He dies, his children die too, and then comes the crowning judgment of

God on what remains of his race and the house which he had built. He was

not a Papist himself, nor did he wish any one belonging to him to be

Popish, for he had read enough of the Bible to know that no one can be

saved through Popery, yet had he a sneaking affection for it, and would

at times in an underhand manner, give it a good word both in writing and

discourse, because it was a gaudy kind of worship, and ignorance and

vassalage prevailed so long as it flourished—but he certainly did not

wish any of his people to become Papists, nor the house which he had

built to become a Popish house, though the very name he gave it savoured

of Popery; but Popery becomes fashionable through his novels and

poems—the only one that remains of his race, a female grandchild, marries

a person who, following the fashion, becomes a Papist, and makes her a

Papist too. Money abounds with the husband, who buys the house, and then

the house becomes the rankest Popish house in Britain. A superstitious

person might almost imagine that one of the old Scottish Covenanters,

whilst the grand house was being built from the profits resulting from

the sale of writings favouring Popery and persecution, and calumniatory

of Scotland’s saints and martyrs, had risen from the grave, and banned

Scott, his race, and his house, by reading a certain Psalm.

In saying what he has said about Scott, the author has not been

influenced by any feeling of malice or ill-will, but simply by a regard

for truth, and a desire to point out to his countrymen the harm which has

resulted from the perusal of his works; he is not one of those who would

depreciate the talents of Scott—he admires his talents, both as a prose

writer and a poet; as a poet especially he admires him, and believes him

to have been by far the greatest, with perhaps the exception of

Mickiewicz, who only wrote for unfortunate Poland, that Europe has given

birth to during the last hundred years. As a prose writer he admires him

less, it is true, but his admiration for him in that capacity is very

high, and he only laments that he prostituted his talents to the cause of

the Stuarts and gentility. What book of fiction of the present century

can you read twice, with the exception of _Waverley_ and _Rob Roy_?

There is _Pelham_ it is true, which the writer of these lines has seen a

Jewess reading in the steppe of Debreczin, and which a young Prussian

Baron, a great traveller, whom he met at Constantinople in ’44 told him

he always carried in his valise. And, in conclusion, he will say, in

order to show the opinion which he entertains of the power of Scott as a

writer, that he did for the spectre of the wretched Pretender what all

the kings of Europe could not do for his body—placed it on the throne of

these realms; and for Popery, what Popes and Cardinals strove in vain to

do for three centuries—brought back its mummeries and nonsense into the

temples of the British Isles.

Scott during his lifetime had a crowd of imitators, who, whether they

wrote history so called—poetry so called—or novels—nobody would call a

book a novel if he could call it anything else—wrote Charlie o’er the

water nonsense; and now that he has been dead nearly a quarter of a

century, there are others daily springing up who are striving to imitate

Scott in his Charlie o’er the water nonsense—for nonsense it is, even

when flowing from his pen. They, too, must write Jacobite histories,

Jacobite songs, and Jacobite novels, and much the same figure as the

scoundrel menials in the comedy cut when personating their masters, and

retailing their masters’ conversation, do they cut as Walter Scotts. In

their histories, they too talk about the Prince and Glenfinnan, and the

pibroch; and in their songs about “Claverse” and “Bonny Dundee”. But

though they may be Scots, they are not Walter Scotts. But it is perhaps

chiefly in the novel that you see the veritable hog in armour; the time

of the novel is of course the ’15 or ’45; the hero a Jacobite, and

connected with one or other of the enterprises of those periods; and the

author, to show how unprejudiced he is, and what _original_ views he

takes of subjects, must needs speak up for Popery, whenever he has

occasion to mention it; though with all his originality, when he brings

his hero and the vagabonds with which he is concerned before a barricaded

house, belonging to the Whigs, he can make them get into it by no other

method than that which Scott makes his rioters employ to get into the

Tolbooth, _burning down_ the door.

To express the more than utter foolishness of this latter Charlie o’er

the water nonsense, whether in rhyme or prose, there is but one word, and

that word a Scotch word. Scotch, the sorriest of jargons, compared with

which even Roth-Welsch is dignified and expressive, has yet one word to

express what would be inexpressible by any word or combination of words

in any language, or in any other jargon in the world; and very properly;

for as the nonsense is properly Scotch, so should the word be Scotch

which expresses it—that word is “fushionless,” pronounced _fooshionless_;

and when the writer has called the nonsense fooshionless—and he does call

it fooshionless—he has nothing more to say, but leaves the nonsense to

its fate.

CHAPTER VIII.

ON CANTING NONSENSE.

THE writer now wishes to say something on the subject of canting

nonsense, of which there is a great deal in England. There are various

cants in England, amongst which is the religious cant. He is not going

to discuss the subject of religious cant: lest, however, he should be

misunderstood, he begs leave to repeat that he is a sincere member of the

old-fashioned Church of England, in which he believes there is more

religion, and consequently less cant, than in any other Church in the

world; nor is he going to discuss many other cants; he shall content

himself with saying something about two—the temperance cant and the

unmanly cant. Temperance canters say that, “it is unlawful to drink a

glass of ale”. Unmanly canters say that “it is unlawful to use one’s

fists”. The writer begs leave to tell both these species of canters that

they do not speak the words of truth.

It is very lawful to take a cup of ale, or wine, for the purpose of

cheering or invigorating yourself when you are faint and down-hearted;

and likewise to give a cup of ale or wine to others when they are in a

similar condition. The Holy Scripture sayeth nothing to the contrary,

but rather encourageth people in so doing by the text, “Wine maketh glad

the heart of man”. But it is not lawful to intoxicate yourself with

frequent cups of ale or wine, nor to make others intoxicated, nor does

the Holy Scripture say that it is. The Holy Scripture no more says that

it is lawful to intoxicate yourself or others, than it says that it is

unlawful to take a cup of ale or wine yourself, or to give one to others.

Noah is not commended in the Scripture for making himself drunken on the

wine he brewed. Nor is it said that the Saviour, when He supplied the

guests with first-rate wine at the marriage feast, told them to make

themselves drunk upon it. He is said to have supplied them with

first-rate wine, but He doubtless left the quantity which each should

drink to each party’s reason and discretion. When you set a good dinner

before your guests, you do not expect that they should gorge themselves

with the victuals you set before them. Wine may be abused, and so may a

leg of mutton.

Second. It is lawful for any one to use his fists in his own defence, or

in the defence of others, provided they can’t help themselves; but it is

not lawful to use them for purposes of tyranny or brutality. If you are

attacked by a ruffian, as the elderly individual in _Lavengro_ is in the

inn yard, it is quite lawful, if you can, to give him as good a thrashing

as the elderly individual gave the brutal coachman; and if you see a

helpless woman—perhaps your own sister—set upon by a drunken lord, a

drunken coachman, or a drunken coalheaver, or a brute of any description,

either drunk or sober, it is not only lawful, but laudable to give them,

if you can, a good drubbing; but it is not lawful because you have a

strong pair of fists, and know how to use them, to go swaggering through

a fair, jostling against unoffending individuals; should you do so, you

would be served quite right if you were to get a drubbing, more

particularly if you were served out by some one less strong, but more

skilful than yourself—even as the coachman was served out by a pupil of

the immortal Broughton—sixty years old, it is true, but possessed of

Broughton’s guard and chop. Moses is not blamed in the Scripture for

taking part with the oppressed, and killing an Egyptian persecutor. We

are not told how Moses killed the Egyptian; but it is quite as creditable

to Moses to suppose that he killed the Egyptian by giving him a buffet

under the left ear, as by stabbing him with a knife. It is true that the

Saviour in the New Testament tells His disciples to turn the left cheek

to be smitten, after they had received a blow on the right; but He was

speaking to people divinely inspired, or whom He intended divinely to

inspire—people selected by God for a particular purpose. He likewise

tells these people to part with various articles of raiment when asked

for them, and to go a-travelling without money, and take no thought of

the morrow. Are those exhortations carried out by very good people in

the present day? Do Quakers, when smitten on the right cheek, turn the

left to the smiter? When asked for their coat, do they say, “Friend,

take my shirt also?” Has the Dean of Salisbury no purse? Does the

Archbishop of Canterbury go to an inn, run up a reckoning, and then say

to his landlord, “Mistress, I have no coin?” Assuredly the Dean has a

purse, and a tolerably well-filled one; and, assuredly, the Archbishop,

on departing from an inn, not only settles his reckoning, but leaves

something handsome for the servants, and does not say that he is

forbidden by the gospel to pay for what he has eaten, or the trouble he

has given, as a certain Spanish cavalier said he was forbidden by the

statutes of chivalry. Now, to take the part of yourself, or the part of

the oppressed, with your fists, is quite as lawful in the present day as

it is to refuse your coat and your shirt also to any vagabond who may ask

for them, and not to refuse to pay for supper, bed and breakfast, at the

Feathers, or any other inn, after you have had the benefit of all three.

