Chapter VII: Part 7

Dennis M‘Carthy, the postilion of Lord Lisle, had an action for crim. con. brought against him by his master, and upon a very forced construction of law in such cases, by the chief baron, the jury found damages for 5000_l._ against Dennis.—He was of course sent to gaol; and damages to that amount and of that nature excluding the debtor from the benefit of the Insolvent Act, strong efforts were made in Parliament to have Dennis included especially, by name, in the statute, he having remained ten years in close confinement. His liberation was constantly applied for, and as constantly rejected. Sir Boyle, as a last effort, made a florid speech in his best style on behalf of the poor fellow, arguing truly, “that Lady Lisle, and not Dennis, must have been the real seducer;” and concluding thus:—“And what, Mr. Speaker, was this poor servant’s crime? After all, sure, Mr. Speaker, it was only doing _his master’s business by his mistress’s orders_! and is it not very hard to keep a poor servant in gaol for that which if he had not done he would have deserved a horsewhipping?” This way of putting the case had the desired effect:—Dennis’s name was especially included by the Commons; but in the House of Lords it was thrown out by Lord Clonmell, chief justice, though two years had scarcely elapsed since his lordship himself had fought a duel with the late Lord Tyrawley for crim. con. with her ladyship.

Never was there a more _sensible blunder_ than the following. We recommend it as a motto to gentlemen in the army. “The best way,” said Sir Boyle, “to _avoid_ danger, is to _meet it plump_!”

Lord Townsend, when he went over as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, was greatly amused on entering the beautiful bay of Dublin. There are two great and dangerous sand-banks to be encountered on entering the harbour, with a small village close to them on the shore.

“What bank is that?” asked Lord Townsend.

“That’s the North _Bull_,” said the captain.

“And pray, what’s that _other_ bank?” inquired the Lord Lieutenant.

“That’s the _South Bull_, my lord,” answered the pilot.

“And what’s the name of that little village?”

“That’s _Ring’s-End_, your Excellency,” said the mate.

“What!” exclaimed Lord Townsend; “two _bulls_ and one _impossibility_ is quite enough for one harbour! I think, if the _parliament_ is like the _port_, I shall not find it easy to compose an _answer_ to its _address_.”

ENTRANCE INTO OFFICE.

The author first placed in office by Lord Westmoreland—Made king’s
counsel by Lord Clare—Jealousy of the bar—Description of
Kilkenny Castle—Trial of the Earl of Ormonde for outrage at
Kilkenny—Acquitted—Author’s conduct—Distinguished and liberal
present from the Earl of Ormonde to the author, of a gold box,
and his subsequent letter.

In December, 1793, the secretary, Lord Buckinghamshire, wrote to say that he wished to see me at the Castle. I immediately attended, when he said, “Barrington, I am about to depart from Ireland: and,” continued he, after my sincere expressions of regret, “as you have heretofore had nothing from us but convivial intercourse, it is just you should now have fare somewhat more substantial; with the approbation of the Lord Lieutenant, therefore, I have managed to secure for you a very handsome office,—the ships’ entries of the port of Dublin.”

At the name and nature of this office I rather demurred; whereupon Lord Buckinghamshire smiled, and said, “You have no objection to a good sinecure, I suppose, the emoluments payable every Sunday morning by the deputy: the place was lately held by Mr. George Ponsonby, and is at this moment enjoyed by Serjeant Coppinger; but I have negotiated to give him, his son, and his wife, an annuity of £800 a year, to resign it to you: we were bound to provide for him as an old servant of thirty years, and this is a convenient opportunity for doing so!”

This, so far, was agreeable: but still, _professional_ advancement being the object next my heart, I neither felt nor looked totally satisfied.

Lord Buckinghamshire then said, “You are a grumbling fellow: but I anticipated your grumbling, and the Lord Chancellor (Lord Clare) has consented to your being at the same time appointed one of the king’s counsel;—thus at once giving you a step over the heads of all your circuit seniors, except Sir Frederick Flood, who is not, I fancy, very formidable.”

