Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 58, Number 358, August 1845

"My basnet to a 'prentice cap,Lord Surrey's o'er the Till,"

you will take all Glasgow by storm, and stand henceforward crowned as the young Euripides of the West.

You and I, in the course of our early German studies, lighted, as I can well remember, upon the Phantasus of Ludwig Tieck. I attribute your loss of the first prize in the Moral Philosophy class to the enthusiasm with which you threw yourself into his glorious Bluebeard and Fortunatus. In truth it was like hearing the tales of childhood told anew, only with a manlier tone, and a clearer and more dignified purpose. How lucidly the early, half-forgotten images were restored under the touch of that inimitable artist! What a luxury it was to revel with the first favourites of our childhood, now developed into full life, and strength, and stately beauty! With these before us, how could we dare be infidels and recreants to our earlier faith, or smile in scorn at the fanciful loves and cherished dreams of infancy? Such were our feelings, nor could it well be otherwise; for Tieck was, and is, a poet of the highest grade—not a playwright and systematic jest-hunter; and would as soon have put forth his hand in impious challenge against the Ark, as have stooped to become a buffooning pander to the idle follies of the million. It remained for England—great and classic England—no, by heavens! I will not do her that wrong—but for London, and London artists!—I believe that is the proper phrase—after having exhausted every other subject of parody, sacred and profane, to invade the sanctuary of childhood, and vulgarize the very earliest impressions which are conveyed to the infant. Are not the men who sit down deliberately to such a task more culpable than even the nursery jade who administers gin and opium to her charge, in order that she may steal to the back-door undisturbed, and there indulge in surreptitious dalliance with the dustman? Far better had they stuck to their old trade of twisting travesties from Shakespeare for the amusement of elderly idiots, than attempted to people Fairyland with the palpable denizens of St Giles. The Seven Champions of Christendom, indeed! They may well lay claim to the title of Champions of Cockneydom incarnate, setting forth on their heroic quest from the rendezvous in the Seven Dials.

Let us look a little into their individual feats, although I must needs say, that the whole of these productions bear a marvellous resemblance to each other. There is no more variety in any of them than can be found in the copious advertisements of the Messrs Doudney. Still, it cannot but be that some gems shall scintillate more than others, or, at all events, be of coarser and duller water. With conscious impartiality, and without imputing the palm of slang to any particular individual, I shall give the precedence to Gemini, and their last approved duodecimo. Messrs Taylor and Smith have bestowed upon the public three dramas—to wit, Valentine and Orson, Whittington and his Cat, and Cinderella. I have not been fortunate enough to meet with the earlier portions of this trilogy; but I have got by me Cinderella, of which title the authors, with characteristic purity, confess

"'Twould be proper erTo say, 'La Cenerentola,' from the opera."

You shall have a specimen, Bogle, of this extremely racy production, which I strongly recommend you to keep in view as model. You cannot have forgotten the tale of the poor deserted maiden, whose loneliness is thus touchingly described—

"From poker, tongs, and kitchen stove,To the neglected cellar,Is all the change I ever know—Oh, hapless Cinderella!"

But dear Cinderellar is not doomed to mourn in dust and ashes for ever. A prince is coming to her rescue, but in disguise, having changed suits with his own valet. Let us mark the manner of his introduction to the interesting family of the Baron:—

Baron.—The Baron Soldoff, Baroness, and Misses!I thought the Prince was here! (To Cinderella.) Tell me who this is.Rodo.—(Bowing.) I'm but a humble servant of his Highness.Baron.—Where is he?Rodo.– Sir, he waits down-stairs from shyness.Baron.—Give him the Baron's compliments, who begsTo this poor hall he'll stir his princely pegs.

[C. Exit Rodoloph, bowing.

(To musicians.) Now change your costumes, quick as you are able,And be in readiness to wait at table;Here are the pantry keys, (throws them up,) and there the cellar's.Now, try and look distingué—that's good fellows.

[L. Exeunt musicians.

Baroness.—What will the Browns say when this visit's told of?'Tis a new era for the house of Soldoff!QUARTETTE.—The Baron, Baroness, Cinderella, and Patchoulia.Air.—'The Campbells are coming.'The Prince is a-coming, oh dear, oh dear,The prince is a-coming, oh dear!The Prince is a-coming, with piping and drumming,The Prince is a-coming, oh dear, oh dear!

