, have shown something of the spirit of the wood. Many of ye are still alive who delivered over men, quite as honest and patriotic as William Wallace, into the hands of an English minister, to be chained and transported for merely venturing to speak and write in the cause of humanity, at the time when Europe was beginning to fling off the chains imposed by kings and priests. And it is not so very long since Burns, to whom ye are now building up obelisks rather higher than he deserves, was permitted by his countrymen to die in poverty and misery because he would not join with them in songs of adulation to kings and the trumpery great. So say not that ye would have acted with respect to William Wallace one whit better than your fathers; and you in particular, ye children of Charlie, whom do ye write nonsense-verses about? A family of dastard despots, who did their best, during a century and more, to tread out the few sparks of independent feeling still glowing in Scotland; 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 of people who filled the country with noise against the King and Queen, Wellington and the Tories, in ’32. About these people the writer will presently have occasion to say a About kings and queens he has nothing to say; about Tories simply that he believes them to be a bad set; about Wellington, however, it will be necessary for him to say a good deal of mixed import, as he will subsequently frequently have occasion to mention him in connection with what he has to say about pseudo-Radicals. |