The conduct of Lavengro with respect to drink may, upon the whole, serve

as a model. He is no drunkard, nor is he fond of intoxicating other

people; yet when the horrors are upon him he has no objection to go to a

public-house and call for a pint of ale, nor does he shrink from

recommending ale to others when they are faint and downcast. In one

instance, it is true, he does what cannot be exactly justified; he

encourages the priest in the dingle, in more instances than one, in

drinking more hollands and water than is consistent with decorum. He has

a motive indeed in doing so; a desire to learn from the knave in his cups

the plans and hopes of the Propaganda of Rome. Such conduct, however,

was inconsistent with strict fair dealing and openness; and the author

advises all those whose consciences never reproach them for a single

unfair or covert act committed by them, to abuse him heartily for

administering hollands and water to the Priest of Rome. In that instance

the hero is certainly wrong; yet in all other cases with regard to drink,

he is manifestly right. To tell people that they are never to drink a

glass of ale or wine themselves, or to give one to others, is cant; and

the writer has no toleration for cant of any description. Some cants are

not dangerous; but the writer believes that a more dangerous cant than

the temperance cant, or as it is generally called, teetotalism, is

scarcely to be found. The writer is willing to believe that it

originated with well meaning, though weak people; but there can be no

doubt that it was quickly turned to account by people who were neither

well meaning nor weak. Let the reader note particularly the purpose to

which this cry has been turned in America—the land, indeed, par

excellence, of humbug and humbug cries. It is there continually in the

mouth of the most violent political party, and is made an instrument of

almost unexampled persecution. The writer would say more on the

temperance cant, both in England and America, but want of space prevents

him. There is one point on which he cannot avoid making a few brief

remarks—that is, the inconsistent conduct of its apostles in general.

The teetotal apostle says, it is a dreadful thing to be drunk. So it is,

teetotaller; but if so, why do you get drunk? I get drunk? Yes, unhappy

man, why do you get drunk on smoke and passion? Why are your garments

impregnated with the odour of the Indian weed? Why is there a pipe or a

cigar always in your mouth? Why is your language more dreadful than that

of a Poissarde? Tobacco-smoke is more deleterious than ale, teetotaller;

bile more potent than brandy. You are fond of telling your hearers what

an awful thing it is to die drunken. So it is, teetotaller. Then take

good care that you do not die with smoke and passion, drunken, and with

temperance language on your lips; that is, abuse and calumny against all

those who differ from you. One word of sense you have been heard to say,

which is, that spirits may be taken as a medicine. Now you are in a

fever of passion, teetotaller: so, pray take this tumbler of brandy; take

it on the homœopathic principle, that heat is to be expelled by heat.

You are in a temperance fury, so swallow the contents of this tumbler,

and it will, perhaps, cure you. You look at the glass wistfully—you say

you occasionally take a glass medicinally—and it is probable you do.

Take one now. Consider what a dreadful thing it would be to die passion

drunk; to appear before your Maker with intemperate language on your

lips. That’s right! You don’t seem to wince at the brandy. That’s

right!—well done! All down in two pulls. Now you look like a reasonable

being!

If the conduct of Lavengro with regard to drink is open to little

censure, assuredly the use which he makes of his fists is entitled to

none at all. Because he has a pair of tolerably strong fists, and knows

to a certain extent how to use them, is he a swaggerer or oppressor? To

what ill account does he turn them? Who more quiet, gentle and

inoffensive than he? He beats off a ruffian who attacks him in a dingle;

has a kind of friendly tuzzle with Mr. Petulengro, and behold the extent

of his fistic exploits.

Ay, but he associates with prize-fighters; and that very fellow,

Petulengro, is a prize-fighter, and has fought for a stake in a ring.

Well, and if he had not associated with prize-fighters, how could he have

used his fists? Oh, anybody can use his fists in his own defence,

without being taught by prize-fighters. Can they? Then why does not the

Italian, or Spaniard, or Afghan use his fists when insulted or outraged,

instead of having recourse to the weapons which he has recourse to?

Nobody can use his fists without being taught the use of them by those

who have themselves been taught, no more than any one can “whiffle”

without being taught by a master of the art. Now let any man of the

present day try to whiffle. Would not any one who wished to whiffle have

to go to a master of the art? Assuredly! but where would he find one at

the present day? The last of the whifflers hanged himself about a

fortnight ago on a bell-rope in a church steeple of “the old town,” from

pure grief that there was no further demand for the exhibition of his

art, there being no demand for whiffling since the discontinuation of

Guildhall banquets. Whiffling is lost. The old chap left his sword

behind him; let any one take up the old chap’s sword and try to whiffle.

Now much the same hand as he would make who should take up the whiffler’s

sword and try to whiffle, would he who should try to use his fists who

had never had the advantage of a master. Let no one think that men use

their fists naturally in their own disputes—men have naturally recourse

to any other thing to defend themselves or to offend others; they fly to

the stick, to the stone, to the murderous and cowardly knife, or to abuse

as cowardly as the knife, and occasionally more murderous. Now which is

best when you hate a person, or have a pique against a person, to clench

your fist and say “Come on,” or to have recourse to the stone, the knife,

or murderous calumny? The use of the fist is almost lost in England.

Yet are the people better than they were when they knew how to use their

fists? The writer believes not. A fisty combat is at present a great

rarity, but the use of the knife, the noose, and of poison, to say

nothing of calumny, are of more frequent occurrence in England than

perhaps in any country in Europe. Is polite taste better than when it

could bear the details of a fight? The writer believes not. Two men

cannot meet in a ring to settle a dispute in a manly manner without some

trumpery local newspaper letting loose a volley of abuse against “the

disgraceful exhibition,” in which abuse it is sure to be sanctioned by

its dainty readers; whereas some murderous horror, the discovery for

example of the mangled remains of a woman in some obscure den, is

greedily seized hold on by the moral journal, and dressed up for its

readers, who luxuriate and gloat upon the ghastly dish. Now, the writer

of _Lavengro_ has no sympathy with those who would shrink from striking a

blow, but would not shrink from the use of poison or calumny; and his

taste has little in common with that which cannot tolerate the hardy

details of a prize-fight, but which luxuriates on descriptions of the

murder dens of modern England. But prize-fighters and pugilists are

blackguards, a reviewer has said; and blackguards they would be provided

they employed their skill and their prowess for purposes of brutality and

oppression; but prize-fighters and pugilists are seldom friends to

brutality and oppression; and which is the blackguard, the writer would

ask: he who uses his fists to take his own part, or instructs others to

use theirs for the same purpose, or the being who from envy and malice,

or at the bidding of a malicious scoundrel, endeavours by calumny,

falsehood, and misrepresentation to impede the efforts of lonely and

unprotected genius?

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 their

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 spurted

in their 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 who

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 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

authorised 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

mis-spellings? 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 for sea

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

in Armenian is _dzow_, a word connected with the Tibetian 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 not you

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 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_: Parny 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 _the 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 Fafnisbane 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? “Ah, 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.

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 good deal, and also of real Radicals.

As, however, it may be supposed that he is one of those who delight to

play the sycophant to kings and queens, to curry favour with Tories, and

to 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

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.

CHAPTER X.

PSEUDO-RADICALS.

ABOUT Wellington, then, he says, that he believes him at the present day

to be infinitely overrated. But there certainly was a time when he was

shamefully underrated. Now what time was that? Why the time of

pseudo-Radicalism, par excellence, from ’20 to ’32. Oh, the abuse that

was heaped on Wellington by those who traded in Radical cant—your

newspaper editors and review writers! and how he was sneered at then by

your Whigs, and how faintly supported he was by your Tories, who were

half ashamed of him; for your Tories, though capital fellows as

followers, when you want nobody to back you, are the faintest creatures

in the world when you cry in your agony, “Come and help me!” Oh,

assuredly Wellington was infamously used at that time, especially by your

traders in Radicalism, who howled at and hooted him; said he had every

vice—was no general—was beaten at Waterloo—was a poltroon—moreover a poor

illiterate creature, who could scarcely read or write; nay, a principal

Radical paper said boldly he could not read, and devised an ingenious

plan for teaching Wellington how to read. Now this was too bad; and the

writer, being a lover of justice, frequently spoke up for Wellington,

saying, that as for vice, he was not worse than his neighbours; that he

was brave; that he won the fight at Waterloo, from a half-dead man, it is

true, but that he did win it. Also, that he believed he had read _Rules

for the Manual and Platoon Exercises_ to some purpose; moreover, that he

was sure he could write, for that he the writer had once written to

Wellington, and had received an answer from him; nay, the writer once

went so far as to strike a blow for Wellington; for the last time he used

his fists was upon a Radical sub-editor, who was mobbing Wellington in

the street, from behind a rank of grimy fellows. But though the writer

spoke up for Wellington to a certain extent when he was shamefully

underrated, and once struck a blow for him when he was about being

hustled, he is not going to join in the loathsome sycophantic nonsense

which it has been the fashion to use with respect to Wellington these

last twenty years. Now what have those years been to England! Why the

years of ultra-gentility, everybody in England having gone gentility mad

during the last twenty years, and no people more so than your

pseudo-Radicals. Wellington was turned out, and your Whigs and Radicals

got in, and then commenced the period of ultra-gentility in England. The

Whigs and Radicals only hated Wellington as long as the patronage of the

country was in his hands, none of which they were tolerably sure he would

bestow on them; but no sooner did they get it into their own, than they

forthwith became admirers of Wellington. And why? Because he was a

duke, petted at Windsor and by foreign princes, and a very genteel

personage. Formerly many of your Whigs and Radicals had scarcely a

decent coat on their backs; but now the plunder of the country was at

their disposal, and they had as good a chance of being genteel as any

people. So they were willing to worship Wellington because he was very

genteel, and could not keep the plunder of the country out of their

hands. And Wellington has been worshipped, and prettily so, during the

last fifteen or twenty years. He is now a noble fine-hearted creature;

