The Author apologises for ending, instead of commencing, his former
volumes, with an inquiry into his pedigree—How to improve a family
name—The cognomen of Alderman Sir W. Stammer—Vowel _versus_
Consonant—The lady of “masculine understanding”—The Alderman’s
conditions on altering his surname—Unsuspected presidency of _King
James_ at the Dublin municipal meetings—Ulster king-at-arms—George the
Fourth’s visit to Dublin—Various heraldic bearings.
The concluding the second volume of my Biographical Sketches with the
recital of a laborious search after my progenitors, doubtless savours
somewhat of our national perversions. But those who know the way in
which things are done in Ireland, will only call it a “doughan dourish,”
or “parting drop”—which was usually administered when a man was not very
sure which end of him was uppermost.
The English, in general, though not very exquisite philologists, and
denominated “Bulls” in every known part of the world, have yet a great
aversion to be considered “_blunderers_;” an _honour_ which their own
misprisions of speech fall short of, owing to the absence of point in
their humour (as they call it).
When an English dramatist wants a _good blunder_, he must send to
Ireland for it. A few _English_ blunders would damn the best play; and I
have known some pieces actually saved by a profusion of Irish ones. As
to my misplacing my pedigree, I can only say, that though an English
writer, speaking of his origin, would say he was born and bred at
London, &c. &c.—an Irishman always places his acquirements before his
birth, and says he was bred and born at Drogheda, &c. My mistake is not
quite so bad as this; and I shall endeavour to recompense my readers for
having made it, by transporting them to the city of Dublin, where, so
long as a thing has _fun in it_, we set all cold-blooded
critico-cynicals at defiance, and where we never have a lack of families
and of good pedigrees—at least for home consumption.
The sketch which I thus introduce has certainly nothing whatever in it
connected with myself. However, it is so far in point, that it proves
how very differently gentlemen may furbish up families;—one by
traversing foreign parts to discover the old cavaliers, arms, and
quarterings of his race;—another by garnishing a new coach with new
quarters, shields, and bearings, such as no family, ancient or modern,
had ever seen or heard of till they appeared emblazoning the pannels of
an alderman’s landau.
In the year of our Lord 1809, after his late Majesty King George the
Third had expended forty-nine years of his life in ruling the state, it
pleased his royal fancy to order a universal jubilee, and to elevate his
Lord Mayors into Imperial Baronets. At this propitious era, William
Stammer, Esquire, Alderman of Dublin, and likewise of Skinners’ Alley,
wine-merchant, do. consumer, dealer and chapman, freemason, orangeman,
and friendly brother, happened, by Divine Providence and the good-will
of the Common Council, to be seated on the civic throne as “the Right
Honourable the Lord Mayor of the King’s good city of Dublin.” He ruled
with convivial sway the ancient, loyal, joyous, moist, and vociferous
municipal corps of the said celebrated city, and its twenty-four
federated corporations:—consequently he was, in point of dignity, the
second _Lord Mayor_ in all _Christendom_, though unfortunately born a
few centuries too late to be one of its seven _champions_. However,
being thus enthroned at that happy festival time, he became greater than
any of these, and found himself, suddenly, as if by magic, (though it
was only by patent,) metamorphosed into _Sir_ William Stammer, Baronet
of the United Kingdoms of England, Scotland, and Ireland.
