eople who profess to have a regard for truth, not to exhibit in every
assertion which they make a most profligate disregard of it; this
assertion of theirs is a falsehood, and they know it to be a falsehood.
In the preface 'Lavengro' is stated to be a dream; and the writer takes
this opportunity of stating that he never said it was an autobiography,
never authorized any person to say that it was one; and that he has in
innumerable instances declared in public and private, both before and
after the work was published, that it was not what is generally termed an
autobiography; but a set of people who pretend to write criticisms on
books, hating the author for various reasons--amongst others, because,
having the proper pride of a gentleman and a scholar, he did not, in the
year 1843, 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 chose to call it so.
Now, what a fine triumph it would have been for those who wished to
vilify the book and its author, provided they could 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 up 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 h