This arrangement altogether met my wishes. I hastened to Lords Westmoreland and Clare, to thank them most cordially; and the fifth year after becoming a barrister, I found myself at the head of my circuit, and high up in the official rank of my profession. Practice generally follows the fortunate: I was immediately considered as on the high-road of preferment; the attorneys pursued me like a flock of rooks! and my business was quadrupled.

I purchased a fine house in Merrion Square, from Mr. Robert Johnson, then counsel to the revenue, (afterward judge,) who at that period felt himself going down hill; and here I launched into an absolute press of business; perhaps justly acquiring thereby the jealousy of many of my seniors. This jealousy, however, gave rise to one of the most gratifying incidents of my life.

John, Earl of Ormonde, resided, like a true Irish nobleman, in the utmost splendour and hospitality, in his fine ancient castle at Kilkenny. He scarcely ever went even to the Irish metropolis—his entire fortune being expended in his own city; whereby every shopkeeper and trader experienced the advantages of his lordship’s residence. His establishment was ample—his table profuse—his friendship warm and unbounded. The very appearance of his castle (though only a portion of the old duke’s) was still such as to remind the spectator of its former magnificence. Proudly towering over the river Nore, from which it was separated only by the public walk, a high and grand rampart on that side conveyed the idea at once of a palace and a fortress; whilst towards the city an old princely portal, flanked by round towers, opened into a spacious court, within which were preserved two sides of the original edifice, and a third was, at the period I allude to, rebuilding, in a style, however, far too modern and ordinary. The exterior mouldings of the castle exhibited the remains of the gilding which had formerly been laid on with a lavish hand.

The interior of this noble edifice, with the exception of one saloon and the picture-gallery, was not calculated to satisfy expectation: but both those were unique—the one with respect to its form, the other to its prospects. The grand saloon was not shaped like any other, I believe, existing—oval in its figure, and not large;—but the wall, twelve feet thick, admitted of recesses on the sides, which had the appearance of small rooms, each being terminated by a large window, and its sides covered with mirrors which reflected the beautiful and varied prospects of city, country, wood, river, and public promenade. When I was at the castle, in fact, every thing appeared to me delightful.

Walter, the late Marquess of Ormonde, though my junior in years, had been my intimate friend and companion; as was also his cousin, Bryan Cavanagh. We lived together at Temple, and Lord Ormonde was then the finest young man I ever saw. He had quite a cross private tutor (Rankin), who was with his lordship at Oxford, and then came to reside at Lincoln’s Inn with his cousin Bryan, till his father had provided for him—an interval of nearly a year.

Lady Ormonde, mother of Walter, was the only child of Earl Winderford, and, as lady of the castle, was careful to keep up her due importance. It is not impossible for women or men either to mistake form for dignity. True pride is accompanied by an amiable condescension: mere ceremony is the result of false pride, and not of dignity. I thought (perhaps erroneously) that her ladyship made this mistake.

The Earl John, my friend’s father, was rather in the opposite extreme. He was well read and friendly; indeed, a truer friend or more honourable person could not exist: yet he was a _hard-goer_ (as it was called), and an incessant talker. His lordship occasionally adjourned to a kind of tavern in the city, of which a certain widow Madden was the hostess, and where one Mr. Evans, surnamed “Hell-cat,” together with the best boozers and other gentlemen of Kilkenny, assembled to amuse his lordship by their jests and warm punch, and to emulate each other in the devouring oysters and lobsters—the best which could possibly be procured. Hither, in fact, the company from the castle often repaired for amusement.

These boozing-matches sometimes proceeded rather too far; and, one night, Mr. Duffy, a sharp, smart, independent-minded apothecary of Kilkenny, who had offended the Ormonde family on some very sensitive point, being alluded to, a member of the party, with more zeal than prudence, proposed as a toast, “a round of rascals!” taking care to designate Doctor Duffy as belonging to that _honourable_ fraternity. On departing from the tavern, far more full of liquor than wit, some wild young man in company suggested the demolition of the doctor’s windows: no sooner said than done!—the piper played, the stones flew, and Duffy’s shivered panes bore ample testimony to the strength of the widow’s beverage. No personal injury however ensued, and the affair _appeared_ to have terminated.