[C. A grand march. Some hunters appear marching in at the door, when

Capillaire, in the ducal cap, puts his head in at the entrance and shouts.

Capil.—Hold hard! (music and procession stop.) Come back, you muffs, that's not correct,You're spoiling a magnificent effect.Down those two staircases you've got to go'A la 'The Daughter of St Mark,' you know.

[C. They retire.

Baron.—That was the Prince who show'd his face just now.Baroness.—What a fine voice!Ronde.—What eyes!Patch.—And what a brow!Cin.—(aside.) To my mind, as a casual spectator,If that's the Prince, he's very like a waiter.

[March begins again. A grand procession enters the gallery, and deploying in the

centre, proceeds down the two staircases simultaneously. Pages with hawks on

their wrists. Hunters with dead game, deer, herons, wild-ducks, &c. Men-at-Arms.

Banners with the Prince's Arms, &c. Ladies and Cavaliers. Flowergirls

strewing flowers. Rodolpe with wand. Capillaire as the Prince. His

train held up by two diminutive pages.

Capil.—(as soon as he reaches the stage, advancing to the front is almost tripped upby the pages mismanaging his train. He turns round sharply.)If you do that again, you'll get a whipping;It won't do for a Duke to be caught tripping.Let our train go. [Some of the procession are moving off. R.What are you at? Dear, dear!We don't mean that train there, but this train here.

(Pointing to the train of his robe, the pages leave their hold of it.)

Baron.—This princely visit is a condescension—Capil.—Now don't—Baroness.—(curtsies) A grace to which we've no pretension,Capil.—Bless me!Patch.—(curtseying) An honour not to be believed.Capil.—Oh, Lord!Patch.—(curtseying) A favour thankfully received.Baron.—(bowing again) This princely visit—Capil.—(impatiently) You've said that before.Gammon! We know we're a tremendous bore.We're a plain man, and don't like all this fuss;Accept our game, but don't make game of us.

(Looking about him.)

Well, Baron, these are comfortable quarters,

(Examining Rondeletia and Patchoulia.)

And you hang out two very 'plummy' daughters.Ronde.—What wit!Patch.– What humour!Cin.—(aside) And what language—'plummy!'Capil.—We like your wife, too. Tho' not young she's 'crummy.'Cin.—(aside) And 'crummy,' too. Well, these are odd words, very!I'm sure they're not in Johnson's Dictionary.

(Attendant throws open door. L.)

Atten.—Wittles is on the table.Baron.—(interrupting him) Hush, you lout.He means, you grace, the banquet waits without.If at our humble board you'll deign to sit?Capil.—Oh, I'm not proud. I'll peck a little bit.Baron.—For your attendants—Capil.– Don't mind them at all.Stick the low fellows in the servants' hall.Baron.—(presenting the Baroness for Capillaire to take to dinner.) My wife.Capil.—No, no, old chap, you take the mother.Young 'uns for me (takes Patchoulia under one arm.)Here's one, (takes Rondeletia,)And here's another.

[As they are going out (L.) the Prince, forgetting himself, passes before Capillaire.

Capil.—Halloa! where are you shoving to, you scrub?Now for pot-luck, and woe betide the grub."

Match me that, Bogle, if you can! There is wit, genius, and polish for you! No wonder that the "School for Scandal" has been driven off the field. But we must positively indulge ourselves with a love scene, were it merely to qualify the convulsions into which we have been thrown by the humour of these funny fellows. Mark, learn, and understand how ladies are to be wooed and won—

"[(Enter Prince Rodolph.) L.

Rodo.—How's this—what, tears!—Enough to float a frigate!Patch.—Sir!Ronde.– Sir!Rodo.– Oh, it's the valet they look big at!Come, what's the row?—peace-maker's my capacity.Ronde.—Low wretch!Patch.– I shudder, man, at your audacity!How dare you interfere 'twixt your superiors?Rodo.—'Twas pity!Ronde.– Gracious! pity from inferiors!Rodo.—Nay, dry your eyes, your quarrel's cause I've found,(sings) Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love that makes the world go roundThe Prince is a sad dog, he'll pop away,And bag you ten and twenty hearts a-day;Knocks ladies down like nine-pins, with a look,And worst of all can not be brought to book.He sha'n't dim those eyes long, my darlings, shall he?Patch.—Why, you mad flunky!Ronde.– Why, you maniac valet!Patch.—Why, you impertinent piece of pretension!Ronde.—To call him man would be a condescension.A valet, paugh! (going.)Prince.– A clear case of cold shoulder.Patch.—We'll have you trounced, e'er you're a minute older!