the greatest general the world ever produced; the bravest of men;

and—and—mercy upon us! the greatest of military writers! Now the present

writer will not join in such sycophancy. As he was not afraid to take

the part of Wellington when he was scurvily used by all parties, and when

it was dangerous to take his part, so he is not afraid to speak the naked

truth about Wellington in these days, when it is dangerous to say

anything about him but what is sycophantically laudatory. He said in

’32, that as to vice, Wellington was not worse than his neighbours; but

he is not going to say in ’54, that Wellington was a noble-hearted

fellow; for he believes that a more cold-hearted individual never

existed. His conduct to Warner, the poor Vaudois, and Marshal Ney,

showed that. He said in ’32, that he was a good general and a brave man;

but he is not going, in ’54, to say that he was the best general, or the

bravest man, the world ever saw. England has produced a better

general—France two or three—both countries many braver men. The son of

the Norfolk clergyman was a brave man; Marshal Ney was a braver man. Oh,

that battle of Copenhagen! Oh, that covering the retreat of the Grand

Army! And though he said in ’32 that he could write, he is not going to

say in ’54 that he is the best of all military writers. On the contrary,

he does not hesitate to say that any Commentary of Julius Cæsar, or any

chapter in Justinus, more especially the one about the Parthians, is

worth the ten volumes of Wellington’s Despatches; though he has no doubt

that, by saying so, he shall especially rouse the indignation of a

certain newspaper, at present one of the most genteel journals

imaginable—with a slight tendency to liberalism, it is true, but

perfectly genteel—which is nevertheless the very one which, in ’32, swore

bodily that Wellington could neither read nor write and devised an

ingenious plan for teaching him how to read.

Now, after the above statement, no one will venture to say, if the writer

should be disposed to bear hard upon Radicals, that he would be

influenced by a desire to pay court to princes, or to curry favour with

Tories, or from being a blind admirer of the Duke of Wellington; but the

writer is not going to declaim against Radicals, that is, real

Republicans, or their principles; upon the whole, he is something of an

admirer of both. The writer has always had as much admiration for

everything that is real and honest as he has had contempt for the

opposite. Now real Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, a much

finer thing than Toryism, a system of common robbery, which is

nevertheless far better than Whiggism {364}—a compound of petty larceny,

popular instruction, and receiving of stolen goods. Yes, real

Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, and your real Radicals and

Republicans are certainly very fine fellows, or rather were fine fellows,

for the Lord only knows where to find them at the present day—the writer

does not. If he did, he would at any time go five miles to invite one of

them to dinner, even supposing that he had to go to a workhouse in order

to find the person he wished to invite. Amongst the real Radicals of

England, those who flourished from the year ’16 to ’20, there were

certainly extraordinary characters, men partially insane, perhaps, but

honest and brave—they did not make a market of the principles which they

professed, and never intended to do so; they believed in them, and were

willing to risk their lives in endeavouring to carry them out. The

writer wishes to speak in particular of two of these men, both of whom

perished on the scaffold—their names were Thistlewood and Ings.

Thistlewood, the best known of them, was a brave soldier and had served

with distinction as an officer in the French service; he was one of the

excellent swordsmen of Europe; had fought several duels in France, where

it is no child’s play to fight a duel; but had never unsheathed his sword

for single combat, but in defence of the feeble and insulted—he was kind

and open-hearted, but of too great simplicity; he had once ten thousand

pounds left him, all of which he lent to a friend, who disappeared and

never returned him a penny. Ings was an uneducated man, of very low

stature, but amazing strength and resolution; he was a kind husband and

father, and though a humble butcher, the name he bore was one of the

royal names of the heathen Anglo-Saxons. These two men, along with five

others, were executed, and their heads hacked off, for levying war

against George the Fourth; the whole seven dying in a manner which

extorted cheers from the populace, the most of them uttering

philosophical or patriotic sayings. Thistlewood, who was, perhaps, the

most calm and collected of all, just before he was turned off, said, “We

are now going to discover the great secret”. Ings, the moment before he

was choked, was singing “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.” Now there was

no humbug about those men, nor about many more of the same time and of

the same principles. They might be deluded about Republicanism, as

Algernon Sidney was, and as Brutus was, but they were as honest and brave

as either Brutus or Sidney, and as willing to die for their principles.

But the Radicals who succeeded them were beings of a very different

description; they jobbed and traded in Republicanism, and either parted

with it, or at the present day are eager to part with it, for a

consideration. In order to get the Whigs into power, and themselves

places, they brought the country by their inflammatory language to the

verge of a revolution, and were the cause that many perished on the

scaffold; by their incendiary harangues and newspaper articles they

caused the Bristol conflagration, for which six poor creatures were

executed; they encouraged the mob to pillage, pull down and burn, and

then rushing into garrets looked on. Thistlewood tells the mob the Tower

is a second Bastile; let it be pulled down. A mob tries to pull down the

Tower; but Thistlewood is at the head of that mob; he is not peeping from

a garret on Tower Hill like Gulliver at Lisbon. Thistlewood and Ings say

to twenty ragged individuals, Liverpool and Castlereagh are two

satellites of despotism; it would be highly desirable to put them out of

the way. And a certain number of ragged individuals are surprised in a

stable in Cato Street, making preparations to put Castlereagh and

Liverpool out of the way, and are fired upon with muskets by Grenadiers,

and are hacked at with cutlasses by Bow Street runners; but the twain who

encouraged those ragged individuals to meet in Cato Street are not far

off, they are not on the other side of the river, in the Borough, for

example, in some garret or obscure cellar. The very first to confront

the Guards and runners are Thistlewood and Ings; Thistlewood whips his

long thin rapier through Smithers’ lungs, and Ings makes a dash at

Fitzclarence with his butcher’s knife. Oh, there was something in those

fellows! honesty and courage; but can as much be said for the inciters of

the troubles of ’32? No; they egged on poor ignorant mechanics and

rustics, and got them hanged for pulling down and burning, whilst the

highest pitch to which their own daring ever mounted was to mob

Wellington as he passed in the streets.

Now, these people were humbugs, which Thistlewood and Ings were not.

They raved and foamed against kings, queens, Wellington, the aristocracy,

and what not, till they had got the Whigs into power, with whom they were

in secret alliance, and with whom they afterwards openly joined in a

system of robbery and corruption, more flagitious than the old Tory one,

because there was more cant about it; for themselves they got

consulships, commissionerships, and in some instances governments; for

their sons clerkships in public offices; and there you may see those sons

with the never-failing badge of the low scoundrel-puppy, the gilt chain

at the waistcoat-pocket; and there you may hear and see them using the

languishing tones, and employing the airs and graces which wenches use

and employ, who, without being in the family way, wish to make their

keepers believe that they are in the family way. Assuredly great is the

cleverness of your Radicals of ’32, in providing for themselves and their

families. Yet, clever as they are, there is one thing they cannot

do—they get governments for themselves, commissionerships for their

brothers, clerkships for their sons, but there is one thing beyond their

craft—they cannot get husbands for their daughters, who, too ugly for

marriage, and with their heads filled with the nonsense they have imbibed

from gentility-novels, go over from Socinus to the Pope, becoming sisters

in fusty convents, or having heard a few sermons in Mr. Platitude’s

“chapelle,” seek for admission at the establishment of mother S—, who,

after employing them for a time in various menial offices, and making

them pluck off their eyebrows, hair by hair, generally dismisses them on

the plea of sluttishness; whereupon they return to their papas to eat the

bread of the country, with the comfortable prospect of eating it still in

the shape of a pension after their sires are dead. Papa (_ex uno disce

omnes_) living as quietly as he can; not exactly enviably, it is true,

being now and then seen to cast an uneasy and furtive glance behind, even

as an animal is wont, who has lost by some mischance a very sightly

appendage; as quietly however as he can, and as dignifiedly, a great

admirer of every genteel thing and genteel personage, the Duke in

particular, whose _Despatches_, bound in red morocco, you will find on

his table. A disliker of coarse expressions, and extremes of every kind,

with a perfect horror for revolutions and attempts to revolutionise,

exclaiming now and then, as a shriek escapes from whipped and bleeding

Hungary, a groan from gasping Poland, and a half-stifled curse from

down-trodden but scowling Italy, “Confound the revolutionary _canaille_,

why can’t it be quiet!” in a word, putting one in mind of the _parvenu_

in the _Walpurgis Nacht_. The writer is no admirer of Goethe, but the

idea of that _parvenu_ was certainly a good one—yes, putting one in mind

of the individual who says:—

“Wir waren wahrlich auch nicht dumm,

Und thaten oft was wir nicht sollten;

Doch jetzo kehrt sich alles um und um,

Und eben da wir’s fest erhalten wollten.”