Sir William Stammer, Bart., being (as he himself often informed me, and
which I believe to be true,) an excellent, good-hearted kind of person,
and having by nature an even, smooth-trotting temper, with plenty of
peace and quietness in it, bore his rank with laudable moderation: but
as he was the first genuine corporator the Union had honoured by this
_imperial_ dignity, he felt a sort of loyal fervor, which urged him to
make some particular acknowledgment to his gracious Majesty for so
unprecedented a mark of distinction. But in what way a sober British
king should be complimented by an Irish wine-merchant was a matter which
required much ingenuity and profound consideration. At length, it was
suggested and strongly urged by several of his civic friends,
(especially those of the feminine gender,) that his Lordship had it
actually within his power to pay as loyal and handsome a compliment as
ever was paid to any king of England by an Irish gentleman with a twang
to his surname; _videlicet_, by sacrificing the old Irish pronunciation
thereof, ameliorating the sound, and changing it in such sort, that it
might be adapted to the court language, and uttered without any
difficulty or grimace by the prettiest mouths of the highest classes of
British society; it was, in fact, strenuously argued that, instead of
the old hacknied family name commonly pronounced Stam-mer, the word
_Steem-er_ (being better vowelled and Anglicised) would sound far more
genteel and modern, and ring more gratefully in the ear of royalty. It
was also urged, how Mrs. Clarke’s friend, the Rev. Dr. O’Meara,
unfortunately lost the honour of preaching before royalty by his
pertinacity in retaining the abominable _O_, and that had he dropped
that hideous prefixture, and been announced plainly as the Rev. Doctor
Meera, his doctrines might probably have atoned for his Milesianality,
and a stall in some cathedral, or at least a rural deanery, might have
rewarded his powers of declamation.
“Having begun so well, who knows what famous end you may arrive at, Sir
William?” said Sir Jemmy Riddle, the then high sheriff (a very good man
too), who was be-knighted on the same occasion. “When we all go to St.
James’s,” continued Sir Jemmy, “to thank our Sovereign and kiss his hand
in _his own metrolopus_, sure the name of our Lord Mayor, Sir W.
Steemer, will sound every taste as harmonious if not _harmoniouser_,
than that of the great Sir Claudius Hunter, or our own Claudius
Beresford, or any Claudius in Europe!—and sure, changing _am_ for _ee_,
to please his Majesty, is neither a sin nor a shame in any family, were
they as old as _Mathuslin_:—besides, old White, the schoolmaster, the
greatest scholar, by odds, that ever was in Dublin, told me that one
vowel was worth two consonants any day in the year; and that the
alteration would make a great difference in the sweetness of the odes he
was writing on your promotion.”
Sir William, however, being fond of the old proper name which had stuck
to him through thick and thin, in all weathers, and which he and his
blood relations had been so long accustomed to spell, did not at all
relish the proposed innovation. Besides, he considered that any thing
like the assumption of a new name might bring him too much on a level
with some _modern_ corporators, who not having any particular cognomen
of their own at the time of their nativity, or at least not being able
to discover it, but being well christened for fear of accidents, very
judiciously took only provisional denominations for their apprenticeship
indentures, and postponed the adoption of any immutable surname until
they had considered what might probably be most attractive to customers
in their several trades.
The grand measure was nevertheless so strongly pressed—the ladies so
coaxed the alderman to take the _pretty_ name, and they were so well
supported by Sir Charles Vernon, then master of the ceremonies, (and of
course the best judge in Ireland of what was good for Sir William at the
Castle of Dublin,) that his resolution gradually softened, wavered, and
gave way. He became convinced against his will, and at last, with a deep
sigh and a couple of imprecations, ungratefully yielded up his old,
broad, national _Stammer_, to adopt an Anglicised mincemeat version
thereof; and in a few nights, Sir William _Steemer’s_ landau was
announced as stopping the way at the breaking up of the Duchess of
Richmond’s drawing-room.
’Tis true, some very cogent and plausible reasons were suggested to Sir
William, pending the negotiation, by a lady of excellent judgment, and
what was termed in Dublin “masculine understanding.” This lady had great
weight with his lordship. “You know, my Lord Mayor,” said she,
sententiously, “you are now nine or ten pegs (at the lowest computation)
higher than you were as a common alderman, and a pronunciation that
might sound quite in unison with ‘sheriff’s peer,’ would be mere discord
in the politer mouths of your new equals.”
“Ah! what would Jekey Poole say to all this, if he were alive?”
_thought_ Sir William, but was silent.
“Consider, also,”—pursued the lady,—“consider that Stammer is a very
common kind of word; nay, it is a mere verb of Dutch extraction (as that
great man Doctor Johnson says), which signifies stuttering; and to
articulate which, there is a graceless double chopping of the under
jaw—as if a person was taking a bite out of something:—try now, try,
Stammer—Stammer!”
“Egad, it’s—it’s very true,” said Sir William: “I—I never remarked that
before.”