A glazier was sent early next morning by command of my lord to repair the windows; but this the doctor refused to allow; and in due form applied for and obtained a criminal information in the King’s Bench for the outrage, against Lord Ormonde, his son Walter, James the present Marquess, Lord Thurles, and others. The information was, in due legal form, sent down to be tried at the spring assizes very soon after I had been appointed king’s counsel.

None felt more jealousy at my promotion than Mr. William Fletcher, (since judge of the Common Pleas,) many years my senior at the bar and on circuit. Lord Ormonde directed briefs to be sent to me and to Fletcher, with fees of fifteen guineas each. I never loved money much in my life, and therefore thought it quite enough; or rather, I did not think about it.

The defendant’s case fell of course to me as leading counsel. At this circumstance Fletcher felt sore, and ran sulky; and the sulkier he got the more zealous became I. We had but a bad case of it: the cross-examination of the irritated apothecary, who grew after awhile quite ferocious, fell to my lot. I performed my duty, and it then devolved on Fletcher to speak to the evidence. This however he declined to do. I pressed him; but he peremptorily refused. I exclaimed—“Nay, Fletcher, you took a fee: why not speak?”—“Yes,” answered the angry barrister, “just enough to make me hold my tongue!”—“Do speak,” persisted I. “I _won’t_,” replied he. “Then I must do it for you,” was my rejoinder. My zeal was enkindled, and I felt myself in earnest and interested. I persevered till I saw the jury smile, to do which, they only wanted a good pretence. I held on my course till I saw them pleased; and the result was an acquittal of Lord Ormonde, and a conviction of all the others.

To his lordship this acquittal was invaluable. The conviction of the Earl of Ormonde for a nocturnal outrage in his own town, would have been to him a source of the utmost dismay. I knew this, and acted accordingly. He had heard of the conversation between Fletcher and me; but he thanked both without distinction, and made no partial remarks. I was hurt for a moment at this apparent neglect, but thought of it no longer, and his lordship never mentioned the circumstance.

On the ensuing summer assizes Lord Ormonde invited the judges, barristers, several of the grand-jury, and the principal gentlemen of the county, to a magnificent dinner at the castle. It was a long table, and every thing in the grandest style. A judge sat on each side of Lady Ormonde at the head, and Fletcher and myself were their next neighbours. After the cloth was removed, and Lady Ormonde had retired, his lordship stood up, and, in a loud voice, said,—“I have waited with impatience for this public opportunity of expressing to Mr. Barrington the high sense I entertain of his important and disinterested services to me at the last assizes: I now beg his acceptance of a small testimonial of my gratitude and friendship.”—And he immediately slid along the table a magnificent gold snuff-box, with his arms, &c. and the following inscription:—

A Token of Friendship and Gratitude from the Earl of Ormonde and
Ossory to Jonah Barrington, Esq., one of His Majesty’s Counsel
at Law. August, 1794.

I was utterly astonished by this distinguished and most unexpected favour conferred in so public and honourable a manner; and _involuntarily_, without a moment’s thought, (but certainly with the appearance of ill-nature,) I triumphantly handed round the box for the inspection of my brother-barristers. Fletcher, confused as might be supposed, slightly shoved it back to me:—his conduct on the trial having been known, a sensation became visible amongst the company, which I would almost have given up the box to have avoided exciting. His countenance, however, though not usually subject to be much impressed by kind feelings, clearly acquitted me of any intentional insult: in truth, I really felt as much as he did when I perceived my error, and wished to pocket the prize without its creating further notice. But this was impossible: I was obliged to return thanks, which ceremony I went through very badly. Fletcher did not remain long, and I also adjourned at an early hour to the bar-room, where the incident had preceded me. I now tried my best to put all parties into good humour, and finished the night by a much deeper stoup of wine than I should have indulged in at Lord Ormonde’s.