We were no fools, as every one discern’d,

And stopp’d at nought our projects in fulfilling;

But now the world seems topsy-turvy turn’d,

To keep it quiet just when we were willing.

Now, this class of individuals entertain a mortal hatred for _Lavengro_

and its writer, and never lose an opportunity of vituperating both. It

is true that such hatred is by no means surprising. There is certainly a

great deal of difference between Lavengro and their own sons; the one

thinking of independence and philology, whilst he is clinking away at

kettles, and hammering horse-shoes in dingles; the others stuck up at

public offices with gilt chains at their waistcoat-pockets, and giving

themselves the airs and graces of females of a certain description. And

there certainly _is_ a great deal of difference between the author of

_Lavengro_ and themselves—he retaining his principles and his brush; they

with scarlet breeches on, it is true, but without their republicanism and

their tails. Oh, the writer can well afford to be vituperated by your

pseudo-Radicals of ’32!

Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but

the matter is too rich not to require a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER XI.

THE OLD RADICAL.

“This very dirty man, with his very dirty face,

Would do any dirty act, which would get him a place.”

SOME time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but

before he relates the manner in which they set upon him, it will be as

well to enter upon a few particulars tending to elucidate their reasons

for so doing.

The writer had just entered into his eighteenth year, when he met at the

table of a certain Anglo-Germanist an individual, apparently somewhat

under thirty, of middle stature, a thin and weaselly figure, a sallow

complexion, a certain obliquity of vision, and a large pair of

spectacles. This person, who had lately come from abroad, and had

published a volume of translations, had attracted some slight notice in

the literary world, and was looked upon as a kind of lion in a small

provincial capital. After dinner he argued a great deal, spoke

vehemently against the Church, and uttered the most desperate Radicalism

that was perhaps ever heard, saying, he hoped that in a short time there

would not be a king or queen in Europe, and inveighing bitterly against

the English aristocracy, and against the Duke of Wellington in

particular, whom he said, if he himself was ever president of an English

republic—an event which he seemed to think by no means improbable—he

would hang for certain infamous acts of profligacy and bloodshed which he

had perpetrated in Spain. Being informed that the writer was something

of a philologist, to which character the individual in question laid

great pretensions, he came and sat down by him, and talked about

languages and literature. The writer, who was only a boy, was a little

frightened at first, but, not wishing to appear a child of absolute

ignorance, he summoned what little learning he had, and began to blunder

out something about the Celtic languages and their literature, and asked

the Lion who he conceived Finn Ma Coul to be? and whether he did not

consider the “Ode to the Fox,” by Red Rhys of Eryry, to be a masterpiece

of pleasantry? Receiving no answer to these questions from the Lion,

who, singular enough, would frequently, when the writer put a question to

him, look across the table, and flatly contradict some one who was

talking to some other person, the writer dropped the Celtic languages and

literature, and asked him whether he did not think it a funny thing that

Temugin, generally called Genghis Khan, should have married the daughter

of Prester John? {369} The Lion, after giving a side-glance at the

writer through his left spectacle glass, seemed about to reply, but was

unfortunately prevented, being seized with an irresistible impulse to

contradict a respectable doctor of medicine, who was engaged in

conversation with the master of the house at the upper and farther end of

the table, the writer being a poor ignorant lad, sitting of course at the

bottom. The doctor, who had served in the Peninsula, having observed

that Ferdinand the Seventh was not quite so bad as had been represented,

the Lion vociferated that he was ten times worse, and that he hoped to

see him and the Duke of Wellington hanged together. The doctor, who,

being a Welshman, was somewhat of a warm temper, growing rather red, said

that at any rate he had been informed that Ferdinand the Seventh knew

sometimes how to behave himself like a gentleman—this brought on a long

dispute, which terminated rather abruptly. The Lion having observed that

the doctor must not talk about Spanish matters with one who had visited

every part of Spain, the doctor bowed, and said he was right, for that he

believed no people in general possessed such accurate information about

countries as those who had travelled them as bagmen. On the Lion asking

the doctor what he meant, the Welshman, whose under jaw began to move

violently, replied, that he meant what he said. Here the matter ended,

for the Lion turning from him, looked at the writer. The writer,

imagining that his own conversation hitherto had been too trivial and

common-place for the Lion to consider it worth his while to take much

notice of it, determined to assume a little higher ground, and after

repeating a few verses of the Koran, and gabbling a little Arabic, asked

the Lion what he considered to be the difference between the Hegira and

the Christian era, adding, that he thought the general computation was in

error by about one year; and being a particularly modest person, chiefly,

he believes, owing to his having been at school in Ireland, absolutely

blushed at finding that the Lion returned not a word in answer. “What a

wonderful individual I am seated by,” thought he, “to whom Arabic seems a

vulgar speech, and a question about the Hegira not worthy of an answer!”

not reflecting that as lions come from the Sahara, they have quite enough

of Arabic at home, and that the question about the Hegira was rather _mal

à propos_ to one used to prey on the flesh of hadjis. “Now I only wish

he would vouchsafe me a little of his learning,” thought the boy to

himself, and in this wish he was at last gratified; for the Lion, after

asking him whether he was acquainted at all with the Sclavonian

languages, and being informed that he was not, absolutely dumb-foundered

him by a display of Sclavonian erudition.

Years rolled by—the writer was a good deal about, sometimes in London,

sometimes in the country, sometimes abroad; in London he occasionally met

the man of the spectacles, who was always very civil to him, and, indeed,

cultivated his acquaintance. The writer thought it rather odd that,

after he himself had become acquainted with the Sclavonian languages and

literature, the man of the spectacles talked little or nothing about

them. In a little time, however, the matter ceased to cause him the

slightest surprise, for he had discovered a key to the mystery. In the

meantime the man of spectacles was busy enough; he speculated in

commerce, failed, and paid his creditors twenty pennies in the pound;

published translations, of which the public at length became heartily

tired; having, indeed, got an inkling of the manner in which those

translations were got up. He managed, however, to ride out many a storm,

having one trusty sheet-anchor—Radicalism. This he turned to the best

advantage—writing pamphlets and articles in reviews, all in the Radical

interest, and for which he was paid out of the Radical fund; which

articles and pamphlets, when Toryism seemed to reel on its last legs,

exhibited a slight tendency to Whiggism. Nevertheless, his abhorrence of

desertion of principle was so great in the time of the Duke of

Wellington’s administration, that when S— left the Whigs and went over,

he told the writer, who was about that time engaged with him in a

literary undertaking, that the said S— was a fellow with a character so

infamous, that any honest man would rather that you should spit in his

face than insult his ears with the mention of the name of S—.

The literary project having come to nothing,—in which, by-the-bye, the

writer was to have all the labour, and his friend all the credit,

provided any credit should accrue from it,—the writer did not see the

latter for some years, during which time considerable political changes

took place; the Tories were driven from, and the Whigs placed in, office,

both events being brought about by the Radicals coalescing with the

Whigs, over whom they possessed great influence for the services which

they had rendered. When the writer next visited his friend, he found him

very much altered; his opinions were by no means so exalted as they had

been—he was not disposed even to be rancorous against the Duke of

Wellington, saying that there were worse men than he, and giving him some

credit as a general; a hankering after gentility seeming to pervade the

whole family, father and sons, wife and daughters, all of whom talked

about genteel diversions—gentility-novels, and even seemed to look with

favour on high Churchism, having in former years, to all appearance, been

bigoted Dissenters. In a little time the writer went abroad; as, indeed,

did his friend; not, however, like the writer, at his own expense, but at

that of the country—the Whigs having given him a travelling appointment,

which he held for some years, during which he is said to have received

upwards of twelve thousand pounds of the money of the country, for

services which will, perhaps, be found inscribed on certain tablets, when

another Astolfo shall visit the moon. This appointment, however, he lost

on the Tories resuming power—when the writer found him almost as Radical

and patriotic as ever, just engaged in trying to get into Parliament,

into which he got by the assistance of his Radical friends, who, in

conjunction with the Whigs, were just getting up a crusade against the

Tories, which they intended should be a conclusive one.