“But,” resumed the lady with the masculine understanding, “the word
Steemer, on the contrary, has a soft, bland, liquid sound, perfectly
adapted to genteel table-talk. To pronounce Steemer, you will perceive,
Sir William, there is a slight tendency to a lisp: the tip of the tongue
presses gently against the upper gums, and a nice extension of the lips
approaching toward a smile, gives an agreeable sensation, as well as a
polite complacency of countenance to the addresser.—Now, try!”
Sir William lisped and capitulated—on express condition; first, that the
old County Clare tone of Stammer, in its natural length and breadth,
should be preserved when the name was used by or to the Corporation of
Dublin.
“Granted,” said the lady with the masculine understanding.
“Secondly, amongst the aldermen of Skinners’ Alley.”
“Granted.”
“Thirdly, in the Court of Conscience.”
“Granted.”
“Fourthly, in my own counting-house.”
“Granted—according to the rank of the visitor.”
“Fifthly, as to all my _country_ acquaintance.”
“Granted, with the exception of such as hold any offices, or get into
good company.”
The articles were arranged, and the treaty took effect that very
evening.
Sir William no doubt acquired one distinction hereby, which he never
foresaw. Several other aldermen of Dublin city have been since converted
into baronets of the United Kingdom, but not one of them has been able
to alter a single syllable in his name, or to make it sound even a
semitone more _genteel_ than when it belonged to a commonplace alderman.
There was no lack of jesting, however, on those occasions. A city
punster, I think it was a gentleman called, by the Common Council,
Gobbio, waggishly said, “That the Corporation of Dublin must be a set of
incorrigible Tories, inasmuch as they never have a feast without
_King-James_[1] being placed at the head of their table.”
-----
Footnote 1:
Two Dublin aldermen lately made baronets; one by his Majesty on his
landing in Ireland (Alderman King); and the other by the Marquess of
Wellesley on _his_ debarkation (Alderman James), being the first
public functionary he met. The Marquess would fain have _knighted_
him; but being taken by surprise, he conferred the same honour which
Aldermen Stammer and King had previously received.
There are now four baronets amongst that hard-going corporation.
-----
It is said that this joke was first cracked at the Castle of Dublin by a
gentleman of the long robe, and that Mr. Gobbio gave one of the footmen
(who attended and _took notes_) half a guinea for it. Though a
digression, I cannot avoid observing that I hear, from good authority,
there are yet some few wits surviving in Dublin; and it is whispered
that the butlers and footmen in genteel families (_vails_ having been
mostly abolished since the Union) pick up, by way of substitute, much
ready money by taking notes of the “_good things_” they hear said by the
lawyers at their masters’ dinner parties, and selling them to aldermen,
candidates for the sheriffry, and city humourists, wherewith to
embellish their conversation and occasionally their speeches. Puns are
said to sell the best, they being more handy to a corporator, who has no
great vocabulary of his own: puns are of easy comprehension; one word
brings on another, and answers for two meanings, like killing two birds
with one stone, and they seem much more natural to the memory of a
common councilman than wit or any thing classical—which Alderman Jekey
Poole used to swear was only the d—’d _garbage_ (gibberish) of
schoolmasters.
Had the Jubilee concern ended here, all would have been smooth and
square:—but as events in families seldom come alone, Providence had
decreed a still more severe trial for Sir William _Steemer_—because one
of a more important character, and requiring a more prompt as well as
expensive decision.
Soon after the luxurious celebration of the Jubilee throughout the three
united kingdoms (except among such of the Irish as happened to have
nothing in their houses to eat or drink, let their loyalty be ever so
greedy), I chanced to call at the Mansion House on official business;
and Sir William, always hospitable and good-natured, insisted on my
staying to taste (in a family way) some “_glorious turtle_” he had just
got over from the London Tavern, and a bottle of what he called “old
Lafitte with the red nightcap,” which, he said, he had been long
preserving wherewith to _suckle_ his Excellency the Duke of Richmond.
