Originally published in Fraser's Magazine (James Fraser) vol.4 #22 (Nov 1831).
"The loud-tongued press demands supplies
More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes."—Montrose.
If Lord Grey leaves no other memorial of his ministry behind him than the practical part of his system of retrenchment, that alone will suffice to render him "a negative instruction to his successors for ever." He must, on every principle, be an impolitic, as well as an improvident premier, who does not turn to account the precedent thus set him of strengthening his own hands, by appropriating all the patronage of the state to the advancement of his own family connexions; thereby not only keeping the enemy out of the camp, but securing subserviency within it. This profoundly politic plan has been adopted with so much success, that the chief of the administration has now little more to do than to move the puppets. In every department of the executive we recognise the active agency, not merely of Whig colleagues, or parliamentary partisans, but of the "family men;"—sons, sons-in-law, brothers, nephews, cousins to the last degree, and collateral connexions beyond all degrees. This cuts well, in two ways. It secures the supremacy of the minister, and it prevents that waste of the public money which would be unavoidable were it diverted, as formerly, into too many channels; whereas, now passing through one grand "alimentary canal," it invigorates and fortifies the body corporate, as well as the body politic, of the Greys, and forms an exhaustless reservoir of wealth, which, for ever refreshing the roots of the ancient tree, will perpetuate its spreading glories to remotest ages. And this has been accomplished, with statesman-like sagacity, by curtailing the salaries of the working class of clerks, and clipping off all those extravagant items of expenditure, which our prodigal predecessors vainly imagined to be indispensable to the maintenance of the kingly dignity and the national honour.
And what are the incalculably beneficial results? Why, that whilst some hundreds of hard-working subs are, with their families—poor devils!—reduced to subsist, as becomes their station, on cheese-parings; and whilst the coronation of the King of England, shorn of its splendour, is reduced to the seale of some play-house pageant, the noble family of the Greys have secured to themselves, as the reward of merit, and as becoming the pride of their order, some odd fractions less than One Hundred Thousand Pounds per annum. This is as it should be. We commend Lord Grey for his paternal care of his relatives, seeing that, though out of courtesy to him they condescend to fill subordinate stations, they are just as well qualified to discharge the highest duties of the cabinet as any other members of the present administration—but not better.
But since this can only be effected in future by the rigid observance of "unsparing economy," we have hit upon a new economical expedient, which, we pledge ourselves, shall be found to "work well." The radical press, or, as its conductors style it, par excellence, the liberal press, has long been clamorous for "retrenchment," and the abrogation of ministerial patronage. We know not in what quarter the experiment could be more properly or profitably tried, in the first instance—where retrenchment could so well begin, or patronage so fitly cease, as with that very portion of the press. The "secret service money" might be much more sparingly administered hereafter; and "the powers that be" have infinitely less trouble in working their barrel-organ. The introduction of the steam-engine in the process of printing, whereby manual labour has been nearly abolished, may well be followed by a still more important invention for the condensation of intellectual labour. One head may be found—may, did we say!—shall be found, gifted with brains enough for half a generation; one mind shall suffice to furnish ideas for all the soi-disant liberal press; one pair of hands, able to wield the pen and the shears, even mechanically, and attached to a body capable of assuming at will the personal form and semblance of some dozen editors, is all that henceforth can possibly be required to manage the whole machinery of that tremendous engine, which was once held sacred as "the palladium of all our rights." You may call "the body" by what names you please; that is a mere fetch:—the "master-mind" is the "all in all." We have discovered such a political Proteus. We can direct the ministerial commission (which will doubtless be appointed forthwith, at our suggestion) to a "wizard of wit," who, like Peter Schlemiel's Grey man, by merely purchasing the shadows of his various victims, the now nominal scribes of Sunday, daily, weekly, and monthly publications, can carry the said shadows about with him in his pocket, and assume them at will as occasion requires.
