The Romany Rye

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One word more about the race, all but extinct, of the people
opprobriously called prize-fighters. Some of them have been as
noble, kindly men as the world ever produced. Can the rolls of the
English aristocracy exhibit names belonging to more noble, more
heroic men than those who were called respectively Pearce, Cribb,
and Spring? Did ever one of the English aristocracy contract the
seeds of fatal consumption by rushing up the stairs of a burning
edifice, even to the topmost garret, and rescuing a woman from
seemingly inevitable destruction? The writer says no. A woman was
rescued from the top of a burning house; but the man who rescued
her was no aristocrat; it was Pearce, not Percy, who ran up the
burning stairs. Did ever one of those glittering ones save a
fainting female from the libidinous rage of six ruffians? The
writer believes not. A woman was rescued from the libidinous fury
of six monsters on--Down; but the man who rescued her was no
aristocrat; it was Pearce not Paulet, who rescued the woman, and
thrashed my lord's six gamekeepers--Pearce, whose equal never was,
and probably never will be, found in sturdy combat. Are there any
of the aristocracy of whom it can be said that they never did a
cowardly, cruel, or mean action, and that they invariably took the
part of the unfortunate and weak against cruelty and oppression?
As much can be said of Cribb, of Spring, and the other; but where
is the aristocrat of whom as much can be said? Wellington?
Wellington indeed! a skilful general, and a good man of valour, it
is true, but with that cant word of "duty" continually on his lips,
did he rescue Ney from his butchers? Did he lend a helping hand to
Warner?

In conclusion, the writer would advise those of his country-folks
who read his book to have nothing to do with the two kinds of
canting nonsense described above, but in their progress through
life to enjoy as well as they can, but always with moderation, the
good things of this world, to put confidence in God, to be as
independent as possible, and to take their own parts. If they are
low-spirited, let them not make themselves foolish by putting on
sackcloth, drinking water, or chewing ashes, but let them take
wholesome exercise, and eat the most generous food they can get,
taking up and reading occasionally, not the lives of Ignatius
Loyola and Francis Spira, but something more agreeable; for
example, the life and adventures of Mr. Duncan Campbell, the deaf
and dumb gentleman; the travels of Captain Falconer in America, and
the journal of John Randall, who went to Virginia and married an
Indian wife; not forgetting, amidst their eating and drinking,
their walks over heaths, and by the sea-side, and their agreeable
literature, to be charitable to the poor, to read the Psalms and to
go to church twice on a Sunday. In their dealings with people, to
be courteous to everybody, as Lavengro was, but always independent
like him; and if people meddle with them, to give them as good as
they bring, even as he and Isopel Berners were in the habit of
doing; and it will be as well for him to observe that he by no
means advises women to be too womanly, but bearing the conduct of
Isopel Berners in mind, to take their own parts, and if anybody
strikes them, to strike again.

Beating of women by the lords of the creation has become very
prevalent in England since pugilism has been discountenanced. Now
the writer strongly advises any woman who is struck by a ruffian to
strike him again; or if she cannot clench her fists, and he advises
all women in these singular times to learn to clench their fists,
to go at him with tooth and nail, and not to be afraid of the
result, for any fellow who is dastard enough to strike a woman,
would allow himself to be beaten by a woman, were she to make at
him in self-defence, even if, instead of possessing the stately
height and athletic proportions of the aforesaid Isopel, she were
as diminutive in stature, and had a hand as delicate, and foot as
small, as a certain royal lady, who was some time ago assaulted by
a fellow upwards of six feet high, whom the writer has no doubt she
could have beaten had she thought proper to go at him. Such is the
deliberate advice of the author to his countrymen and women--advice
in which he believes there is nothing unscriptural or repugnant to
common sense.

