_The Heroine: or Adventures of Cherubina. By Eaton Stannard Barrett,
Esq. New Edition. Richmond: Published by P. D. Bernard._
Cherubina! Who has not heard of Cherubina? Who has not heard of that
most spiritual, that most ill-treated, that most accomplished of
women--of that most consummate, most sublimated, most fantastic, most
unappreciated, and most inappreciable of heroines? Exquisite and
delicate creation of a mind overflowing with fun, frolic, farce, wit,
humor, song, sentiment, and sense, what mortal is there so dead to
every thing graceful and glorious as not to have devoured thy
adventures? Who is there so unfortunate as not to have taken thee by
the hand?--who so lost as not to have cultivated thy
acquaintance?--who so stupid, as not to have enjoyed thy
companionship?--who so much of a log, as not to have laughed until he
has wept for very laughter in the perusal of thine incomparable,
inimitable, and inestimable eccentricities? But we are becoming
pathetic to no purpose, and supererogatively oratorical. _Every body_
has read Cherubina. There is no one so superlatively unhappy as not to
have done this thing. But if such there be--if by any possibility such
person should exist, we have only a few words to say to him. Go, silly
man, and purchase forthwith "_The Heroine: or Adventures of
Cherubina_."
The Heroine was first published many years ago, (we believe shortly
after the appearance of Childe Harold;) but although it has run
through editions innumerable, and has been universally read and
admired by all possessing talent or taste, it has never, in our
opinion, attracted half that notice on the part of the critical press,
which is undoubtedly its due. There are few books written with more
tact, spirit, _näïveté_, or grace, few which take hold more
irresistibly upon the attention of the reader, and none more fairly
entitled to rank among the classics of English literature than the
Heroine of Eaton Stannard Barrett. When we say all this of a book
possessing not even the remotest claim to originality, either in
conception or execution, it may reasonably be supposed, that we have
discovered in its matter, or manner, some rare qualities, inducing us
to hazard an assertion of so bold a nature. This is actually the case.
Never was any thing so charmingly written: the mere style is
positively inimitable. Imagination, too, of the most etherial kind,
sparkles and blazes, now sportively like the Will O' the Wisp, now
dazzlingly like the Aurora Borealis, over every page--over every
sentence in the book. It is absolutely radiant with fancy, and that of
a nature the most captivating, although, at the same time, the most
airy, the most capricious, and the most intangible. Yet the Heroine
must be considered a mere burlesque; and, being a copy from Don
Quixotte, is to that immortal work of Cervantes what _The School for
Scandal_ is to _The Merry Wives of Windsor_. The Plot is briefly as
follows.
Gregory Wilkinson, an English farmer worth 50,000 pounds, has a pretty
daughter called Cherry, whose head is somewhat disordered from romance
reading. Her governess is but little more rational than herself, and
is one day turned out of the house for allowing certain undue
liberties on the part of the butler. In revenge she commences a
correspondence with Miss Cherry, in which she persuades that young
lady that Wilkinson is not her real father--that she is a child of
mystery, &c.--in short that she is actually and _bonâ fide_ a heroine.
In the meantime, Miss Cherry, in rummaging among her father's papers,
comes across an antique parchment--a lease of lives--on which the
following words are alone legible.
This Indenture
For and in consideration of
Doth grant, bargain, release
Possession, and to his heirs and assigns
Lands of Sylvan Lodge, in the
Trees, stones, quarries, &c.
Reasonable amends and satisfaction
This demise
Molestation of him the said Gregory Wilkinson.
The natural life of
Cherry Wilkinson only daughter of
De Willoughby eldest son of Thomas
Lady Gwyn of Gwyn Castle.
This "excruciating MS." brings matters to a crisis--for Miss Cherry
has no difficulty in filling up the blanks.
"It is a written covenant," says this interesting young lady in a
letter to her Governess, "between this Gregory Wilkinson, and the
miscreant (whom my being an heiress had prevented from enjoying the
title and estate that would devolve to him at my death) stipulating to
give Wilkinson 'Sylvan Lodge,' together with 'trees, stones, &c.' as
'reasonable amends and satisfaction' for being the instrument of my
'demise,' and declaring that there shall be 'no molestation of him the
said Gregory Wilkinson' for taking away the 'natural life of Cherry
Wilkinson, only daughter of' ---- somebody 'De Willoughby eldest son
of Thomas.' Then follows 'Lady Gwyn of Gwyn Castle.' So that it is
evident I am a De Willoughby, and related to Lady Gwyn! What perfectly
confirms me in the latter supposition, is an old portrait which I
found soon after, among Wilkinson's papers, representing a young and
beautiful female superbly dressed; and underneath, in large letters,
the name of 'Nell Gwyn.'"
Fired with this idea, Miss Cherry gets up a scene, rushes with hair
dishevelled into the presence of the good man Wilkinson, and accuses
him to his teeth of plotting against her life, and of sundry other
mal-practices and misdemeanors. The worthy old gentleman is
astonished, as well he may be; but is somewhat consoled upon receiving
a letter from his nephew, Robert Stuart, announcing his intention of
paying the family a visit immediately. Wilkinson is in hopes that a
lover may change the current of his daughter's ideas; but in that he
is mistaken. Stuart has the misfortune of being merely a rich man, a
handsome man, an honest man, and a fashionable man--he is no hero.
This is not to be borne: and Miss Cherry, having assumed the name of
the Lady Cherubina De Willoughby, makes a precipitate retreat from the
house, and commences a journey on foot to London. Her adventures here
properly begin, and are laughable in the extreme. But we must not be
too minute. They are modelled very much after those of Don Quixotte,
and are related in a series of letters from the young lady herself to
her governess. The principal characters who figure in the Memoirs are
Betterton, an old _debauché_ who endeavors to entangle the Lady
Cherubina in his {42} toils--Jerry Sullivan, an Irish simpleton, who
is ready to lose his life at any moment for her ladyship, whose story
he implicitly believes, without exactly comprehending it--Higginson, a
grown baby, and a mad poet--Lady Gwyn, whom Cherubina believes to be
her mortal enemy, and the usurper of her rights, and who encourages
the delusion for the purpose of entertaining her guests--Mary and
William, two peasants betrothed, but whom Cherry sets by the ears for
the sake of an interesting episode--Abraham Grundy, a tenth rate
performer at Covent Garden, who having been mistaken by Cherry for an
earl, supports the character _à merveille_ with the hope of eventually
marrying her, and thus securing 10,000 pounds, a sum which it appears
the lady possesses in her own right. He calls himself the Lord
Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci. Stuart, her cousin, whom we have
mentioned before, finally rescues her from the toils of Betterton and
Grundy, and restores her to reason, and to her friends. Of course he
is rewarded with her hand.
We repeat that Cherubina is a book which should be upon the shelves of
every well-appointed library. No one can read it without entertaining
a high opinion of the varied and brilliant talents of its author. No
one can read it without laughter. Its wit, especially, and its humor,
are indisputable--not frittered and refined away into that insipid
compound which we occasionally meet with, half giggle and half
sentiment--but racy, dashing, and palpable. Some of the songs with
which the work is interspersed have attained a most extensive
popularity, while many persons, to whom they are as familiar as
household things, are not aware of the very existence of the Heroine.
All our readers must remember the following.
Dear Sensibility, O la!
I heard a little lamb cry ba!
Says I, so you have lost mamma!
Ah!
The little lamb as I said so,
Frisking about the fields did go,
And frisking trod upon my toe.
Oh!
And this also.