A little time after the publication of _The Bible in Spain_, the Tories

being still in power, this individual, full of the most disinterested

friendship for the author, was particularly anxious that he should be

presented with an official situation, in a certain region a great many

miles off. “You are the only person for that appointment,” said he; “you

understand a great deal about the country, and are better acquainted with

the two languages spoken there than any one in England. Now I love my

country, and have, moreover, a great regard for you, and as I am in

Parliament, and have frequent opportunities of speaking to the Ministry,

I shall take care to tell them how desirable it would be to secure your

services. It is true they are Tories, but I think that even Tories would

give up their habitual love of jobbery in a case like yours, and for once

show themselves disposed to be honest men and gentlemen; indeed, I have

no doubt they will; for, having so deservedly an infamous character, they

would be glad to get themselves a little credit, by a presentation which

could not possibly be traced to jobbery or favouritism.” The writer

begged his friend to give himself no trouble about the matter, as he was

not desirous of the appointment, being in tolerably easy circumstances,

and willing to take some rest after a life of labour. All, however, that

he could say was of no use, his friend indignantly observing that the

matter ought to be taken entirely out of his hands, and the appointment

thrust upon him for the credit of the country. “But may not many people

be far more worthy of the appointment than myself?” said the writer.

“Where?” said the friendly Radical. “If you don’t get it, it will be

made a job of, given to the son of some steward, or, perhaps, to some

quack who has done dirty work; I tell you what, I shall ask it for you,

in spite of you; I shall, indeed!” and his eyes flashed with friendly and

patriotic fervour through the large pair of spectacles which he wore.

And, in fact, it would appear that the honest and friendly patriot put

his threat into execution. “I have spoken,” said he, “more than once to

this and that individual in Parliament, and everybody seems to think that

the appointment should be given to you. Nay, that you should be forced

to accept it. I intend next to speak to Lord A—.” {372a} And so he

did, at least it would appear so. On the writer calling upon him one

evening, about a week afterwards, in order to take leave of him, as the

writer was about to take a long journey for the sake of his health, his

friend no sooner saw him than he started up in a violent fit of

agitation, and glancing about the room, in which there were several

people, amongst others two Whig members of Parliament, said: “I am glad

you are come, I was just speaking about you. This,” said he, addressing

the two members, “is so-and-so, the author of so-and-so, the well-known

philologist; as I was telling you, I spoke to Lord A— {372b} this day

about him, and said that he ought forthwith to have the head appointment

in —; and what did the fellow say? Why, that there was no necessity for

such an appointment at all, and if there were, why—and then he hummed and

ha’d. Yes,” said he, looking at the writer, “he did indeed. What a

scandal! what an infamy! But I see how it will be, it will be a job.

The place will be given to some son of a steward or to some quack, as I

said before. Oh, these Tories! Well, if this does not make one—” Here

he stopped short, crunched his teeth, and looked the image of

desperation.

Seeing the poor man in this distressed condition, the writer begged him

to be comforted, and not to take the matter so much to heart; but the

indignant Radical took the matter very much to heart, and refused all

comfort whatever, bouncing about the room, and, whilst his spectacles

flashed in the light of four spermaceti candles, exclaiming: “It will be

a job—a Tory job! I see it all, I see it all, I see it all!”

And a job it proved, and a very pretty job, but no Tory job. Shortly

afterwards the Tories were out, and the Whigs were in. From that time

the writer heard not a word about the injustice done to the country, in

not presenting him with the appointment to —; the Radical, however, was

busy enough to obtain the appointment, not for the writer, but for

himself and eventually succeeded, partly through Radical influence, and

partly through that of a certain Whig lord, for whom the Radical had

done, on a particular occasion, work of a particular kind. So, though

the place was given to a quack, and the whole affair a very pretty job,

it was one in which the Tories had certainly no hand.

In the meanwhile, however, the friendly Radical did not drop the writer.

Oh, no! On various occasions he obtained from the writer all the

information about the country in question, and was particularly anxious

to obtain from the writer, and eventually did obtain, a copy of a work

written in the court language of that country, edited by the writer, a

language exceedingly difficult, which the writer, at the expense of a

considerable portion of his eyesight, had acquired, at least as far as by

the eyesight it could be acquired. What use the writer’s friend made of

the knowledge he had gained from him, and what use he made of the book,

the writer can only guess; but he has little doubt that when the question

of sending a person to — was mooted in a Parliamentary Committee—which it

was at the instigation of the Radical supporters of the writer’s

friend—the Radical on being examined about the country, gave the

information which he had obtained from the writer as his own, and flashed

the book and its singular characters in the eyes of the Committee; and

then of course his Radical friends would instantly say: “This is the man!

there is no one like him. See what information he possesses; and see

that book written by himself in the court language of Serendib. This is

the only man to send there. What a glory, what a triumph it would be to

Britain, to send out a man so deeply versed in the mysterious lore of —,

as our illustrious countryman; a person who with his knowledge could beat

with their own weapons the wise men of —! Is such an opportunity to be

lost? Oh, no, surely not; if it is, it will be an eternal disgrace to

England, and the world will see that Whigs are no better than Tories.”

Let no one think the writer uncharitable in these suppositions. The

writer is only too well acquainted with the antecedents of the

individual, to entertain much doubt that he would shrink from any such

conduct, provided he thought that his temporal interest would be

forwarded by it. The writer is aware of more than one instance in which

he has passed off the literature of friendless young men for his own,

after making them a slight pecuniary compensation and deforming what was

originally excellent by interpolations of his own. This was his especial

practice with regard to translation, of which he would fain be esteemed

the king. This Radical _literato_ is slightly acquainted with four or

five of the easier dialects of Europe, on the strength of which knowledge

he would fain pass for a universal linguist, publishing translations of

pieces originally written in various difficult languages; which

translations, however, were either made by himself from literal

renderings done for him into French or German, or had been made from the

originals into English, by friendless young men, and then deformed by his

alterations.

Well, the Radical got the appointment, and the writer certainly did not

grudge it him. He, of course, was aware that his friend had behaved in a

very base manner towards him, but he bore him no ill-will, and invariably

when he heard him spoken against, which was frequently the case, took his

part when no other person would; indeed, he could well afford to bear him

no ill-will. He had never sought for the appointment, nor wished for it,

nor, indeed, ever believed himself to be qualified for it. He was

conscious, it is true, that he was not altogether unacquainted with the

language and literature of the country with which the appointment was

connected. He was likewise aware that he was not altogether deficient in

courage and in propriety of behaviour. He knew that his appearance was

not particularly against him, his face not being like that of a convicted

pickpocket, nor his gait resembling that of a fox who has lost his tail;

yet he never believed himself adapted for the appointment, being aware

that he had no aptitude for the doing of dirty work, if called to do it,

nor pliancy which would enable him to submit to scurvy treatment, whether

he did dirty work or not—requisites, at the time of which he is speaking,

indispensable in every British official; requisites, by-the-bye, which

his friend, the Radical, possessed in a high degree; but though he bore

no ill-will towards his friend, his friend bore anything but good-will

towards him; for from the moment that he had obtained the appointment for

himself, his mind was filled with the most bitter malignity against the

writer, and naturally enough; for no one ever yet behaved in a base

manner towards another, without forthwith conceiving a mortal hatred

against him. You wrong another, know yourself to have acted basely, and

are enraged, not against yourself—for no one hates himself—but against

the innocent cause of your baseness; reasoning very plausibly, “But for

that fellow, I should never have been base; for had he not existed, I

could not have been so, at any rate against him”; and this hatred is all

the more bitter, when you reflect that you have been needlessly base.

Whilst the Tories are in power the writer’s friend, of his own accord,

raves against the Tories because they do not give the writer a certain

appointment, and makes, or says he makes, desperate exertions to make

them do so; but no sooner are the Tories out, with whom he has no

influence, and the Whigs in, with whom he, or rather his party, has

influence, than he gets the place for himself, though, according to his

own expressed opinion—an opinion with which the writer does not, and

never did, concur—the writer was the only person competent to hold it.

Now had he, without saying a word to the writer, or about the writer with

respect to the employment, got the place for himself when he had an

opportunity, knowing, as he very well knew, himself to be utterly

unqualified for it, the transaction, though a piece of jobbery, would not

have merited the title of a base transaction; as the matter stands,

however, who can avoid calling the whole affair not only a piece of—come,

come, out with the word—scoundrelism on the part of the writer’s friend,

but a most curious piece of uncalled-for scoundrelism? and who, with any

knowledge of fallen human nature, can wonder at the writer’s friend

entertaining towards him a considerable portion of gall and malignity?

This feeling on the part of the writer’s friend was wonderfully increased

by the appearance of _Lavengro_, many passages of which the Radical in

his foreign appointment applied to himself and family—one or two of his

children having gone over to Popery, the rest become members of Mr.