I accepted his invitation: we had most excellent cheer, and were busily
employed in praising the vintage of 1790, when a sealed packet, like a
government dispatch, was brought in by the baronet’s old porter. We all
thought it was something of consequence, when Sir William, impatiently
breaking the seal, out started a very beautiful painting on parchment or
vellum, gilded and garnished with ultramarine, carmine, lapis
caliminaris, and all the most costly colours.
“Heyday!” said Sir William, staring: “what the deuce have we here?
Hollo! Christopher—Kit—I say Kit—who—who—or where the devil did this
come from?”
“By my sowl, my lord,” replied Christopher, “I dunnough who that same
man was that fetched it; but he was neat an’ clean, and had good apparel
on his body, though it was not a livery like mine, my lord.”
“Did—did—he say nothing, Kit?” said Sir William, surprised.
“Oh yes, plenty my lord; he desired me on my peril to give the thing
safe and sound to your lordship’s own self. He swore, like any trooper,
that it was as good as a ten thousand pound bank of Ireland note in your
pocket any how. So I curdled up at that word, my lord; I towld him plain
and plump he need not talk about peril to me; that I was nothing else
but an honest sarvant; and if the said thing was worth _fifty_ pounds in
_ready money_ it would be as safe as a diamond stone with me, my lord.”
“And was that all, Christopher?” said Sir William.
“Oh no, my lord,” replied Kit, “the man grinned at me all as one as a
monkey; and said that, maybe, I’d be a master myself one of these days.
‘By my sowl, maybe so, Sir,’ says I, ‘many a worse man arrived at being
an attorney since I came into service;’ and at the word, my lord, the
said man held his hand quite natural, as if he’d fain get something into
it for his trouble; but the devil a cross I had in my fob, my lord, so I
turned my fob inside out to show I was no liar, and he bowed very
civilly and went out of the street-door, laughing that the whole street
could hear him; though I could swear by all the books in your lordship’s
office, that he had nothing to laugh at: and that’s all I had act or
part in it, my lord.”
Sir William now seemed a little puzzled, desired Christopher to be gone,
and throwing the painting on the table, said, “I didn’t want any arms or
crests. I had very good ones of my own, and I don’t understand this
matter at all. My family had plenty of arms and crests since King
William came over the water.”
“So have mine—a very nice lion rampant of their own, my lord,” said her
ladyship, as excellent a woman as could be: “I’m of the Rawins’s,”
continued she, “and they have put me into your arms, Sir William:—look!”
“Oh that is all as it should be, my dear,” said his lordship, who was a
very tender husband. But regarding it more closely, her ladyship’s
colour, as she looked over his shoulder, mantled a few shades higher
than its natural roseate hue, and she seemed obviously discontented.
“I tell you, Sir William,” said she, “it is a malicious insult; and if
you were out of the mayoralty, or my boy, Lovelace Steemer, had arrived
at full maturity, I have no doubt the person who sent this would be made
a proper example of. I hope you feel it, Sir William.”
“Feel!—feel what, my love?” said Sir William, calmly, he being not only
a courteous, but a most peaceful citizen. “Don’t be precipitate, my
darling!—let us see—let us see.”
“See!” said her ladyship, still more hurt, “ay, see with your own eyes!”
pointing to the _insult_: “the fellow that painted that (whoever he is)
has placed a pair of enormous horns just over your head, Sir William!—a
gross insult, Sir William—to me, Sir William—indeed to both of us.”
I was much amused, and could not help observing “that the horns were
certainly enormous horns, to be sure; but as the joke must be intended
against Sir William himself—not her ladyship—I hope—” said I.
“No, no, Sir Jonah,” said the lady interrupting me.
“I see now,” said Sir William, looking at the bottom, “this comes from
Ulster.”
“Read on, Sir William,” said I, “read on.”
“Ay, Ulster king-at-arms: and who the deuce is _Ulster king-at-arms_?”
“I suppose,” said I, “some blood relation to the Escheator of Munster,
and—”
“And who—who the d—l is the _Escheator of Munster_?” said Sir William
(who had never vacated a seat in the Irish Parliament).
“He is of the same family as the Chiltern hundreds,” quoth I.
