“The glorious, pious, and immortal memory of the great and good
King William!—not forgetting Oliver Cromwell, who assisted in
redeeming us from popery, slavery, arbitrary power, brass-money,
and wooden shoes!—May we never want a Williamite to kick the
* * * * of a Jacobite!—and a * * * * for the _Bishop of Cork_!
And he that won’t drink this, whether he be priest, bishop,
deacon, bellows-blower, grave-digger, or any other of the
fraternity of _the clergy_;—may a north wind blow him to the
south, and a west wind blow him to the east! May he have a dark
night—a lee-shore—a rank storm—and a leaky vessel, to carry him
over the river Styx! May the dog Cerberus make a meal of his
r—p, and Pluto a snuff-box of his skull! and may the devil jump
down his throat with a red-hot harrow, with every pin tear out a
gut, and blow him with a _clean_ carcase to hell! _Amen!_”[43]
-----
Footnote 43:
I have seen this loyal sentiment drank out of Doctor
Duigenan’s _wig_, brimful of wine!—its stanchness in holding
liquid might be easily accounted for by any person who saw the
doctor’s forehead either after a passion or a paroxysm of
loyalty.
-----
The extraordinary zeal wherewith this toast was drank, could only be
equalled by the enthusiasm with which the blue and white jugs and pewter
pots were resorted to, to ascertain the quality of the potation within;
both processes serving to indicate the quantity of loyalty entertained
by every alderman toward the King, Doctor Duigenan, and the Protestant
Religion!—they then rebuttoned the knees of their breeches (trousers had
not come into fashion), and sat down _to work_ again in downright
earnest. Mr. Powell, a jolly apothecary, of Thomas-street, in my time,
led the vocal band;[44] and after a dozen speeches, accompanied by
numerous replenishments of the jugs, &c. every body who had _any thing
to do in the morning_ generally withdrew, leaving the rest of the
loyalists to finish the last drop.
-----
Footnote 44:
He burst a blood-vessel in singing “Rule Britannia,” and soon after
became defunct, to the irreparable loss of the Skinners’ Alley
loyalists.
-----
The idea of “Orange Societies” arose, in my opinion, from this
association, which, I believe, still exists, but has, I understand,
degenerated into a sort of _half-mounted_ club;—not exclusive enough for
gentlemen, and too fine for wig-makers: it has, in fact, sunk into a
paltry and unimportant corporate utensil.
I recollect an amusing circumstance which many years back occurred in
this lodge. Until politics grew too hot, Napper Tandy and several other
of the _patriots_ were _aldermen_: but finding that ultra-loyalty was
making way too fast for their notions, they sought some fair opportunity
of seceding from the club, stealing the mace, and regenerating the whole
board and establishment of Skinners’-alley! and the opportunity was not
long wanting.
An apothecary, of the name of M‘Mahon, had become an alderman solely to
avoid being considered a friend of the Pope: this, in point of reality,
he was; but as, at that period, his creed was not the popular one, he
conceived that he might thrive better in his business by appearing a
stanch Protestant; or at least might learn, by association, some
valuable secrets, and then blab them to his own sect.
But M‘Mahon, although a clever person, was, like many an honest fellow,
vastly more candid when he got “the sup in” than he had ever intended to
be; indeed, in these circumstances, whatever a man thinks often comes
out in spite of him, as if it disagreed with his liquor! Thus, one
unfortunate night, “Doctor M‘Mahon, the apothecary,” (as he was termed
in Aungier-street,) having made too free amongst his brother-aldermen,
and been completely overmastered by the blue jug, forgot his company,
and began to speak rather unkindly of King William. His worthy
associates, who had made similar applications to the _blue_ and _white_,
took fire at this _sacrilege_ offered to their patron saint: one word
brought on another;—the doctor grew outrageous; and, in his paroxysm,
(not having the fear of flogging before his eyes,) actually _damned_
King William! proceeding, in the enthusiasm of his popery, most
thoughtlessly for himself and for the unhappy king’s bust then staring
before him, to strike it with his huge fat fist plump in the face!
The aldermen, who had never heard blasphemy against their canonised king
before, were astonished, while the bust immediately showed most evident
and marvellous symptoms of maltreatment by the apothecary; its beautiful
virgin white marble appearing to be actually stained with blood! This
miracle caused one of the aldermen to roar out in a fright—“That
villain, M‘Mahon, has broken the king’s nose!”—“The king’s nose!” ran
throughout the room: some, who had been dozing, hearing this cry of
high-treason from every quarter, rose and rushed with the rest upon the
doctor: his clothes were soon turned into ribbons, and the cry of “throw
him out of the window!” was unanimously and resolutely adopted: the
window was opened; the doctor, after exerting all his muscular powers
(and he was a strong, active man), was compelled to yield to numbers,
and out he went into the street, very much to the ease and satisfaction
of the loyal aldermen. The window was now closed again, the “Glorious
Memory” drunk, the king’s nose washed clean from the blood formerly
belonging to the doctor’s knuckles (which his Majesty’s feature had
unmercifully scarified), and all restored to peace and tranquillity.