Platitude’s chapel, and the minds of all being filled with ultra notions

of gentility.

The writer, hearing that his old friend had returned to England, to

apply, he believes, for an increase of salary, and for a title, called

upon him, unwillingly, it is true, for he had no wish to see a person for

whom, though he bore him no ill-will, he could not avoid feeling a

considerable portion of contempt; the truth is, that his sole object in

calling was to endeavour to get back a piece of literary property which

his friend had obtained from him many years previously, and which, though

he had frequently applied for it, he never could get back. Well, the

writer called; he did not get his property, which, indeed, he had

scarcely time to press for, being almost instantly attacked by his good

friend and his wife—yes, it was then that the author was set upon by an

old Radical and his wife—the wife, who looked the very image of shame and

malignity, did not say much, it is true, but encouraged her husband in

all he said. Both of their own accord introduced the subject of

_Lavengro_. The Radical called the writer a grumbler, just as if there

had ever been a greater grumbler than himself until, by the means above

described, he had obtained a place; he said that the book contained a

melancholy view of human nature—just as if anybody could look in his face

without having a melancholy view of human nature. On the writer quietly

observing that the book contained an exposition of his principles, the

pseudo-Radical replied, that he cared nothing for his principles—which

was probably true, it not being likely that he would care for another

person’s principles after having shown so thorough a disregard for his

own. The writer said that the book, of course, would give offence to

humbugs; the Radical then demanded whether he thought him a humbug—the

wretched wife was the Radical’s protection, even as he knew she would be;

it was on her account that the writer did not kick his good friend; as it

was, he looked at him in the face and thought to himself, “How is it

possible I should think you a humbug, when only last night I was taking

your part in a company in which everybody called you a humbug?”

The Radical, probably observing something in the writer’s eye which he

did not like, became all on a sudden abjectly submissive, and, professing

the highest admiration for the writer, begged him to visit him in his

government; this the writer promised faithfully to do, and he takes the

present opportunity of performing his promise.

This is one of the pseudo-Radical calumniators of _Lavengro_ and its

author; were the writer on his death-bed he would lay his hand on his

heart and say, that he does not believe that there is one trait of

exaggeration in the portrait which he has drawn. This is one of the

pseudo-Radical calumniators of _Lavengro_ and its author; and this is one

of the genus, who, after having railed against jobbery for perhaps a

quarter of a century, at present batten on large official salaries which

they do not earn. England is a great country, and her interests require

that she should have many a well-paid official both at home and abroad;

but will England long continue a great country if the care of her

interests, both at home and abroad, is in many instances intrusted to

beings like him described above, whose only recommendation for an

official appointment was that he was deeply versed in the secrets of his

party and of the Whigs?

Before he concludes, the writer will take the liberty of saying of

_Lavengro_ that it is a book written for the express purpose of

inculcating virtue, love of country, learning, manly pursuits, and

genuine religion, for example, that of the Church of England, and for

awakening a contempt for nonsense of every kind, and a hatred for

priestcraft, more especially that of Rome.

And in conclusion, with respect to many passages of his book in which he

has expressed himself in terms neither measured nor mealy, he will beg

leave to observe, in the words of a great poet, who lived a profligate

life, it is true, but who died a sincere penitent—thanks, after God, to

good Bishop Burnet—

“All this with indignation I have hurl’d

At the pretending part of this proud world,

Who, swollen with selfish vanity, devise

False freedoms, formal cheats, and holy lies,

Over their fellow fools to tyrannise.”

—ROCHESTER.

* * * * *

THE END.

* * * * *

NOTES TO _THE ROMANY RYE_,

WITH

CORRECTIONS, IDENTIFICATIONS AND TRANSLATIONS.

Page 5. The man in black: The Rev. Fraser. See pp. 24–25, and

“Arbuthnot” in _Bibliog._—Barbarini, read Barberini: Urban VIII., pope

1623–44.—6. Nipotismo di Roma: See “Leti” in _Bibliog._—Ganganelli:

Clement XIV., pope, 1769–74.—10. Mezzofanti: So here and elsewhere in

_Romany Rye_; Mezzofante in _Lavengro_—Cardinal Giuseppe, 1774–1849, the

celebrated linguist.—Leon the Isaurian: Reigned at Constantinople from

717–741.—11. Ignacio: Spanish form of Ignatius.—14. Omani batsikhom:

Manchu Tartar form of prayer given elsewhere by Borrow as

_Oum-ma-ni-bat-mi-houm_. See _Life_, i., p. 176.—15. Bellissima

Biondina (It.): Fairest of blondes.—16. Sono un Prete, etc. (It): I am a

Roman Catholic Priest.—19. Zamarra (Sp.): A sheep-skin jacket with the

wool outside.—Carajo: An oath fit neither to be written nor pronounced,

but common to the lower classes of Spaniards, or to ambitious foreign

Hispanophiles who cannot know its meaning. See Oudin’s _Tesoro_, Paris,

1607.—20. Scotch blood: He was, then, a Fraser of Lovat, of whom Simon

Lord F. was a supporter of the last Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart,

1746.—Puta (Sp.): The most offensive word for harlot.—Alcoran des

Cordeliers, _i.e._, “the Franciscans’ Coran”: A blasphemous work written

in 1399 in Latin by Bartolommeo Albizzi (Albitius); first published in

printed form at Milan in 1510, then by Luther in 1542 with his peculiar

comments, and finally in French at Geneva, 1556. See “Albizzi” in the

_Bibliog._—22. Bible: The price of the old apple-woman’s Bible was, it

will be remembered, one half-crown (_Lavengro_, p. 264).—23. Alexander

VI.: Pope 1492–1503. He was a Spaniard of Valencia, and his family name

was Rodrigo Borja, in It. Borgia.—24. L’opere sue, etc.: His deeds were

not those of lions, but of foxes—a slight alteration of Dante’s _L’opere

mie_, etc. See _L’inf._, xxvii., st. 25.—25. Oimè (It.): Alas!—To . . .,

read Rome.—Sir John D., read Sir _Thomas_ Dereham: A follower of the

Stuarts; he died in 1739, and his monument stands in the English College

at Rome.—There is at . . ., read Rome.—Yes, per Dio (It.): By Heaven!

Page 25. Parsons and Garnet: Two English Jesuits—Robert Parsons

(1547–1610), superior to the Catholic Missions in England, and Henry

Garnet (1555–1606), hanged because he refused to reveal the secrets of

the confessional in connection with the Gunpowder Plot.—No hay remedio

(Sp.): There is no help for it.—26. Inserted it: In vol. iv., p.

330.—32. Calañés: A Spanish hat worn by the lower classes, having the

rim turned up against the crown.—There’s a chovahanee, etc.: The full

ditty runs thus in one of Borrow’s _MSS._:—

“THE PETULENGRES.

“There’s a chovahanee and a chovahanó,

The nav se lendè Petulengro;

Sore the chavès ’dré their ten

Are chories and labbenies—tatchipen,”

which reading corrects that of the text.—34. Flaming Bosville: Anselo

Herne. See p. 67, and note to _Lavengro_, p. 363.—37. Gentleman Cooper

and White-headed Bob: i.e., George Cooper and Ned Baldwin, who fought on

the 5th of July, 1825, according to Pearce Egan’s _Boxiana_, v., pp. 61

and 80. Observe that the date harmonises perfectly with the chronology

of the expedition.—38. Brynhilda the Valkyrie, or Amazon, was the wife

of Gunnar and friend of Sigurd. See the Edda in _Bibliog._ Sigurd,

called Fafnisbane or the Slayer of Fafnir, was a heroic character

frequently mentioned in the Edda, the Wilkina Saga, Snorro’s

Heimskringla, and Saxo-Grammaticus. In the Wilkina he is Sigurdr Sveinn,

in the old Danish Heroic Ballads (Kiæmpeviser) he is Sigurd Snaresvend

(Borrow’s “Snareswayne”), and Siegfrid in the Lay of the Nibelungs.

Sivard or Sivord is a German variety of the same name.

Page 40. Feasting: This rustic banquet was offered to Sylvester and

Ursula who were married that day, although our “rye” was not aware of the

fact till later. The song was _built up_ by our author from a very

slender prose draft, which I find in its earliest form given thus:—

1. “DRABBING THE BAULO,

“We jaws to the drab-engro and lels dui or trin hors-worth of drab,

and when we wels to the sweti we pens we can have a drab at a baulo.

Then we kairs it opré, and jaws to a farm-ker to mang a bit of

habben, and then we pens: ‘Chuva lis acai and dov-odoy baulo will lel

it, and to-morrow sorlu we’ll wel apopli and mang it’. And so we

kairs, and on the sorlu when we’ve got it, we toves it well; we kins

levinor at the kitchema, and have a kosko habben. The boshom-engro

plays (_kils_), and the tawni juva gils, a kosko puro Rommany

guillie.” Then follows the _gillie_ nearly as in the text.