[Exeunt Rondeletia and Patchoulia. (R.)

Prince—(R.) But listen, for a moment. No, they're gone,Well, this is Cocker's old rule, 'set down one.'I had no notion, while I was genteel,How very small indeed a man may feel.I've made what Capillaire calls a 'diskivery.'I wonder what's my value out of livery!But here comes humble little Cinderella (R.);I feel I love her—let's see, shall I tell her?

[Enter Cinderella.

Cin.—I've taken up the coffee, not too soon,And made all tidy for the afternoon.I think—Prince– What do you think, you little gipsy?Cin.—I think the Prince and Pa are getting tipsy.Prince—Well, darling, here I am again you see.Cin.—You don't mean you were waiting here for me?Prince—Yes, but I was though; and can't you guess why?Cin.—You thought that I popp'd out upon the sly?Prince—I have a secret for you—I'm in love!Cin.—(dolefully) Who with?Prince.– With you—fact! There's my hand and glove—Do you return my passion and forgive me?Cin.—I never do return what people give me.Prince.—Then keep my heart!Cin.– Mine kicks up such a bobbery,I'll give it you; exchange, you know, 's no robbery.Prince—We'll wed next week—a house I'll see about.Cin.—I'd go with you—but I've no Sunday out."

Beaumont and Fletcher, did I say? Rather Ovid and Tibullus. What a beautiful picture of innocence is conveyed in that suggestive line—

"You thought that I popp'd out upon the sly!"

It is too natural for fiction. It must be a reminiscence of departed bliss—a sigh wafted from the street-door of a furnished lodging-house in Bloomsbury, when our authors plied the bistoury at Guy's. Bogle, if you ever should be in love, take a lesson from these great masters, and your suit is sure to prosper. Not a serving-maid in the Saltmarket but must yield to such fervid and impassioned eloquence.

Talking of songs, I shall just give you the interesting ditty with which this excellent extravaganza concludes. There is fine moral in it, which will do well to lay to heart.

"Cinderella sings.When lords shall fall before my throne,And dare not call their souls their ownOn my slippery path, lest I should fall,I'll think on the Coal-hole, and sing so small—With my slipper so fine.Tra-la, Tra-la!Gorgeous Tableau.

[Curtain falls."

Yes! there can be little doubt that, after all the Coal-hole is their genuine Aganippe.

Would you like to have a slight specimen of Planché, by way of change? It is not fair to give an entire monopoly to Messrs Taylor and Smith, however eminent their deserts, so let us dedicate a moment to the substitute for Shakespeare. From six fairy dramas, composed by the Witty Wizard, I shall select "Graciosa and Percinet." A very short sample will, I opine, convince you that his popularity is as deserved as it assuredly is extensive. Hasten we, then, to the glorious tournament of the Cockneys.

"Enter (c.) the King, Heralds, Nobles, and Ladies of the Court, the Six Knights, viz.:—Sir Regent Circus, Knight of the Bull and Mouth; Sir Lad Lane, Knight of the Swan with Two Necks; Sir Snow Hill, Knight of the Saracen's Head; Sir Ludgate Hill, Knight of the Belle Sauvage; Sir Fleet Street, Knight of the Bolt-in-Tun; and Sir Charing Cross, Knight of the Golden Cross.

Chorus{'To the Gay Tournament.')To the gay tournamentThe Queen of Beauty goes;He shall gain a prize from herWho most his courage shows—Singing, singing, 'Though others fair may be,Nobody, nobody, can be compared to thee!'Grog.—Soon will the conqueror,With trophy and with wreath,Kneel on his bended kneeMy throne low beneath—Singing, singing, 'Though others fair may be,Nobody, nobody can be compared with me.'King, Lord Nimroddy, and Graciosa, (aside,)Bold must the champion beWho can that boast maintain;He, for audacity,The prize must surely gain.Swinging, hanging on the highest tree,For such a lie, such a lie, he deserves to be.Cho.—To the gay tournament, &c.