As for the poor doctor, out he went, as we have said, clean and
cleverly, one good story. But (whether through chance or Providence we
will not pretend to determine) fortunately for him, a lamp and lamp-iron
stood immediately under the window whereby he had made so sudden an
exit! Hence, the doctor’s route downward was impeded by a crash, like
that made by the crescent in a military band, against the lamp; the
glass and other materials all yielded to the precious weight, and very
probably prevented the pavement from having the honour of receiving his
brains for the scavenger: he held a moment by the iron, and then dropped
quite gently into the arms of a couple of guardians of the night, who,
attracted by the uproar in the room above, and seeing the window open,
and the doctor getting out feet foremost, conceived that it was only a
drunken frolic, and so placed themselves underneath “to keep the
gentleman out of the gutter.”[45]
-----
Footnote 45:
Leaping out of a window voluntarily was formerly by no means uncommon
in the country parts of Ireland:—some did it for _fun_—others for
_love_: but it was generally for a _wager_. Very few serious accidents
occurred in consequence of these exploits, there being generally a
dunghill, or some other soft material, under the windows of country
gentlemen’s lodges—the tumble was, in truth, more _dirty_ than
_dangerous_; dislocation being the utmost injury I was accustomed to
see resulting therefrom.
-----
The doctor scarcely waited to thank his preservers, set out pretty well
sobered to his home, and the next day, summoning all the humane and
_patriotic_ aldermen, to whom he told his own story, they determined to
secede and set up a new corps at the King’s Arms in Fowns’s-street. The
old aldermen defended their conduct as loyal subjects; the others
stigmatised it as the act of a set of man-slaughterers: these old and
young guards of the British Constitution from that day set about
_advertising_ each other, and making proselytes on either side; and the
_Orange_ and _United Irishmen_ parties gained as many recruiting
serjeants by the fracas, as there were permanents or seceders among
those illustrious aldermen.
As nothing is so much calculated to gratify the aldermen of Skinners’
Alley as anecdotes respecting his Holiness the Pope, or their eminencies
the cardinals, I am happy in being enabled to afford them one, of which
I was an eye-witness. I had the honour of touching his Holiness’s bull
to the late Sir Francis Gould (of gallant memory), and of seeing the
beautiful candles therewith—six feet and an inch in their sockets: and
if the _saving clause_ in the bull should disappoint the aldermen, they
must blame the caution of Cardinal Gonsalvi for having it inserted
(though, I believe, a lay cardinal). I regret that at present I can
furnish them with no other anecdotes of the kind (at least that came
within my own knowledge); but the following will serve excellently well
to elucidate the Pope’s bulls of absolution.
A few years since, the present Sir John Bourke, of Glinsk, Bart.,
travelled with his new-married lady and establishment to Rome—not solely
for his pleasure, but, as an Irish Catholic, to pay his respects to the
Pope, kiss his Holiness’s toe, and purchase antiquities.
The late Sir Francis Gould, then at Paris, requested Sir John (before
me) that, as he fancied he felt himself in a declining state of health,
and unable to travel so far as Rome, he (Sir John) would take the proper
steps, through Cardinal Gonsalvi, to procure him from his Holiness a
bull of plenary absolution, and, if possible, an indulgence also; adding
that Sir John might _hint_ to the Cardinal that he intended to bequeath
a good deal of his property amongst the clergy.
Sir John undertook the matter,—proceeded to Rome,—saw the Cardinal, and,
as far as the absolution went, succeeded. He was himself at the same
time created “Marchese de Bourke of the Holy Roman Empire;” and a bull
was duly made out for Sir Francis Gould, at very considerable expense.
Sir John received also a couple of blessed candles, six feet long, to
burn whilst the bull was being read. Its express terms and conditions,
however, were:—“Provided the penitent, Sir Francis Gould, should not
again voluntarily commit the same sins now forgiven;” (which list
included nearly all the sins the Cardinal could think of!) in the other
case, the forgiveness would be void, and the two sets of sins come slap
upon the soul of Sir Francis at once, no doubt with compound
interest;—and which nothing but severe penance, some hundred full
masses, and a great deal of mass-money, would ever be able to bring him
through.
Sir John having brought home the bull, magnificently enclosed, and sewed
up in a silk bag sealed officially by the Cardinal, informed Sir Francis
(as we were all dining together at Bourke’s hotel) that he had that day
unpacked his luggage, had the Pope’s bull perfectly safe, and would hand
it to him instantly.
Sir Francis asked him its exact purport. “I have had two others,” said
he; “but they are null, for I sinned again, and so can’t depend upon
them.”
Sir John informed him of the purport, so far as his Latin went; when Sir
Francis calmly said, “My dear Bourke, don’t give me the bull _yet
awhile_: its operation, I find, is only retrospective, and does not
affect sins committed after its delivery: why did you not bring me one
that would answer always?”
“Such a one would cost a damned deal more,” replied Sir John.
“Well, then,” said Sir Francis, “send it to me in about ten days or a
fortnight—_not sooner_: it will answer then pretty well, as I am about
taking away a beautiful young creature, my landlady’s daughter, next
week, and I should have that sin to answer for, if you gave me the bull
before I had her clean out of Paris!”
He kept his word, took off the girl, then got the _absolution_; and in a
very short time, poor fellow! was afforded, by death, an opportunity of
trying its efficacy.