2. “DRABBING THE BAULO.

“To mande shoon ye Rommany Chals

Who besh in the pus about the yag

I’ll pen how we drab the baulo.

“We jaws to the drab-engro ker

Trin horsworth there of drab we lels

And when to the swety back we wels

We pens we’ll drab the baulo.

“And then we kairs the drab opré,

And then we jaws to the farming ker

To mang a beti habben,

A beti poggado habben.

“A rinkeno baulo there we dick,

And then we pens in Rommany jib:

‘Chiv lis odoy oprey the chick,

The baulo he will lel lis,

The baulo he will lel lis.

“‘Apopli on the sorlo we

Will wel and mang him mullo,

Will wel and mang his truppo.’

“And so we kairs, and so we kairs,

We mang him on the sorlo,

And rig to the tan the baulo.

“And then we toves his wendror well

Till sore the wendror iuziou sie,

Till kekkeno drab’s adrey lis,

Till drab there’s kek adrey lis.

“And then his truppo well we hatch,

Kin levinor at the kitchema,

And have a kosko habben,

A kosko Rommano habben.

“The boshom-engro kils, he kils,

The tawni juva gils, she gils,

A puro Rommany gillie,

Now shoon the Rommany gillie.”

3. The third and last _MS._ is complete, but varies considerably from

the printed text. _Romany_ is written with two _m_’s, as in _Lavengro_

throughout; in the fourth verse it reads: “In Rommany _chib_:_ chiv_ lis

_odoy_ opré _the chik_”; fourth line omits “_and_”; in the fifth and

sixth verses it gives “_sorlo_” properly, instead of “saulo”; in seventh

verse it reads “_his_ wendror,” and in the last, “_boshom-engro_” and

“_tawni_”.

From all these variants it results that _MS._ No. 3 furnishes a better

reading than the printed text.

Page 42. Ursula’s Song: By the aid of the Gypsy list at the end of this

volume, the translation can be easily made out by the curious reader.—46.

Piramus: In _MS._ also _Priamus_.—Sanpriel: Corrupt form of _Sanspareil_,

unrivalled.—Synfye: Slavonic form of _Cynthia_—_th_ in Russian is

pronounced _ph_ or _f_; Thomas, _Fómas_.—47. Life of Charles: Add

_XIIth_.—48. The church: Mentioned as three miles from the dingle, and

on pp. 53, 110, as at _M._, has not yet been discovered.—58. The Edda:

Early Icelandic literary monuments, consisting of the Elder or Poetic

Edda collected by Sæmund, and the later or Prose Edda collected by Snorro

Sturleson. See Mallet’s _Northern Antiquities_, Bohn’s Edition.—Sagas:

Early historical tales handed down by oral tradition. See _Bibliog._—67.

Anselo Herne: His clan-name. See note to p. 363 of _Lavengro_. 68.

Pulci: Luigi Pulci (1432–87). See _Bibliog._—69. Ingravidata (It.):

With child.—E nacquene, etc.: “And of her a son was born, says story, who

subsequently gave great victory to Charlemagne”.—71. Fortiguerra:

Niccolò Fortiguerra (1674–1735). He did not live to print his voluminous

poem entitled _Ricciardetto_, having died in 1735, just “ninety years”

from the date 1825, as our text declares.—76. Slammocks, etc.: Norwich

worthies, I suppose; at least I do not find them in the _Boxiana_ at my

command.—89. The Armenian in this (xivth) chapter I find correct.

Hramahyel should have been given _hramaïyel_, hntal, etc., _khntal_

(χντάλ), and madagh, _madag_. See “Villotte” in the _Bibliog._—91.

Hard-mouthed jade: This favourite expression of Mr. Borrow’s proceeds, I

opine, from his readings in the quaint eighteenth century literature with

which his library abounded. In Defoe’s _Moll Flanders_, p. 301, edition

of 1722, we read: “The witnesses were the two wenches, a couple of _hard

mouth’d jades_ indeed”. And on p. 323: “A _hard mouth’d man_”.—93.

Brynhilda: See note to p. 38.—133–34. The “daffodil” poet: William

Wordsworth (1770–1850).—141. Carlo Borromeo: The Cardinal saint, born

1538, died 1584.—143. Bricconi abbasso (It.): “Down with the rogues!”

Page 157. Friar Bacon: The celebrated scientist Roger Bacon (1214–94)

was fated, like Virgil, to be popularly metamorphosed into a magician and

conjuror. Hence the “Friar Bacon” series of chap-books, extending (so

far as we know them) from the sixteenth century to the present. I will

give the passage referred to by Mr. Borrow, so that it may be seen that

the myth had no reference to the railway. No. 3 in _Bibliog._, leaf 8:—

“Chapter V. How Miles watched the Brazen-head, and in the end went

away from his master.

“Fryer Bacon, having performed many wonderful things by his curious

Art, was now sifting out _how he might wall England with brass_;

wherefore he and Fryer Bungy, when they had raised the devil, bound

him to a tree, for to make him tell them how it might be performed.

He told them that they should make a _Brazen-head_, which (if they

could watch it till it spoke) would tell them how it might be done.

The head was made, and they watched till they could watch no longer.

At last Fryer Bungey persuaded Fryer Bacon to let his man Miles watch

while they slept; to which the Fryer agreed. Then Miles was called,

who undertook to awake them when the Head would speak. So to sleep

they went, and Miles expected some great speech to come from the

Head. At last the Head cryed, ‘_TIME IS_’; at which Miles fell into

a great laughter, and made his scoffs and jears thereat. Then it

said, ‘_TIME WAS_’; but yet he would not awake his master, counting

them but silly and frivolous words. Lastly, the Head said, ‘_TIME IS

PAST_’; at which words down it fell, and in falling made such a noise

that it awakened the two Fryers, and had almost affrighted poor Miles

out of his senses,” etc.

Page 158. L . . ., read Liverpool; C . . ., read Chester.—162. Brooke

of Borneo: Sir James Brooke, Rajah of Sarawak (1803–68), George Borrow’s

school-mate at Norwich in 1816–17–18.—165. “Vails”: He means, of course,

_vale_.—175–6–7. Romanvile: London. See “English Rogue” in _Bibl._—176.

The chi she is kaulo (read _kauley_), etc.: “The lass she is black, she

sleeps upon her back”.—177–78. Sivord: Or Sivard, the same as Sigurd,

called the Snaresvend (“Snareswayne” on the next page). See note to p.

38, and _Romantic Ballads_, 1826, pp. 83 and 90. For the reason of

Borrow’s changing the Danish _svend_ into “swayne,” see _Life_, ii., p.

269.—The horse Grayman: _i.e._, the “Skimming gray” of p. 96, _Romantic

Ballads_.—183. The Maugrabin sorcerer: The “African Magician” in Lane’s

translation. There is in this passage of _The Romany Rye_ evidently a

confusion of two of the tales in the _Arabian Nights_—those of Aladdin

and Sindbad, fifth voyage.—221. Isten (pron. _íshten_): Hung. for

God.—222. Magyar (pron. _mädjr_): A Hungarian.—223. Tékéli

(1658–1705).—L’Eau de la Reine d’Hongrie, read _de Hongrie_, _h_ being

aspirate in this word.—Pigault Lebrun (Charles), 1753–1835; _Les Barons

de Felsheim_, Paris, 1822.—Ersebet, read _Erszebet_,

Elisabeth.—Florentius of Buda: Flourished 1790–1805. See “Budai Ferencz”

in the _Bibliog._—224. Álmus, or Álmos (_älmosh_), died 889. The

Hungarian scholar Vámbéri, has exploded the “dream” (or rather “sleep”)

theory heretofore entertained with regard to the origin of the name

Almos; he says it is an epithet, meaning the Great, the Sublime, the

Noble, the Glorious (_Ursprung_, pp. 62, 156).—225 (228 and elsewhere),

Dunau, read _Donau_, Germ. for Danube.—Király and Ház: The former comes

from the Servian _Králj_ (_lj_ like Span. _ll_ or Port. _lh_), which the

Hungarian lengthened into _kir-ály_, not finding it convenient to

pronounce _kr_. {383} As for _haz_, from _haus_ (Austrian pop.

pronunciation _hôs_), we are told by Vámbéri that the ancient form was

not _ház_, but _hos_ (_Ursp._, p. 556).—226. Janos (pron. _Yánosh_):

John.—226. Szava (Hung.): The Save.—229. Laszlo: Ladislaus.—Cilejia:

The Roman _Claudia Celleia_, now Cilly, in Carinthia.—230. Matyas: In

English Matthias.—Huz, read _husz_ (Hung.): Twenty. Vámbéri questions

this etymology of “hussar” (p. 283), but unsatisfactorily, we

think.—Ulazslo: Wladislaus.—Tché Drak: The Roumanian _cé dracŭ_, but

pronounced as in the text, and equivalent to the exclamation _que

diable_!—Mohacs Veszedelem, read Mohacsi Veszedelem: The Disaster of

Mohács, the title of a poem by Baron Liszti.—231. Bátory: A mere

epithet, the “valiant”.—232. Lajos (_laï-osh_), Louis or Lewis.—Mufti:

The ulémas or Doctors of the (Mahomedan) law.—233. Coloscvar, read

Koloszvár, in German, Klausenburg.—Budáï Ferencz: See _Bibliog._—235.