[Exeunt. (R.)

Scene IV. Tilt-yard of the Palace. The Lists set out for a Tournament.

Throne for the Queen of Beauty; another for the King; a Chair of State for

the Princess. Pavilions of the Knights-Challengers, &c.

Grognon, King, Graciosa, Knights, Courtiers, Guards, Heralds, &c., discovered.

Herald.—O yes! O yes! O yes! take notice, pray,Here are six noble knights, in arms to-day;Who swear, that never yet was lady seenSo lovely as our new-elected Queen!Against all comers they will prove 'tis so.Oh yes! oh yes! oh yes!

Enter Percinet (L.) in Green Armour.

Per.– I say, oh no!Grog.—Who's this Jack in the green?Gra. [aside] Sure, I know who!King.—Do you know what you say?Per.—And mean it, too!King.—How! come to court, and say just what you mean!You're a Green Knight, indeed!Per.—Sir Turnham Green!Of Brentford's royal house a princely scion,Knight of its ancient order, the Red Lion;Baron of Hammersmith, a Count of Kew,Marquis of Kensington, and Lord knows who.But all these titles willingly I waiveFor one more dear—Fair Graciosa's slave!I'll prove it, on the crest of great or small,She's Beauty's Queen, who holds my heart in thrall,And Grognon is a foul and ugly witch!King.—If you're a gentleman, behave as sich!Per.—Come one, come all! here, I throw down my gage!King.—A green gage, seemingly!Grog.– I choke with rage!To arms! my knights!

[The Knights enter their Pavilions.

Gra.– I'll bet a crown he mills 'em!King.—Laissez Aller! That's go it, if it kills 'em!"

I have no patience for such pitiful slaver! And yet this is the sort of trash which half London is flocking nightly to see, and for which the glorious English drama has been discarded and disdained!

I lay down my pen in utter weariness of the flesh. The jingle of that last jargon is still ringing in my ears; and in order to get rid of it—for if I do not speedily, I am booked as a Bauldie for life—I shall step down to Astley's, and refresh my British feelings by beholding Mr Gomersal overthrown (for the twentieth time this season) upon the field of Waterloo.

PRIESTS, WOMEN, AND FAMILIES

This remarkable book contains a denunciation, by an angry and an able man, of some of the most pressing practical evils of the Roman Catholic system. The celibacy of the priesthood, the mysteries of the confessional, the usurpations of priestly direction in the economy of families, in the control of women, and in the education of children—these are the objects against which the historian of France now directs the arrows of his indignation, and which he seeks to drive from among his countrymen by his earnest and energetic attacks. His hostility has probably been prompted, in part, by the strong feelings of jealousy at present existing in France between the Universities and the Church. But his work is not professedly, nor principally, directed to that subject of controversy. It embraces a larger question, affecting the various relations of private life, and not confined to one form or phasis of fanaticism. It deserves the anxious consideration of all who are interested in the progress of European civilization, and may teach a valuable lesson to many who may, at first sight, seem to be far removed from the mischief which it seeks to remedy.

For centuries past, it may be said, that the great disease of France has been the disorder in its domestic relations. That amidst the general surrender of its upper classes in former times to levity, "and something more," there were many exceptions of family happiness and purity, is as certain as that human nature, in its worst state of depravity, will ever assert its better tendencies, and give indications of the ethereal source from which it has sprung. But, that the prevailing tone of those who ought to have given the tone to others, was long of the most lax or licentious character, admits of little doubt; nor is it wonderful that public corruption and anarchy should have followed fast upon the dissolution of private restraints. The same form of the evil may not now exist; but the book before us exhibits proofs that there is still a want of that harmony in conjugal life that is essential as the foundation of solid virtue and social prosperity. The husband and the wife are still separated from each other; not, it may be, by a lover, but by a priest. There is the same want of sympathy as ever, the same mutual alienation of hearts, the same absence of that kindly agency of mind on mind, which is needed to strengthen the intellect of the woman and to purify the spirit of the man. It is this state of things that has roused the energies of a writer not remarkable for his prejudices against the Catholic church in her earlier constitution, but who thinks he sees her now at his own door, undermining household authority, and stealing from every man the affections of those who are united to him by the tenderest ties, and whom he cannot cease to love, even when his love has ceased to be returned.