“Chiltern hundreds! Chiltern hundreds! By Jove, they must be an odd
family altogether,” said the Lord Mayor, still more puzzled, his lady
sitting quite silent, being now altogether out of her depth,—till a
small letter, to that moment overlooked, was taken up and read by the
Lord Mayor, and was found to be connected with a bill furnished, and
wanting nothing but a receipt in full to make it perfect. The
countenance of Sir William now became less placid. It proved to be a
very proper and fair intimation from his Majesty’s herald-at-arms, to
the effect that, as the baronetcy originated with the Jubilee, and was
granted in honour of King George the Third having ruled half a century,
an amplification of the new baronet’s heraldry by an additional horn,
motto, ribbon, &c., was only a just tribute to his Majesty’s longevity!
and, in truth, so properly and professionally was the case stated, that
Ulster’s clear opinion may be inferred that every family in the empire
might, in honour and loyalty, take a pair of horns, motto, and ribbon,
as well as Sir William, if they thought proper so to do, and on the same
terms.
How the matter was finally arranged, I know not; but the arms came out
well emblazoned and duly surmounted by a more moderate and comely pair
of horns; and Sir William, in regular season, retired from office with
due _éclat_, and in all points vastly bettered by his year of
government. Though he retired, like Cincinnatus—but not to the
plough—Sir William reassumed his less arduous duties of committing
rogues to Newgate—long corks to Chateau Margaux—light loaves to the four
Marshalsea Courts—and pronouncing thirteen-penny decrees in the Court of
Conscience:[2] every one of which occupations he performed correctly and
zealously, to the entire satisfaction of the nobility, clergy, gentry,
and public at large, in the metropolis of Ireland.
-----
Footnote 2:
Every lord mayor of Dublin becomes judge of a “Court of Conscience”
for twelve months after the expiration of his mayoralty; each decree
costing a shilling; many of the causes are of the most comical
description; but never would there have arisen so great a judge as
Sancho Panza of Barataria, from presiding in our Court of Conscience.
I cannot omit stating, that Sir William, when lord mayor, gave the
most numerous, brilliant, and complete masquerade ever seen in Dublin,
or, I believe, any where else. There were fourteen or fifteen hundred
persons, and I am sure not more than one hundred dominoes; every body
went in character, and every person tried to keep up the character he
adopted. Ireland, of all places in the world, is, perhaps, best
adapted to a masquerade, as every Irishman is highly amused when he
can get an opportunity of assuming, by way of freak, any new
character.
It was the custom for the mob, on those occasions, to stop every
carriage, and demand of each person, “What’s your character?” I was
dreadfully tired of them in the street on the night in question; but
fairly put into good-humour by the _jeu d’esprit_ of a mob-man, who
opened the carriage-door. After I had satisfied him as to character,
he desired to know, where I was going? “Shut the door,” said I. “Ah,
but where are you going?” I was vexed. “I’m going to the _Devil_,”
said I. “Ough, then, _God_ send you safe!” replied the blackguard.
-----
An incident appertaining to the same body, but with a termination by no
means similar, occurred a few years afterward, which, among other
matters, contributes to show what different sort of things the Irish at
different times rejoice in. In 1809, they rejoiced in full jubilee on
the memorable event of his Majesty King George the Third having entered
the fiftieth year of his reign, without ever paying one visit to, or
taking the least notice of, his loyal Corporation of Dublin: and after
he was dead (_de facto_, for the King never dies _de jure_), they
celebrated another jubilee on account of his Majesty George the Fourth
honouring them with a visit _the very earliest opportunity_. This was
the first time any king of England had come to Ireland, except to cut
the throats of its inhabitants; and his present Majesty having most
graciously crossed over to sow peace and tranquillity among them, if
possible, and to do them any and every kindness which they would _submit
to_, it was not wonderful each man in Ireland hailed the event as
forming a most auspicious commencement of his Majesty’s reign, not only
over his subjects at large, but, in particular, over that glorious,
pious, immortal, and uproarious body, the Corporation of Dublin city.
Events have proved how ungratefully his Majesty’s beneficent intentions
have been requited.