Now, knowing, what those who know any thing about the subject must know, how much the press of all England, with its boasted pre-eminence of talent, owes to Irish intellect, it can surprise none of the initiated in such mysteries to be told, that the "Great Unknown," by whom all these wonders are to be accomplished, is—an Irishman! a genuine Milesian. He has been hitherto, it is true, unknown to fame; but why and wherefore? His modesty, unlike that of Fielding's great tragic hero, Tom Thumb, has been an extinguisher, rather than a "flambeau to his merit." Henceforth, immortalised by the royal favour of Regina, he will eclipse all foregone "Great Unknowns;" and David Daniel Dionysius Diogenes Centimanus Curtayne, whilom editor of an obscure print published in the southern extremity of the Land of Saints, and entitled the Cork Sentinel, will take precedence of all political and literary leaders, our own trusty and right wellbeloved cousin, Ot1ver Yorke, only and always excepted.
Curtayne is the man for a mystery. Ever since the accession of the Grey-beards he has been labouring in "his vocation," and never said a word about it. How we made the discovery matters not. Here it is; and we defy all the press-room imps and printing-house devils, from Shetland to Scilly, to deny the fact, that our hero is capable of becoming sole manager and mover of all the ministerial minions of the press.
Curtayne's monopoly of the editorial functions may sound something like a sweeping assertion; but we are prepared to place his qualifications beyond all dispute, and to put it to the proof by a test as simple and as satisfactory, as infallible and as effectual, as that by which the identity of Junius himself was established, and remains for ever fixed—an enduring monument of human ingenuity.
To those who may be ignorant of the means by which the clue to that worse than Cretan labyrinth was obtained, it must suffice in this place to state, that as the surest, and indeed, as it proved, the only efficacious means of worming out that secret, which, if longer undiscovered, would have killed off more women than the London plague of old, or the threatened cholera of modern times, it was prudently resolved to select passages from the acknowledged productions of all the illustrious individuals of that day, who were honoured by the suspicion of being such churls as to enjoy the gratification of anonymous fame, and yet deny the slightest participation in that untold delight to all the rest of their species. Thus, the solitary oration of single-speech Hamilton was contrasted with the Letter to the King. The political strictures of Sir Philip Francis were placed in juxta-position with the admonitions to the Duke of Bedford. [Oh for a Junius, now a-days! We think we could find him a Duke of Bedford, to whom such a "lecture on heads" would be of use.] The sarcasms of Dunning were read line by line, with the railings at the Duke of Grafton; the common-place compositions of Lord George Germain were even exalted to the comparison; the ephemeral essays of Hugh Boydd, and the philippics of Edmund Burke, were alike subjected to the same fiery ordeal, and with the same triumphant success. "Stat nominis umbra" is all a farce—a very hoax. Junius has been familiariy known to the literary and political world any time these fifty years.
And so must it now be, with the modern Mokanna of the revolutionary press. Stand forth, David Daniel Dionysius Diogenes Centimanus Curtayne—Thou art the man!
We have a file of the Cork Sentinel, luckily for mankind, lying before us; and if from its enlightened columns, from the internal evidence wherewith they abound, and which we shall presently adduce, we do not establish his claim to the station we now assign him, why then we shall be content to admit, that Lord Grey is a heaven-born statesman, and that the sun does not shine at noon-day, whenever Sir Francis Burdett shall think fit and proper to insist upon these hypotheses.
Now we know we have disappointed half the clubs, and all the coteries of London, by our unceremonious introduction of this Milesian man-miracle, to monopolise "all the talents" of Whiggery. We are well aware, that the moment the words "Briareus of the Press" were read, in good capital letters, at the head of this article, it was at once set down, that we were about to astonish mankind by a graphic sketch of the Lord of Brougham and Vaux. But they deceived themselves with an exceeding great deceit who fancied so. Lord Brougham, though the very reverse of the penultimate of writers, is too busy just now,
"Brushing the cobwebs out of the sky;"
and his near ally and coadjutor, Lord Vaux, is so much occupied with talking chancery lawyers into subordination, and law lords, and all lords, into a notion of his infallibility, that we find him
Vox et præterea nihil.
