“Ah, but we don’t understand Armenian, it cannot be expected that we should understand Armenian, or Welsh, or—­Hey, what’s this?  The mighty we not understand Armenian or Welsh, or—­Then why does the mighty we pretend to review a book like Lavengro?  From the arrogance with which it continually delivers itself, one would think that the mighty we is omniscient; that it understands every language; is versed in every literature; yet the mighty we does not even know the word for bread in Armenian.  It knows bread well enough by name in England, and frequently bread in England only by its name, but the truth is, that the mighty we, with all its pretension, is in general a very sorry creature, who, instead of saying nous disons, should rather say nous dis:  Porny in his “Guerre des Dieux,” very profanely makes the three in one say, Je faisons; now, Lavengro, who is anything but profane, would suggest that critics, especially magazine and Sunday newspaper critics, should commence with nous dis, as the first word would be significant of the conceit and assumption of the critic, and the second of the extent of the critic’s information.  The we says its say, but when fawning sycophancy or vulgar abuse are taken from that say, what remains?  Why a blank, a void like Ginnungagap.

As the writer, of his own accord, has exposed some of the blemishes of his book—­a task, which a competent critic ought to have done—­ he will now point out two or three of its merits, which any critic, not altogether blinded with ignorance might have done, or not replete with gall and envy would have been glad to do.  The book has the merit of communicating a fact connected with physiology, which in all the pages of the multitude of books was never previously mentioned—­the mysterious practice of touching objects to baffle the evil chance.  The miserable detractor will, of course, instantly begin to rave about such a habit being common:  well and good; but was it ever before described in print, or all connected with it dissected?  He may then vociferate something about Johnson having touched:- the writer cares not whether Johnson, who, by the bye, during the last twenty or thirty years, owing to people having become ultra Tory mad from reading Scott’s novels and the “Quarterly Review,” has been a mighty favourite, especially with some who were in the habit of calling him a half crazy old fool—­touched, or whether he did or not; but he asks where did Johnson ever describe the feelings which induced him to perform the magic touch, even supposing that he did perform it?  Again, the history gives an account of a certain book called the “Sleeping Bard,” the most remarkable prose work of the most difficult language but one, of modern Europe,—­a book, for a notice of which, he believes, one might turn over in vain the pages of any review printed in England, or, indeed, elsewhere.—­So here are two facts, one literary and the other physiological,