Next morning I found a billet from the earl, enveloping a bank-note for 100_l._, with these words:—

“Dear Sir,

“My attorney did not do you justice; you will permit me
to be my own attorney on this occasion.

“Your friend and humble servant,
“ORMONDE and OSSORY.”

From that time to the day of his lordship’s death, I experienced from him, on every occasion within his reach, the utmost extent of kindness, civility, and friendship. His successor, with whom I had been so long and so very intimately acquainted, was whirled at an early age into the vortex of fashionable life and dissipation. Having lost his best guide and truest friend, his cousin Bryan Cavanagh, many of his naturally fine qualities were absorbed in the licentious influence of a fashionable female connexion; and thus became lost to himself and to many of those friends who had most truly valued him.

I have mentioned Walter, Marquess of Ormonde, the more particularly, because, extraordinary as it may appear, it certainly was to that fatal connexion of his (where I am sure he had not been the seducer) that I owe several of the most painful and injurious events of my life. Of the existence of this connexion I had irrefragable proof; and of its having operated as a bar to the chief objects of his life and ambition, and of my own also, I have equal reason to feel convinced.

His lordship married his own god-daughter, a most amiable young lady; but too late: and never have I remarked, through the course of a long, observing life, any progress more complete from the natural levities of youth to confirmed habits of dissipation, from the first order of early talent to the humblest state of premature imbecility, than that of the late Marquess of Ormonde, who had, at one period of our intimacy, as engaging a person, as many noble, manly qualities, and to the full as much intellectual promise, as any young man of his country.

DR. ACHMET BORUMBORAD.

Singular anecdotes of Dr. Achmet Borumborad—He proposes to erect baths
in Dublin, in the Turkish fashion—Obtains grants from Parliament for
that purpose—The baths well executed—The Doctor’s banquet—Ludicrous
anecdote of nineteen noblemen and members of Parliament falling into
his grand salt-water bath—The accident nearly causes the ruin of the
Doctor and his establishment—He falls in love with Miss Hartigan, and
marries her—Sudden metamorphosis of the Turk into Mr. Patrick Joyce.

Until England dragged the sister kingdom with herself into the ruinous expenses of the American war, Ireland owed no public debt.—There were no taxes, save local ones: the Parliament, being composed of resident gentlemen, interested in the prosperity and welfare of their country, was profuse in promoting all useful schemes; and no projector, who could show any reasonable grounds for seeking assistance, had difficulty in finding a patron. On these points, indeed, the gentlemen who possessed influence, were often unguarded, and sometimes extravagant;—but the people lost nothing, since all was expended amongst themselves.

Among other projectors, whose ingenuity was excited by this liberal conduct, was one of a very singular description—a _Turk_ who had come over, or (as the _on-dit_ went) had _fled_ from Constantinople. He proposed to establish, what was greatly wanted at that time in the Irish metropolis, “Hot and Cold Sea-water Baths;” and by way of advancing his pretensions to public encouragement, offered to open free baths for the poor, on an extensive plan—giving them, as a doctor, attendance and advice gratis, every day in the year. He spoke English very intelligibly; his person was extremely remarkable; and the more so, as he was the first _Turk_ who had ever walked the streets of Dublin in his native costume. He was in height considerably above six feet, rather pompous in his gait, and apparently powerful; an immense black beard covering his chin and upper lip. There was, at the same time, something cheerful and cordial in the man’s address; and, altogether, he cut a very imposing figure. Every body liked Doctor Achmet Borumborad: his Turkish dress, being extremely handsome, without any approach to the tawdry, and crowned with an immense turban, drew the eyes of every passer-by; and I must say that I have never myself seen a more stately-looking Turk since that period.