The writer is perfectly well aware that, by the plain language
which he has used in speaking of the various kinds of nonsense
prevalent in England, he shall make himself a multitude of enemies;
but he is not going to conceal the truth or to tamper with
nonsense, from the fear of provoking hostility. He has a duty to
perform and he will perform it resolutely; he is the person who
carried the Bible to Spain; and as resolutely as he spoke in Spain
against the superstitions of Spain, will he speak in England
against the nonsense of his own native land. He is not one of
those who, before they sit down to write a book, say to themselves,
what cry shall we take up? what principles shall we advocate? what
principles shall we abuse? before we put pen to paper we must find
out what cry is the loudest, what principle has the most advocates,
otherwise, after having written our book, we may find ourselves on
the weaker side.

A sailor of the "Bounty," waked from his sleep by the noise of the
mutiny, lay still in his hammock for some time, quite undecided
whether to take part with the captain or to join the mutineers. "I
must mind what I do," said he to himself, "lest, in the end, I find
myself on the weaker side;" finally, on hearing that the mutineers
were successful, he went on deck, and seeing Bligh pinioned to the
mast, he put his fist to his nose, and otherwise insulted him.
Now, there are many writers of the present day whose conduct is
very similar to that of the sailor. They lie listening in their
corners till they have ascertained which principle has most
advocates; then, presently, they make their appearance on the deck
of the world with their book; if truth has been victorious, then
has truth the hurrah! but if truth is pinioned against the mast,
then is their fist thrust against the nose of truth, and their gibe
and their insult spirted in her face. The strongest party had the
sailor, and the strongest party has almost invariably the writer of
the present day.

CHAPTER IX

Pseudo-Critics.

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 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 book called the
"Sleeping Bard," the most remarkable prose work of the most
difficult language but one, of modern Europe,--a book, for a notice
of which, he believes, one might turn over in vain the pages of any
review printed in England, or, indeed, elsewhere.--So here are two
facts, one literary and the other physiological, for which any
candid critic was bound to thank the author, even as in Romany Rye
there is a fact connected with Iro Norman Myth, for the disclosing
of which, any person who pretends to have a regard for literature
is bound to thank him, namely, that the mysterious Finn or Fingal
of "Ossian's Poems" is one and the same person as the Sigurd
Fofnisbane of the Edda and the Wilkina, and the Siegfried Horn 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 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 any one 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.

The Scotch Charlie o'er the water people have been very loud in the
abuse of Lavengro--this again might be expected; the sarcasms of
the Priest about the Charlie o'er the water nonsense of course
stung them. Oh! it is one of the claims which Lavengro has to
respect, that it is the first, if not the only work, in which that
nonsense is, to a certain extent, exposed. Two or three of their
remarks on passages of Lavengro, he will reproduce and laugh at.
Of course your Charlie o'er the water people are genteel
exceedingly, and cannot abide anything low. Gypsyism they think is
particularly low, and the use of gypsy words in literature beneath
its gentility; so they object to gypsy words being used in Lavengro
where gypsies are introduced speaking--"What is Romany forsooth?"
say they. Very good! And what is Scotch? has not the public been
nauseated with Scotch for the last thirty years? "Ay, but Scotch
is not"--the writer believes he knows much better than the Scotch
what Scotch is and what it is not; he has told them before what it
is, a very sorry jargon. He will now tell them what it is not--a
sister or an immediate daughter of the Sanscrit, which Romany is.
"Ay, but the Scotch are"--foxes, foxes, nothing else than foxes,
even like the gypsies--the difference 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 a tail.

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 bye, 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 Wallace was such a particularly
nice person, did his brother Scots betray him to a certain renowned
southern warrior, called Edward Longshanks, who caused him to be
hanged and cut into four in London, and his quarters to be placed
over the gates of certain towns? They got gold, it is true, and
titles, very nice things, no doubt; but, surely, the life of a
patriot is better than all the gold and titles in the world--at
least Lavengro thinks so--but Lavengro has lived more with gypsies
than Scotchmen, and gypsies do not betray their brothers. It would
be some time before a gypsy would hand over his brother to the
harum-beck, even supposing you would not only make him a king, but
a justice of the peace, and not only give him the world, but the
best farm on the Holkham estate; but gypsies are wild foxes, and
there is certainly a wonderful difference between the way of
thinking of the wild fox who retains his brush, and that of the
scurvy kennel creature who has lost his tail.

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.

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