Again, it may have been surmised that we had that great genius, Lord Nugent, "in our mind's eye, Horatio." But, bless us! the eye of an elephant could scarcely compass his bulk. Not that we doubt his aptitude to the Herculean task, or his readiness to undertake it. We believe he would be as willing as his prodigious prototype, Bully Bottom, to play all the parts in the piece. He would "move storms, and condole, in some measure," with the Herald; though, to say truth, his "chief humour is for a tyrant. He could play Ercles' part, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split" with the Times. He could "speak in a monstrous little voice" with the Post; "play the lion, and roar that he would do any man's heart good to hear," with the Chronicle; "aggravate his voice, so that he will roar you as gently as a sucking dove," with the Courier; or, upon occasion, he could shew "the ass's head" on be-hoof of our friend Johnny Bell, the tintinnabulary Patagonian of the Court Journal. But we prefer him as he, and as, doubtless, his lady-love prefers him, "a sweet-faced man—a proper man as one shall see in a summer's day—a most lovely, gentleman-like man—therefore he must needs play" at pic-nic with the Annuals.
But we have digressed somewhat inordinately. Revenons à nos moutons. Return we to Curtayne and our proofs, which we now offer in David Daniel's own unquestionable phraseology.
Cork Sentinel, May 22, 1830.—"The exposures which we have from time to time found it our duty to make on public matters, appear to have occasioned no little irritation in the parties under whose auspices these abuses grew up so plentifully. The three Cork newspapers, for reasons best known to themselves, and of which our constant readers may form some conjecture, have leagued against the editor of the Cork Sentinel, whom they contrive, by unwarrantable means, to make appear ridiculous, if not worse, We shall only reply to these gentlemen, that we have the honour of the personal acquaintance of at least as great a number of persons of respectability, intelligence, and distinction, in this county and city, and the neighbouring counties, as either of those persons; and that we were known at a time when some of these parties moved but in an humble grade of society."
Now we can almost fancy we hear some awful plural-unit bellowing aloud "That is my thunder!" while smarting under castigations inflicted by Regina.
Hear Curtayne again. More thunder!
"We have quite made up our minds, that the Whigs are a blackguard set. The article we wrote last night, applauding them to the skies, has not produced the desired effect. They have no notion of managing financial matters at all—they never care a pin whether our treasury is empty or not; all they think about is their own places, and pensions, and salaries, and perquisites, without once remembering that 'the labourer is worthy of his hire:' but we'll labour no longer; and so they may hire whom they please. We always thought the Wellington administration the best in the world, till they went out; and now we think they had better come in again. Worse than the Whigs they cannot be."
Posterity will be at no loss to "recognise the sweet Roman hand" that hurled the bolt of Jove.
Is the modification of our criminal code to be advocated? Where is there pleader or philanthropist like Curtayne?
Cork Sentinel, Sept. 20, 1830.— In the name of common humanity, we would urge the holding of public meetings throughout the county and city, and throughout the kingdom, to petition the new king for the pardon of John Leary, who was convicted of the Doneraile conspiracy (the object of which was only to murder some half-a-dozen magistrates). So high is our regard for one of the gentlemen said to be amongst those marked out for the sanguinary hand, that, if any man were to be truly guilty of it, we would not be satisfied without spilling the delinquent's blood. But our criminal code is too sanguinary. As for hanging men for forgery, that is quite out of the question—simple whipping would be punishment enough; and we quite agree with the Times, in its remarks about the Quaker Hunton. It is infinitely better, that all the merchants in the land should be subject to the destruction which forgery must eventually bring on them, and that commercial credit should be annihilated, and they and their families reduced to starvation, to end their days in lunatic asylums, or poor-houses, than that one hair of the head of the ingenious forger should be touched."
