THE BIRTH OF A WORD--A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION--THE HONOR OF KNIGHTHOOD.
I have mentioned in the narrative respecting Lonergan, that my father
was a member of the corps of Dublin Volunteers, and that he was serjeant
of the grenadier company. Many of his comrades were living within my
memory, and I could name five or six who derived great gratification
from reverting to the period when the citizen soldiers of Ireland were
enrolled in thousands for the purpose of resisting an invasion which was
threatened by the French. The reviews, parades, and convivial
associations of the Volunteers afforded many agreeable recollections;
and I have heard from different narrators the same account of what may
be termed the birth of a word which originated in Eustace Street,
Dublin, upon the same day that ushered into this breathing world the
oldest and highest of rank amongst the Irish nobility.[3] I indulge in a
hope that my readers may consider the circumstances under which a word
was added to our language as curious or interesting, especially when
they are apprised that it was not taken from any other language, ancient
or modern, and yet it has become ubiquitous.
On the 21st of August, 1791, news had arrived in Dublin that Her Grace
the Duchess of Leinster had given birth to a young Marquis of Kildare.
To all ranks of society the intelligence was welcome, but especially to
the Volunteers. The Duke was the general of that force in his province,
but his own corps, of which he was colonel, was the Dublin one. Along
with the announcement of the accouchement of the Duchess, came an
intimation, that the corps would be expected at Carton on the happy
occasion of the christening. The opportunity for paying a compliment to
their commander was hailed by the citizen-soldiers with the utmost
enthusiasm, and there was a numerous gathering of them, to learn the
particulars and to consider their arrangements, at a tavern in Eustace
Street, Dublin, kept by a person named Bennett, and known as "The
Eagle." The evening had, as might be expected, a convivial termination.
Several who had attained to high civic dignities were amongst those
assembled; and there was also present Richard Daly, the proprietor and
manager of the Smock Alley theatre, who had an extraordinary propensity
for making wagers in reference to incidental matters, however
unimportant. In the course of the evening some casual opinions were
expressed on the histrionic powers of an actor named Sparkes, who was
then drawing immense houses in Daly's theatre. One of the Volunteers,
named Delahoyde, expressed his surprise that such crowds should run
after Sparkes, and remarked that his popularity was more the result of
fashionable caprice than of histrionic merits. "He is, in my opinion,"
added the speaker, "just what the French would term _un fagotin_." "And
what is the exact meaning of that word?" asked Alderman Moncrieffe.
"There is, perhaps, no one word in the English Language which conveys
its meaning exactly," said the interrogated party. "If I could give an
English word to signify a low, vulgar mountebank, I should not have
employed the French term." "Then," observed Daly, "why do you not make a
word and send it into circulation? You should not feel aware that our
language was deficient in expression without being charitable enough to
supply its want, especially as it costs nothing to make a word." "But,"
rejoined the other, "how could I ensure the reception of a word into
general use? It might be characterized as slang, or remain unnoticed and
unadopted; it might be as difficult to obtain currency for a word, or
more so, than it was to pass Wood's halfpence."
"Dick," said Alderman Moncrieffe, "suppose you try your own hand, as you
think the matter so easy. I would leave it to your own ingenuity, but I
fear you will find it very difficult to induce the public to take your
word. If they took some of your _assurance_ it might be an advantage;
you have plenty to spare."
"I thank you, Alderman," replied Daly. "I did not suppose that so much
wit could come from the neighbourhood of the Tholsel."
"Oh!" said Moncrieffe, "it has strayed up to us from the theatre, where
it has lately become scarce. But, Dick, why have you chatted so long on
this and other subjects this evening without offering a single wager?
Come now, start a bet."
"I shall not use a phrase or make a word," said Daly, "in disparagement
of Sparkes, from whom I have derived much pleasure and profit; but I
shall bet you twenty guineas, and I propose our friend and captain, who
is also your brother alderman, I propose John Carleton as the judge or
arbitrator between us, that within forty-eight hours there shall be a
word in the mouths of the Dublin public, of all classes and sexes, young
and old; and also that within a week, the same public shall attach a
definite and generally adopted meaning to that word, without any
suggestion or explanation from me. I also undertake, as essential to the
wager, that my word shall be altogether new and unconnected with any
derivation from another language, ancient or modern. Now, Alderman, what
say you to taking my word or winning my money?"
"I shall not take your word, Dick, but I propose winning some of your
money. I shall put five guineas in the wager, provided the present
company take up the balance, and let the winnings be spent on the
evening of the first parade day after our return from the christening of
the young Marquis of Kildare."
The company were joyous, and the proposal of the appropriation of the
proceeds to festivity induced a speedy acceptance of the remaining
liability. The terms were reduced to writing, and deposited with
Carleton. Daly looked at his watch and took his departure. It happened
to be a Saturday evening, and he reached the theatre a short time before
the termination of the performance. He immediately procured some lumps
of chalk, and a dozen or two of cards. Upon each of the cards he wrote a
word. It was short and distinct, and at the fall of the curtain he
required the attendance of the call-boys, scene-shifters, and other
inferior employés of the concern. To each of them he gave a card and a
piece of chalk, and directed them to perambulate the city until
daybreak, chalking the word upon the doors and shutters of the houses.