Rysckie Tsar, read _Russki Tsar_: The Russian Emperor.—Plescova, now

Pskov.—Iván Basilowitz, read _Vasiliévitch_, known as Iván the

Terrible.—236. Izbushka (Russ.): Hut—Tyzza, read _Tisza_: The river

Theiss.—Kopacs Teto, read _Kopász Tetö_.—Kassau, read _Kaschau_.—239.

Eljen edes, etc. (pron. _elyen edesh tsigáñ oor_, _elyen gool eraï_):

“Long live the sweet Gypsy gentleman, long live the gudlo Rye”.—241.

Roth-Welsch: The German for Thieves’ Slang.—Tzernebock, read _Tchernobog_

(_g_ like Germ. _ch_): Black god, evil principle.—Bielebock, read

_Bielbog_: White god, the good principle.—242. Saxo-Gramaticus, read

_Grammaticus_, see _Bibliog._—Fekete (Hung.): Black.—246. Erik Bloodaxe

(Danish _Blodöxe_): King of Norway, Snorro, 1633, p. 64.—256. Regner

Lodbrok: “Regnar” in Icelandic; Borrow gives the Danish term of this

king’s name. See his famous _Death Song_ in Mallet, pp.

383–85.—Halgerdr, read Halgerda, Mallet, pp. 340–41.—257. Biorn, read

_Björn_ and Ivarr, _Ivar_.—258. Verdammt (Germ.): Confounded.

Page 262. “Wife selling”: A very common practice among a certain class,

it seems, in England; and, as this will hardly be credited in America, I

will append some extracts from the newspapers. The _Norfolk Chronicle_

of 5th May, 1894, says: “The belief formerly prevailed, especially among

the rural population, that a man had a perfectly legal right to sell his

wife to another, provided he observed two indispensable formalities. One

was that he placed a _halter_ about her neck, and the other that he led

her into the market and publicly transferred her to the purchaser.

Numerous instances of these strange transactions have been recorded. Our

columns, on the 9th of February, 1805, contained an account of the sale

of a wife at Norwich. A Kentish tailor, the affections and person of

whose amiable spouse had been jockeyed away by a neighbouring

horse-dealer, caparisoned her neck with a halter and surrendered all

right and title to his virtuous rib, in consideration of the sum of £5.

On the 2nd of May, 1823, a similar sale was effected in this city. A man

named Stebbings disposed of his wile to a person named Turner for the sum

of £6 10s. The latter paid £4 on account, took the woman home, and

brutally turned his lawful wife out of doors.”

The London _Daily Mail_ of 1st March, 1899, prints the following:—

“Very few people are aware that wives are literally sold to-day in

England. A very common error of the vulgar is that a man by selling his

wife releases himself from the marriage contract as surely as if he were

legally divorced. In March, 1796, _The Times_ announced the sale of a

wife at Sheffield for sixpence. A short time afterwards the same journal

calmly stated that the price of wives has risen in Smithfield Market from

half a guinea to three guineas and a half! In 1803 a man led his wife,

by a halter round her neck, into the cattle market at Sheffield, and sold

her for a guinea, the purchaser leading away the woman to his home. In

1820 a man named Brouchet hired a cattle-pen in the Canterbury market,

placed his wife in it, and ultimately sold her for 5s. Then wives began

to increase in value, for soon afterwards one was sold for £15. This was

followed by a ‘slump’. In 1855 a man led his wife with a halter round

her waist into Derby marketplace and offered her for sale, but all be

could get for her was eighteen pence and a quart of ale. In 1873 a

husband left his home and creditors in Belper for the liberty of America.

The week after his flight all his goods were put up for auction to

satisfy his debts. His wife claimed part of the money, and this being

refused she insisted on being offered for sale as part of her husband’s

assets. There was no sale, however, for ‘Lot 29’. In even more recent

days wife sales were common, and are even being effected in this present

year of grace. In 1882 John Wilson, a collier of Alfreton, Derbyshire,

sold his wife in a public-house for fourpence. Sheffield knife-grinders

have long been noted for their transactions in the wife trade. Within

quite recent times many a Sheffield wife has been sold by her husband for

a gallon of beer, which has been drunk on the spot. Sometimes these

sales assume a more formal aspect. In 1887, in the Sheffield County

Court, a man admitted that he had bought another man’s wife for 5s. Most

of these discreditable ‘deals’ escape notice, but a case has come to

light where a man agreed to sell his wife to a collier, and the trio,

with the woman’s father and mother and two family friends, assembled to

arrange terms. Thirty shillings was the price finally agreed on. Four

years ago, at Leeds, a man charged with bigamy pleaded that, as he had

sold his wife for 3s. 6d. to another man, he could marry again legally!

Eighteen months’ imprisonment was what he got, and more than deserved. A

police court case in 1896 at Doncaster revealed the fact that John Tart

sold his wife to Enoch Childs, on the understanding that the latter

reared the vendor’s four children. In a Durham court in 1894 it

transpired that a man named Shaw sold his daughter, a girl of sixteen, to

a collier called Cudman, for 1s. Many a wife is at present sold in the

East End of London, as well as in Yorkshire, for a quart of beer or an

ounce of thick twist. It is the poor man’s method of divorce, and such

is popular ignorance that there are scores of people who imagine that

selling a wife is as legal a separation as a _decree nisi_ pronounced by

a bewigged and berobed judge.”

Page 265. Herodotus: The story is found in _Thalia III._, 84–88 (pp.

208–9 of Cary’s Eng. translation). The groom’s name was _Œbares_.—266.

Deaghblasda, read _deaghbhlasda_ (Ir.): Sweet-tasted, dainty. This is

the soothing word hinted at, but not given, in _Lavengro_, p. 83.—269.

At H . . ., read _Hertford_, where John Thurtell was hanged, 9th January,

1824.—Ned Flatnose: Ed. Painter of Norwich.—270. Spring: His true name

was Thomas _Winter_; see _Lavengro_, p. 168. He died 20th August,

1851.—276. . . . Fair, read Greenwich Fair, on Easter Monday. See

Dickens’ _Sketches_.—279. Oilien (and p. 295, Oilein) nan Naomha, read

_Oilean na Naomhtha_ (Ir.): Island of the Saints (Patrick and

Columba).—Finn-ma-Coul: The tale of Finn was first learned by Borrow in

January, 1854, from his Irish guide Cronan, while travelling in Cornwall

(_Life_, ii., p. 86, and note). This fact shows that Murtagh and his

tale are introduced here to exhibit the author’s discovery of the

identity between the Finn of Ireland and the Eddaic tradition of Sigurd

Fafnisbane (p. 281). For Sigurd in the Wilkina Saga is suckled by a hind

(p. 120) and fostered by Mymmer Smed or Mimer the Smith (p. 121) whom he

eventually slays (p. 124). In the Eddaic Lay of the serpent-killer we

read: “Sigurd took the heart of Fafnir and broiled it on a spit. And

when he judged that it was done, he touched it with his finger to

ascertain if that were really the case. Having burned his finger in the

act, he put it to his mouth, and no sooner had the heart’s blood of

Fafnir come in contact with Sigurd’s tongue than he understood the speech

of birds,” etc. Here we have the two sides verified, the Irish by

Cronan, and the Scandian by the Edda. But Brooke’s _Reliques_, a

favourite work of Borrow’s in his Norwich days, and which he cites in

1832 (_Life_, i., p. 146), give us certain other fragments of these

Finnic fables, whereby we can trace the sources of the text before us.

For example, after Jack Dale had stripped Murtagh of all his money he is

observed to be sitting “in deep despondency, holding his thumb to his

mouth” (p. 278). And a little farther on (p. 282) a verse is cited from

“Conan the Bald”. Now all this is found in Miss Brooke, that is, the

names and the ideas—Conan the Bald (p. 106), Lochlin (p. 46), and Darmod

Odeen (minus Taffy) and the verse with this note (p. 109):—“This strange

passage is explained by some lines in the Poem of Dubmac-Dighruibh, where

Finn is reproached with deriving all his courage from _chewing his thumb_

for prophetic information.”—281. Siol Loughlin, read _Lochlin_ (Ir.):

Literally “the seed of Norway,” _i.e._, the Danish or Norwegian race.

Miss Brooke very properly says (p. 46): “Lochlin is the Gælic (and Irish)

name for Scandinavia in general”; but Borrow limits it to Denmark—the

Danish race. And a little below, “the Loughlin songs” are his _Danish

Ballads_ which he published the following year.