Would any happy editor desire to scrub his spectacles in peace, and enjoy his otiwm cum dignitate? Let him resign his labours to Curtayne, whose blended gallantry, tact, and critical acumen, admirably qualify him for the post. Here we have a specimen of his taste and judgment:
Cork Sentinel, March 10.—"When we wrote the following article, we had no notion it would have lain so long in manuscript. A variety of circumstances have, however, retarded its publication: the sketch, we hope, is as seasonable as when it was written. Paganini was the great object of attraction; Miss Beamy, of Bellmont, seemed absorbed in her lover—Paganini alone divided her attention. Happy is the man who could so engage her—her figure is excellent. Paganini was quite enchanting. Her face is almost beautiful, but certainly most interesting and intellectual—such ringlets! They say Paganini lets his hair grow long, to make fiddle-strings. Miss Beamy is quite an angel on earth; there does not breathe a more benevolent being—she is all worth. Paganini is a mine of gold. She is quite youthful: we have not half described her charms. Paganini gave a tremendous shake! We have not gone half through our list of beauties. We cannot close this article, and leave Miss Shaughnessy, of Ballinatrotty, out of it. Her figure is so commanding and elegant, with a face, though not very feminine, it is still beaming with intelligence and beauty; nor can we defer for a moment paying homage to the marked countenance—we don't mean pock-marked—and perfect features of Miss M. Rackett, of Middletone. It is a face for admiration: the forehead is a model of Lavater's; the nose, mouth, teeth, lips, chin—but we forgot Paganini. The eye is all soul, smaller than the lovely Regan's, but as black and as brilliant."
Is political purity and consistency to be vindicated? David Daniel Dionysius is in his element.
Cork Sentinel, April 1.—"If there are any attributes upon which we may peculiarly pride ourselves, it is our political purity and characteristic consistency. But even these virtues yield to our liberality. We are liberality personified. Some fifteen years ago we began doing diplomatics, on our own account; but liberally relinquished that profitable profession as soon as we found our success excited the jealousy of the minister. While the Tories ruled the roast, we most liberally allowed them to do as they liked, and supported them through thick and thin. Wellington was the world's wonder; Peel, the paragon of politicians; and Dawson, a divinity. Now the Whigs are the whiteheaded boys, we liberally allow them to do as they like, and support them, not only through thick and thin, but through ‘the palpable obscure'—through mud and mire. Grey, who was formerly a gander in our eyes, is now 'the god of our idolatry.' Goderich, whiloma 'goose' in all men's eyes, now shines a guardian angel in ours. Palmerston, whom we pasquinaded, we panegyrise; Lord John Russell, whom we reviled, we reverence. Whilst, on the other hand, Wellington, whom we worshipped, we write down an old woman; Peel, a very Proteus amongst place-hunters; and Derry Dawson, a poor undone devil! Consistency and the Cork Sentinel are synonymous."
Is there a weekly censorship of literature vacant? After the shining example of discernment, sound judgment, correct taste, and impartiality, we are about to cite, no prudent body of proprietors can hesitate to raise Curtayne to the vacant throne.
Cork Sentinel, May 5.—"We should have had some difficulty in approaching the critical review of Miss Celestina Augustina Wilhelmina Gander's pathetic poem, entitled The Dissecting Room, or Scenes in the County Hospital, if our liberal and enlightened publishers, who have a slight interest in this wonderful work of woman's wit, had not most generously given us a carte blanche to speak our minds freely; whilst the amiable, accomplished, and all-but-adorable authoress, assures us of her everlasting gratitude, if we will only do justice to the subject. Thus stimulated, we honestly declare, that, since the days of Homer and Heliogabalus, no poetess ever approached within fifty-nine degrees and a half of the unrivalled and unapproachable excellence, glitteriug genius, and triumphant talent of our divine Miss Gander; not even excepting the celebrated and all-surpassing Glumdalca, poetess-laureate to Thomas Aquinas, in the fifth year of his reign."
Of our hero's qualifications for conducting any periodical dedicated exclusively to the boudoir, two specimens out of two hundred must suffice. The first extract, we imagine, was intended to accompany an engraving of some Mrs. Geraldine Gahagan. That we think is the name; and with the alteration of that name, it might yet serve for some forthcoming "light of life" in the galaxy of beauty that would doubtless adorn the work.
"Mrs. Geraldine Gahagan.—What an imposing and grand appearance has that fine matron of Killballygragowen, in every position! In the street, she is all animation and attraction; on horseback, she is magnificent; in her carriage, most imposing and beautiful—the face is divine, and her style of look and movement is captivating. What must she not be at the head of a table! We should like to behold her there: it is the place where a lovely and hospitable hostess is seen to most advantage. Now this is no finesse—we spurn the thought; but we should like some happy accident would place us at the same table. That is, if she presided at it; hoping that the tyrant Fashion has not made her abandon a seat so peculiarly fitted to give zest to the feast, and dignity and grace to herself."