The eccentricity of the Doctor’s appearance was, indeed, as will readily be imagined, the occasion of much idle observation and conjecture. At first, whenever he went abroad, a crowd of people, chiefly boys, was sure to attend him—but at a respectful distance; and if he turned to look behind him, the gaping boobies fled, as if they conceived even his looks to be mortal. These fears, however, gradually wore away, and were entirely shaken off, on the fact being made public, that he meant to attend the poor; which undertaking was, in the usual spirit of exaggeration, soon construed into an engagement, on the part of the Doctor, to cure _all disorders whatever_! and hence he quickly became as much admired and respected as he had previously been dreaded.

My fair readers will perhaps smile, when I assure them that the persons who seemed to have the least apprehension of Doctor Borumborad, or rather to think him “a very _nice_ Turk!” were the ladies of the metropolis. Many a smart, snug little husband, who had been heretofore considered “quite the thing,”—despotic in his own house, and peremptory commandant of his own family, was now regarded as a wretched, contemptible, close-shaven pigmy, in comparison with the immensity of the Doctor’s figure and whiskers; and, what is more extraordinary, his good-humour and engaging manners gained him many friends even among the husbands themselves! he thus becoming, in a shorter period than could be imagined, a particular favourite with the entire city, male and female.

Doctor Achmet Borumborad, having obtained footing thus far, next succeeded surprisingly in making his way amongst the members of Parliament. He was full of conversation, yet knew his proper distance; pregnant with anecdote, but discreet in its expenditure; and he had the peculiar talent of being humble without the _appearance_ of humility. A submissive Turk would have been out of character, and a haughty one excluded from society: the Doctor was aware of this, and regulated his demeanour with remarkable skill upon all occasions (and they were numerous) whereon (as a _lion_) he was invited to the tables of the great. By this line of conduct, he managed to warm those who patronised him into becoming violent partisans; and accordingly little or no difficulty was experienced in getting a grant from Parliament for a sufficient fund to commence his great metropolitan undertaking.

Baths were now planned after Turkish models. The money voted was most faithfully appropriated; and a more ingenious or useful establishment could not be formed in any metropolis. But the cash, it was discovered, ran too short to enable the Doctor to complete his scheme; and, on the ensuing session, a further vote became necessary, which was by no means opposed, as the institution was good, fairly executed, and charitably applied. The worthy Doctor kept his ground: session after session he petitioned for fresh assistance, and never met with refusal: his profits were good, and he lived well; whilst the baths proved of the utmost benefit, and the poor received attention and service from his establishment, without cost. An immense cold-bath was constructed, to communicate with the river: it was large and deep, and entirely renewed every tide. The neatest lodging rooms, for those patients who chose to remain during a course of bathing, were added to the establishment, and always occupied. In short, the whole affair became so popular, and Dr. Achmet acquired so many friends, that the annual grants of Parliament were considered nearly as matters of course.

But, alas! fortune is treacherous, and prosperity unstable. Whilst the ingenious Borumborad was thus rapidly flourishing, an unlucky though most ludicrous incident threw the poor fellow completely a-back; and, without any fault on his part, nearly ruined both himself and his institution.

Preparatory to every session it was the Doctor’s invariable custom to give a grand dinner, at the baths, to a large number of his patrons, members of Parliament, who were in the habit of proposing and supporting his grants. He always, on these occasions, procured some professional singers, as well as the finest wines in Ireland—endeavouring to render the parties as joyous and convivial as possible. Some nobleman, or commoner of note, always acted for him as chairman, the Doctor himself being quite unassuming.

At the last commencement of a session, whereupon he anticipated this patronage, it was intended to increase his grant, in order to meet the expenses of certain new works, &c. which he had executed on the strength of the ensuing supply; and the Doctor had invited nearly thirty of the leading members to a grand dinner in his spacious saloon. The singers were of the first order; the claret and champaign excellent; and never was the Turk’s hospitality shown off to better advantage, or the appetites of his guests administered to with greater success. The effects of the wine, as usual on all such meetings in Ireland, began to grow obvious. The elder and more discreet members were for adjourning; whilst the juveniles declared they would stay for another dozen! and Doctor Borumborad accordingly went down himself to his cellar, to select and send up a choice dozen by way of _bonne bouche_ for _finishing_ the refractory members of Parliament.