His Majesty having arrived at the hill of Howth, to the universal joy of
the Irish people, was received with unexampled cordiality, and in due
form, by the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor, on the very field of
battle where O’Brien Borun had formerly acquired undying fame by cutting
the Danes into slices (an operation which we have since repeated on them
at Copenhagen, though with different instruments). That Right Honourable
Lord Mayor was Sir Abraham Bradley King, then one of the best looking
aldermen in Europe. On this occasion he obtained, not military honour,
but, on the other hand, a more tranquil one than the said King O’Brien
Borun ever arrived at;—he was actually _imperialised_ as a baronet in
very superior style to his brother corporator _Steemer_, on the loyal
demi-century occasion.
I have since heard that an effort was made somewhat to transform the
armorial bearings of the Bradley King family, also, in commemoration of
this auspicious event; and that it was intended to give him, as an
addition to his crest, Sir John Skinner’s steam packet, out of which his
Majesty had landed just previous to bestowing the baronetcy on Sir
Abraham. Here the city punsters began again with their vulgar
insinuations; and, omitting the word _packet_, gave out that Alderman
King wanted to put Alderman _Steemer_ as a supporter to his arms,
instead of a griffin rampant or unicorn, as customary on these
occasions; but this vile play upon words Sir Abraham peremptorily and
properly checked with the same constitutional firmness and success
wherewith he had previously refused to “tell tales out of school” about
the Orangemen to the House of Commons.[3]
-----
Footnote 3:
This was the first instance I recollect of pertinacity conquering
privilege.
-----
On this occasion, Sir Abraham proudly and virtuously declared that all
the heralds in Europe should never _ravish_ him as they had done his
brother Steemer; and that if any alteration was to be made in his shield
by Ulster-at-arms, or any Ulster in Europe, he would permit nothing but
an emblematic crown to be introduced therein, in honour and
commemoration of his sovereign; and though our national poet, Mr. Thomas
Moore, and Sir Abraham, never coalesced upon any point whatsoever
(except the consumption of paper), yet on this conciliatory occasion,
Sir Abraham declared his willingness to forgive and forget the religion
and politics of the poet for eight and forty hours. This was as it
should be; and a crown, with a posy or nosegay in its neighbourhood
(instead of a cut and thrust) are accordingly embodied in the armorial
bearings of Sir Abraham, the cruel idea of a bloody hand being now
softened down and qualified by the bouquet which adorns it.
Again the indefatigable corporation wags, who could let nothing pass,
began their jocularities: the worthy Baronet’s name being _King_, and
the shield having a _crown_ in it, the Common Council began to hob-nob
him as, _Your Majesty_, or the _Crown Prince_, or such like. But Sir
Abraham had been an officer in the King’s service, and being a spirited
fellow to boot, he declared open and personal hostility against all low
and evil-minded corporate punsters. These _titles_ were therefore
relinquished; and the whole affair ended, to the real satisfaction of
every staunch Protestant patriot from Bray to Balbiggen, and as far
westward as the College of Maynooth, where I understand the rejoicings
terminated—for Sir Abraham found the road _too bad_ to travel any
farther.
Having endeavoured somewhat to divert the reader’s criticism on my
pedigree blunder, I have, in compliance with the wish of one of the
ablest, wisest, and steadiest public personages of Great Britain (whose
title heads this volume), reopened my old trunks, and made a further
attempt at amusing myself and other folks—and at depicting, by authentic
anecdotes, the various and extraordinary habits and propensities of the
Irish people, with their gradual changes of national character for the
last fifty or sixty years,—which (to my grief I say it) will be the
work, not of a _novelist_, but a _contemporary_. I fancy there are very
few of those who flourished so long ago, who could procure pen, ink, and
paper, either for love or money, where they sojourn at present; and of
those who still inhabit the same world with the stationers, some have
lost one half of their faculties, at least, and scarce any among the
remainder possess sufficient energy to retrace by description the events
that took place during a long and, perhaps, active career. I shall take
Time by the forelock; and, ere the candle goes out, draw as many
Sketches of my past day as I may have time to record, before I wish the
present generation a good morning—which adieu cannot now be long
distant:—_tant pis_!