The second extract is perfectly irresistible:
"The irresistible Mrs. Smallway, of Ballinalicky, once seen, and while seen no eye can wander from her. The forehead is fine, eyebrows arched, teeth so white, lips so firm and expressive, eyes so radiant, yet so soft, that, when she is excited, nothing can equal the combination of vivacity and grace of her ornamental and interesting countenance. Yet she cannot be accounted a perfect beauty. The teeth are slightly prominent, the mouth is large, the neck not good, the bust but tolerable; the figure, though well formed, is, to our taste, rather meagre: but still the stature is graceful, and her every feature so harmonises, that they form a tout ensemble of the most enchanting description, and give indication of great goodness of heart and sweetness of disposition, as well as a fair share of mental capacity."
In the auto-biographical line, Curtayne is a nonpareil. Take this proof, from a hasty notice of a noble lord:
"We are glad to see the Marquess of Taghmon looking so well; what a dignified countenance! and what a handsome man!! The Marquess, the Marchioness, and the Ladies O'Toole, will continue to reside at Clanballyadam for some considerable time. Would that more of our Irish nobility would follow their example! The Marquess contributes occasional articles to the Cork Sentinel, He is a great genius: his poetical history of the Twin Ourang-Outangs beats Goldsmith and Buffon hollow. It is the finest piece of poetry extant. The Marchioness, and one of the Ladies O'Toole, whom we have seen, are beautiful, with a remarkable serenity of countenance. One daughter of the Marquess is married to Captain Coldham, brother to Lord Coldham; and another to Major Naylor, grand-nephew to the Earl of Prateham: some of the first connexions in England. All the contributors to the Cork Sentinel are great Grecians, especially the Marquess; of whom we may proudly say, in the words of the great Johnson, 'he is a lord among wits.'"
That our Proteus is well versed in the art of doing diaries of fashionable life, is evident from the subjoined "Abstract and brief Chronicle:"
"—The Misses Quillrose, Loorigan, and Morvalty, all of them their own fathers' daughters, sit their horses and handle their reins with great confidence—a sure sign of innate diffidence. The horses seem proud of their riders; and well they may.
"--Mrs. O'Donovan gives a grand party this evening. Tea and turn-out to sixteen of her cousins from the country.
"—Captain Casey, of the 79th regiment, moves forthwith into a cavalry regiment. It is he who drives the fashionable greys through town. But the Greys are the fashion every where—a fit compliment to the pride of 'his order,' the great Grey."
In the decision of a knotty point he stands proudly pre-eminent, unrivalled, and alone. Ex gr
."The Exile of Erin.—We cannot coincide in the opinion, that all men living have made up their minds to agree upon so unanimously, that there cannot, by any possibility, he a dissentient voice, that George Nugent Reynolds wrote Mr. Campbell's song of the Exile of Erin. For our own parts, we think there can't be a doubt on the subject, that they might both have written it, and that the original merit of that sublime strain must indubitably belong to the original author of the words, be he who he may; which is the only point still in dispute, though Mr. Campbell settled it long ago. All the world will allow, that there can be only one opinion on the matter; though we beg to dissent from that dictum. We can't help thinking that both opinions may be right. Both the gentlemen might have written the words first, there is such social sympathy between them. Mr. Campbell is a great genius, and he drinks gin and water, which is a foreign beverage, and the Exile of Erin must be a foreign song; and he publishes the Metropolitan in London, though he lives at Paisley, in Scotland, and therefore has no personal interference with that periodical, which is conclusive that he wrote the song. And Mr. George Nugent Reynolds was a great genius, and he drank whisky punch; and whisky punch is an Irish beverage, and the Exile of Erin is an Irish song, which is the incontestible proof that he wrote the song."
After such proofs, who shall dare to dispute the claims of David Daniel Dionysius Diogenes Centimanus Curtayne, to the style, title, honour, and dignity of "The Briareus of the Press."