In his absence, Sir John S. Hamilton, though a very _dry_ member, took it into his head that he had taken enough, and rose to go away, as is customary in these days of freedom when people are so circumstanced: but at that period men were not always their own masters on such occasions, and a general cry arose of—“Stop, Sir John!—stop him!—the _bonne bouche_!—the _bonne bouche_!”—The carousers were on the alert instantly: Sir John opened the door and rushed out; the ante-chamber was not lighted; some one or two-and-twenty stanch members stuck to his skirts; when _splash_ at once comes Sir John, not into the street, but into the great _cold-bath_, the door of which he had retreated by, in mistake! The other Parliament-men were too close upon the baronet to stop short (like the horse of a Cossack): in they went, by fours and fives; and one or two, who, on hearing the splashing of the water, cunningly threw themselves down on the brink to avoid popping in, operated directly as stumbling-blocks to those behind, who thus obtained their full share of a _bonne bouche_ none of the parties had bargained for.

When Doctor Borumborad re-entered, ushering a couple of servants laden with a dozen of his best wine, and missed all his company, he thought some devil had carried them off; but perceiving the door of his noble, deep, cold-bath open, he with dismay rushed thither, and espied a full committee of Irish Parliament-men either floating like so many corks upon the surface, or scrambling to get out like mice who had fallen into a bason! The Doctor’s _posse_ of attendants were immediately set at work, and every one of the honourable members extricated: the quantity of Liffey-water, however, which had made its way into their stomachs, was not so easily removed, and most of them carried the beverage home to their own bed-chambers.

It was unlucky, also, that as the Doctor was a Turk, he had no Christian wardrobe to substitute for the well-soaked garments of the honourable members. Such dresses, however, as he had, were speedily put into requisition; the bathing attendants furnished their quota of dry apparel; and all was speedily distributed amongst the swimmers, some of whom exhibited in Turkish costume, others in bathing-shifts; and when the clothes failed, blankets were pinned around the rest. Large fires were made in every room; brandy and mulled wine liberally resorted to; and as fast as sedan-chairs could be procured, the Irish Commoners were sent home, cursing all Turks and infidels, and denouncing a crusade against any thing coming from the same quarter of the globe as Constantinople.

Poor Doctor Achmet Borumborad was distracted and quite inconsolable! Next day he duly visited every suffering member, and though well received, was acute enough to see that the ridicule with which they had covered themselves was likely to work out eventually his ruin. His anticipations were well-founded: though the members sought to hush up the ridiculous parts of the story, they became, from that very attempt, still more celebrated. In fact, it was too good a joke to escape the embellishments of Irish humour; and the statement universally circulated was—that “Doctor Borumborad had nearly drowned nineteen members of Parliament, because they would not promise to vote for him!”

The poor doctor was now assailed in every way. Among other things, it was asserted that he was the Turk who had strangled the Christians in the Seven Towers at Constantinople!—Though every body laughed at _their own_ inventions, they believed those of _other people_; and the conclusion was, that no more grants could be proposed, since not a single member was stout enough to mention the name of Borumborad! The laugh, indeed, would have overwhelmed the best speech ever delivered in the Irish Parliament.

Still the new works must be paid for, although no convenient vote came to make the necessary provision: the poor doctor was therefore cramped a little; but notwithstanding his embarrassment, he kept his ground well, and lost no private friends, except such as the wearing-off of novelty estranged. He continued to get on; and at length a new circumstance intervened to restore his happiness, in a way as little to be anticipated by the reader as was his previous discomfiture.

