There is a sense in which every book is undermined by its author. What is knownabout the person whose name appears on the front cover very often provides the context in which the hook is rend. This may be very much at odds with the context which the book itself requires.
The satirical novel, Belmont Castle, written by three young Irishmen in London in 1788, and published anonymously in Dublin in 1790, is a case in point. Thethree young men were studying for the Bar in London at the time, Theobald Wolfe Tone in the Middle Temple and the other two, Richard Jebb and John Radcliffe,in Lincoln's Inn. (Or was it "Thomas Radcliffe", as Tone's biographer Marianne Elliott says?)
Theobald Wolfe Tone's subsequent career and his posthumous standing as the father of Irish republicanism are not conducive to an open reading of what is, in fact, a lusty take-off of the sentimental novel of the late 18th century. Rutthen again, if it were not for Tone's fame, It is hardly likely that we would be reading this book at all, and that would be a pity. It was not celebrated at the time of publication and the only review we know of seems to have been written byTone himself.
The 18th century, too, had its new men. They were men of feeling, keenly aware of the finer emotions, and not shy of shedding a tear or two - "of sensibility". But by the end of the century, the idea had become a little thin, the feelingmore or less empty. Byron was not the first to disparage sentimentality" - Wolfe Tone and his friends had already enjoyed themselves hugely satirising it.
Belmont Castle Ii full of over-the-top writing, exaggerated, witty, silly, funny, sometimes even "camp" (before the word). With a proliferation of confusing surnames (Belmont, Belville, Blandford, Neville, Clairville), thenovel runs the gamut of stereotypical passion and finishes up with a gruesome exercise in black humour in which neither the virtuous nor illicit lovers are spared. The youthful exuberance of the parody reminds one of Byron and SkinnerMatthews in Cambridge, of Auden and Isherwood in Berlin, of Monty Python or, indeed, Scrap Saturday.
The editor, Marion Deane, has, sensibility however, plumped determinedly forthe historical importance of the work. Following Marianne Elliott in her definitive biography, Deane intimates that the book has little literary merit and that its interest lies in the fact that it is a roman a clef. In her introduction, in a table facing the original title page, and in copious footnotes, she gives us the "real-life models" and events on which the novel is supposedly based.
Drawing correspondences between a work of fiction and historical personages and events is a notoriously tricky business. The wonder Is not how well it is done,but, rather, that It Is done at all. For example, the equation, made by both Elliott and Deane, of the rakish Scudamore in the novel with the gentlemanly Tone does a disservice to both. Yet it is in ways such as this that a "burlesqnenovel.., intended to ridicule the execrable trash of the Circulating Libraries" (Tone's words) becomes an historical document.
In spite of the historical and editorial apparatus, however, Tone and his friends are shown to have been able and talented writers. Tone thought well of the book, particularly Radcliffe's contribution, and he had two copies with him when he was arrested in 1798. One of them has been used as the basis for this edition.
Both the editor and the publishers are to be thanked for making the book available. It is a good read and provides a remarkable opportunity for literary, as opposed to historical, criticism: we could start with a critique of authorship, or how about a computer-aided stylistic analysis to ascertain the grain, if not the tome, of the authorial voice?