His directions were diligently obeyed, and on the Sunday morning the
doors of shops, warehouses, and even private dwellings appeared to have
one word conspicuously chalked on them. The timid were alarmed, lest it
indicated some unlawful or hostile intention, but these apprehensions
were dissipated by the fact of its universal appearance. One, as he
issued from his dwelling, conceived that it was meant for a nick-name
for him; but he immediately changed his opinion on seeing it on his
neighbour's premises also. It could not be political, for all parties
were treated the same way. It was manifestly not a mark on any religious
persuasion, for all denominations were chalked alike. It was not
belonging to any known language, nor could a word of any meaning be
formed by the transposition of its letters. Still the universality of
its appearance excited the curiosity of all, and formed a subject for
public conjecture and general conversation. After a few days the general
conclusion was, that the word was a hoax, a trick, a humbug, a joke.
However, it was not forgotten. The parties to the wager, which Dick Daly
was adjudged to have won, have all disappeared, but I have heard several
of them narrate the particulars as I have stated them. The hands by
which the word was chalked have all mouldered into clay, but the term
that owed its birth to the Eustace Street wager has become almost
ubiquitous. It is heard in India, Australia, the United States, Canada,
or the Cape; in fact, wherever the English language is spoken. The word
is QUIZ.
It may not be inopportune to mention here that I related the foregoing
account of the origin of the word "quiz" one day in, I think, the year
1832, at the table of Cornelius Lyne, the facetious and convivial
barrister of the Munster Circuit, where he was designated, in
contradistinction to the old Irish chieftain, "Con of the hundred
_battles_," "Con of the hundred _bottles_." Amongst the guests was a
gentleman named Montgomery, who resided in Belfast. On hearing my story,
he remarked that a quiz has occasionally produced a reality. He
proceeded to tell us that when James Madison was President of the United
States, a young man connected with one of the most eminent houses in
Belfast, thought fit to make an American tour. Having crossed the
Atlantic, he passed upwards of eighteen months to his perfect
satisfaction. On his return he was greatly pestered by one of his
fellow-townsmen, a pushing, plausible, self-sufficient kind of fellow,
for letters of introduction to some American friends, the applicant
declaring his intention of visiting all the principal cities of the
Union. At length the solicited party replied to an urgent entreaty, by
declaring that there was no one with whom he felt himself warranted to
take such a liberty except his friend Madison. "The President!"
exclaimed the importunate teaser; "why it would be invaluable." Acceding
to his request, a letter was written commencing with "My dear Mr.
Madison," and conveying the assurance, that the attentions which the
writer had received would never be forgotten, and that the recollection
of such kindness emboldened him to introduce a friend, in the hope that
he would be received with even a portion of that urbanity which had been
experienced so agreeably, and remembered so gratefully, by his ever
faithful and obliged, &c., &c. The traveller departed, and a
considerable time elapsed before he reappeared in Belfast. When he
returned, his first visit was to the author of the valuable
introduction. "My dear friend," said he, "I presented your letter at a
public reception. The President was more than polite, he was extremely
cordial. I was invited to several delightful parties, and received the
utmost attention. It was, however, very extraordinary, that when I
called to pay my farewell visit, he asked me several questions in
reference to your personal appearance, remarking that you had lapsed
from his recollection." This was not so very surprising, for the
President had never seen the man whose letter of introduction for the
other had been a thorough quiz. At the conclusion of the anecdote which
my narrative had elicited from Mr. Montgomery, Tom Moylan, Mr. Lyne's
nephew, contributed another. He remarked that the Belfast man had only
quizzed a President, but a Dublin man had completely humbugged a king.
When George the Fourth was reigning, a Dublin medical doctor wrote a
book. He had a copy splendidly bound for presentation, and then went to
London, to the royal levee, where he handed a card to the
lord-in-waiting, on which his name appeared as attending to present his
work on a certain professional subject, _and to receive the honor of
knighthood_. The lord-in-waiting thought that all was right; the king
thought so, too. The Dublin doctor knelt down, the king took a sword
gave him the slap of dignity, and bade him arise Sir Thomas ----. After
the levee, and when the newspapers had published the knighthood as one
of the incidents of the day, there were some enquiries about the
recipient of the distinction. Who had recommended him? Of what minister
was he the protegè? But they were all too late, the knighthood had been
conferred. People could only laugh. Canning was reported to have said,
that he supposed the doctor claimed the honor by _prescription_.
Although I was not personally acquainted with the medical knight who was
the subject of Tom Moylan's anecdote, I have a perfect recollection of
him for several years before he was dubbed a "Sir." He resided in St.
Peter's parish, Dublin, and was very prominent in the old agitation
times antecedent to Catholic Emancipation. At the vestries there could
not be a rate or cess proposed to which he had not an amendment or
direct negative to offer. On one occasion, at a very crowded parochial
meeting, he complained to Archdeacon Torrens, who was presiding, that
the vestry-room was too limited a place for such an important
discussion as that in which they were engaged. "I move, reverend sir,"
said he, "that we adjourn _to the Churchyard_." "My dear doctor,"
replied the archdeacon, very quaintly, "you will have us there time
enough."
FOOTNOTE:
[3] These expressions refer to the late Duke of Leinster, who has died
since I wrote them.--F. T. P.