Love had actually seized upon the Turk above two years before the accident we have been recording. A respectable surgeon of Dublin, of the name of Hartigan, had what might be termed a very “neat” sister; and this lady had made a lasting impression on the heart of Borumborad, who had no reason to complain of his suit being treated with disdain, or even indifference. On the contrary, Miss H. liked the doctor vastly! and praised the Turks in general, both for their dashing spirit and their beautiful whiskers. It was not, however, consistent either with her own or her brother’s Christianity to submit to the doctor’s tremendous beard, or think of matrimony; till “he had shaved the chin at least, and got a parson to turn him into a Christian, or something of that kind.” Upon those terms only would she surrender her charms and her money—for some she had—to Doctor Achmet Borumborad, however amiable.

The doctor’s courtship with the members of Parliament having now terminated, so far at any rate as further grants were concerned, and a _grant_ of a much more tender nature being now within his reach, he began seriously to consider if he should not at once capitulate to Miss H., and exchange his beard and his Alcoran for a razor and the New Testament. After weighing matters deliberately, love prevailed; and he intimated by letter, in the proper vehemence of Asiatic passion, his determination to turn Christian, discard his beard, and, throwing himself at the feet of his beloved, vow eternal fidelity to her in the holy bands of matrimony. He concluded by requesting an interview in the presence of the young lady’s confidant, a Miss Owen, who resided next door. His request was granted, and he repeated his proposal, which was duly accepted, Miss Hartigan stipulating that he should never see her again until the double promise in his letter was fully redeemed; upon which he might mention his own day for the ceremony. The doctor having engaged to comply, took leave:—for the last time he stroked his glossy beard, and departed with a look so sensitive and tender, that both the intended bride and bridesmaid regarded the yielding Musselman with the fervor of an Asiatic constitution.

On the evening of the same day a gentleman was announced to the bride-elect, with a message from Doctor Achmet Borumborad. Her confidential neighbour was immediately summoned; the gentleman waiting meantime in a coach at the door. At length Miss Hartigan and her friend being ready to receive him, in walked a Christian gallant, in a suit of full-dress black, and a very tall, fine-looking Christian he was! Miss H. was surprised; she did not recognise her lover, particularly as she thought it impossible he could have been made a Christian before the ensuing Sunday! He immediately, however, fell on his knees, seized and kissed her lily hand, and on her beginning to expostulate, cried out at once, “Don’t be angry, my dear creature! to tell the honest truth, I am as good a Christian as the archbishop; I’m your own countryman, sure enough!—Mr. Patrick Joyce from Kilkenny county:—the devil a _Turk_ any more than yourself, my sweet angel!” The ladies were astonished; but astonishment did not prevent Miss Hartigan from keeping her word, and Mr. and Mrs. Joyce became a very loving and happy couple.

The doctor’s great skill, however, was supposed to lie in his beard and faith;—consequently, on this _dénouement_, the baths declined. But the honest fellow had never done any discreditable or improper act; none indeed was ever laid to his charge: he fully performed every engagement with the Parliament whilst he retained the power to do so.

His beauty and portly appearance were considerably diminished by his change of garb. The long beard and picturesque dress had been half the battle; and he was, after his transformation, but a plain, rather coarse, but still brave-looking fellow. An old memorandum-book reminded me of these circumstances, as it noted a payment made to him by me on behalf of my elder brother, who had been lodging in the bath-house at the time of the _swimming match_.

I regret that I never inquired as to Joyce’s subsequent career, nor can I say whether he is or not still in the land of the living. This little story shows the facility with which public money was formerly voted, and, at the same time, the comparatively fortunate financial state of Ireland at that period, when the public purse could afford a multiplicity of such supplies without any tax or imposition whatsoever being laid upon the people to provide for them! How very different were the measures of that Parliament even ten years afterward!

