In the first place, to pose as a journalist of this variety, you need some few preliminary utensils—such as two or three legitimate wives, a few mothers, as many sisters as possible, a full assortment of daughters, and cousins innumerable.—The second requisite is a play or novel of some sort, a pen, ink, paper, and a printer. Perhaps it would be as well to have an idea or two and several subscribers; but you can do without them, if you have a large stock of philosophy and the shareholders' money.
When you have all these things you can set up as a moral journalist. The two following recipes, varied to suit the occasion, will suffice for the editorial part.
Models of Virtuous Articles Concerning a First Performance.
"After the literature of blood, the literature of mud; after the morgue and the galleys, the alcove and the brothel; after the rags stained by murder, the rags stained by debauchery; after," etc. (according to the necessity of the occasion and the available space, you can continue in this vein from six lines to fifty or more),—"this is as it should be.—This is where neglect of sacred doctrines and romantic licentiousness lead: the stage has become a school of prostitution where one dares not venture, save with fear and trembling, with a woman one respects. You come upon the faith of an illustrious name, and you are obliged to retire at the third act with your young daughter all confused and abashed. Your wife hides her blushes behind her fan; your sister, your cousin," etc. (The degrees of relationship may be diversified at pleasure; it is enough that they be all females.)
NOTE.—There is one man who has carried morality so far as to say: "I will not go to see that play with my mistress."—That man I admire and love; I carry him in my heart, as Louis XVIII. carried all France in his; for he has conceived the most triumphant, the most monumental, the most insane, the most extravagant idea that has passed through the brain of man in this blessed nineteenth century, which has seen the birth of so many and such amusing ideas.
The method of dealing with a book is very expeditious and within the range of every intellect:
"If you choose to read this book, lock yourself securely into your own room; do not leave it lying on the table. If your wife and your daughter should open it, they would be lost.—This is a dangerous book, it advises vicious habits. It would have made a great success, perhaps, in the time of Crébillon, in the houses of kept mistresses, at a duchess's select supper-parties; but now that morals are purified, now that the hand of the people has razed the rotten edifice of aristocracy, and that,—etc., etc.—there must be in every work an idea—an idea—yes, a moral and religious idea which—an exalted and profound aim, answering to the needs of humanity; for it is a deplorable thing that young writers should sacrifice the most sacred things to success, and should expend their talent—a notable talent by the way—in lewd descriptions that would make a captain of dragoons blush."—(The virginity of the captain of dragoons is, after the discovery of America, the most delightful discovery that has been made for a long while.)—"The novel we are considering recalls Justine, the philosophic Thérèse, Félicia, Compère Matthieu, the Contes de Grécourt, the Priapées of the Marquis de Sade." The virtuous journalist is immensely erudite in the matter of filthy novels;—I am very curious to know why.
It may be obtained at Eugène Renduel's, Rue des Grands-Augustins, No. 22. A handsome volume in 8vo. with vignette. Price 7 francs 50 centimes.
Eccò,—ecce,—see it.
It is frightful to think that, through the fault of the newspapers, there are many honest manufacturers who have only these two recipes to live upon, they and the numerous families they employ.