Michelet's book is divided into three parts. The first treats of "Direction," or spiritual superintendence in the seventeenth century; containing a historical view of clerical influence during that period; and more particularly of the policy and power of the Jesuits. The second discusses the character of "Direction" in general, and particularly in the nineteenth century. The third is specially devoted to the subject "Of the Family," and winds up the work, by showing the operation of the poison in the most vital part of the frame.

The preface to the first edition contains powerful passages. We extract some of the best of them from the English translation by Mr Cocks, which is sufficiently respectable for our present purpose.

"The question is about our family:—that sacred asylum in which we all desire to seek the repose of the heart, when our endeavours have proved fruitless, and our illusions are no more. We return exhausted to the domestic hearth; but do we find there the repose we sigh for?

"Let us not dissemble, but acknowledge to ourselves how things are: there is in our family a sad difference of sentiment, and the most serious of all.

"We may speak to our mothers, wives, and daughters, on any of the subjects which form the topics of our conversation with indifferent persons, such as business or the news of the day, but never on subjects that affect the heart and moral life, such as eternity, religion, the soul, and God.

"Choose, for instance, the moment when we naturally feel disposed to meditate with our family in common thought, some quiet evening at the family-table; venture even there, in your own house, at your own fireside, to say one word about these things; your mother sadly shakes her head, your wife contradicts you, your daughter, by her very silence, shows her disapprobation. They are on one side of the table, and you on the other—and alone.

"One would think that in the midst of them, and opposite you, was seated an invisible personage to contradict whatever you may say.

"But how can we be astonished at this state of our family? Our wives and daughters are brought up and governed by our enemies!

"Our enemies, I repeat it, in a more direct sense, as they are naturally envious of marriage and family life. This, I know full well, is rather their misfortune than their fault. An old lifeless system, of mechanical functions, can want but lifeless partisans. Nature, however, reclaims her rights: they feel painfully that family is denied them, and they console themselves only by troubling ours.

"This lifeless spirit, let us call it by its real name, Jesuitism, formerly neutralized by the different manners of living, of the orders, corporations, and religious parties, is now the common spirit which the clergy imbibes through a special education, and which its chiefs make no difficulty in confessing. A bishop has said, 'We are Jesuits, all Jesuits;' and nobody has contradicted him.

"The greater part, however, are less frank: Jesuitism acts powerfully through the medium of those who are supposed to be strangers to it; namely, the Sulpicians, who educate the clergy, the Ignorantins, who instruct the people, and the Lazarists, who direct six thousand Sisters of Charity, and have in their hands the hospitals, schools, charity-offices, &c.

"So many establishments, so much money, so many pulpits for preaching aloud, so many confessionals for whispering, the education of two hundred thousand boys, and six hundred thousand girls, the management of several millions of women, form together a powerful machine. The unity it possesses in our days might, one would suppose, alarm the state. This is so far from being the case, that whilst the state prohibits association among the laity, it has encouraged it among the ecclesiastics. It has allowed them to form a most dangerous footing among the poorer classes, the union of workmen, apprentice-houses, association of servants who are accountable to priests, &c. &c.

"Unity of action, and the monopoly of association, are certainly two powerful levers.

"That which constitutes the gravity of this age, I may even say its holiness, is conscientious work, which promotes attentively the common work of humanity, and facilitates at its own expense the work of the future. Our forefathers dreamed much, and disputed much. But we are labourers, and this is the reason why our furrow has been blessed. The soil which the middle ages left us still covered with brambles, has produced by our efforts so plentiful a harvest, that it already envelopes, and will presently hide the old inanimate post that expected to stop the plough.

"And it is because we are workmen, and return home fatigued every evening, that we need more than others the repose of the heart. Our board and fireside must again become our own; we must no longer find, instead of repose, at home, the old dispute which has been settled by science and the world; nor hear from our wife or child, on our pillow, a lesson learnt by heart, and the words of another man.

"Women follow willingly the strong. How comes it, then, that in this case they have followed the weak?