The early life of _Doctor Achmet Borumborad_ was obscure. All he mentioned himself was, that he left Ireland very young, in a merchant vessel, for Smyrna, where he lived with a high German doctor, who performed _miraculous_ cures in that city. He affected to be a Turk, in order to get a better insight into the country and people. He appeared a man of much general information, and had studied the arts. Lord Charlemont had met him in Greece, and became his patron in Ireland. He was altogether a very well-conducted person; but being, as we have said, the first _Turk_ (in appropriate costume) who had figured in Ireland, and glowing accounts of harems and seraglios having been previously read in the Arabian Nights; the doctor excited great curiosity, and not a little interest among the _ladies_. The old and rich Countess of Brandon fell desperately in love with his fine muscular person; but he never could be prevailed on to return her passion. She died of age some years before the Turk married Miss Hartigan.

ALDERMEN OF SKINNERS’ ALLEY.

The institution of Orangemen—United Irishmen—Protestant ascendancy—Dr.
Duigenan—Origin, progress, and customs of the aldermen of Skinners’
Alley described—Their revels—Orange toast, never before published—The
aldermen throw Mr. M‘Mahon, an apothecary, out of a window for
striking the bust of King William—New association—Anecdotes of Sir
John Bourke and Sir Francis Gould—The Pope’s bull of absolution to Sir
Francis—Its delivery suspended till he had taken away his landlady’s
daughter—His death.

Orange societies, as they are termed, were first formed by the Protestants to oppose and counteract the turbulent demonstrations of the Catholics, who formed the population of the south of Ireland. But at their commencement, the Orangemen certainly adopted a principle of interference which was not confined to religious points alone, but went to put down _all_ popular insurrections which might arise on any point. The term, _Protestant ascendancy_, was coined by Mr. John Gifford (of whom more hereafter), and became an epithet very fatal to the peace of Ireland. Many associations indeed were, from time to time, originated: some for _reform_, others to oppose it; some for _toleration_, others for intolerance! There were good men and loyal subjects among the members of each; including many who never entertained the most distant idea of those disastrous results to be apprehended, at the feverish period preceding the rebellion of 1798, from any encouragement to innovation.

I followed up the principles my family had invariably pursued from their first settlement in Ireland; namely, an attachment divided between the crown and the people. In the year 1795, I saw that the people were likely to grow too strong for the crown; and therefore became at once, not indeed an _ultra_—but one in whom loyalty absorbed almost every other consideration. I willingly united in every effort to check the rising spirit of popular disaffection—the dreadful results of which were manifested in the atrocities acting throughout France, and in the tottering state of the crowns of Europe.

I had been previously initiated by my friend, Doctor Duigenan, judge of the Prerogative Court, into a very curious but most loyal society, whereof he was grand-master at the time of my election; and as this club differed essentially from any other in the empire, it may be amusing to describe it—a labour which nobody has hitherto, I believe, undertaken.

This curious assemblage was called “The Aldermen of Skinners’ Alley:” it was the first Orange association ever formed; and having, at the period I allude to, existed a full century in pristine vigour, it had acquired considerable local influence and importance. Its origin was as follows:—After William the Third had mounted the English throne, and King James had assumed the reins of government in Ireland, the latter monarch annulled the then existing charter of the Dublin corporation, dismissed all the aldermen who had espoused the revolutionary cause, and replaced them by others attached to himself. In doing this he was certainly justifiable:—the deposed aldermen, however, had secreted some little articles of their paraphernalia, and privately assembled in an alehouse in Skinners’ Alley, a very obscure part of the capital: here they continued to hold Anti-Jacobite meetings; elected their own lord mayor and officers; and got a marble bust of King William, which they regarded as a sort of deity! These meetings were carried on till the battle of the Boyne put William in possession of Dublin, when King James’s aldermen were immediately cashiered, and _the Aldermen of Skinners’ Alley_ reinvested with their mace and aldermanic glories.

To honour the memory of their restorer, therefore, a permanent association was formed, and invested with all the memorials of their former disgrace and latter reinstatement. This organization, constituted near a century before, remained, I fancy, quite unaltered at the time I became a member. To make the general influence of this association the greater, the number of members was unlimited, and the mode of admission solely by the proposal and seconding of tried _aldermen_. For the same reason, no class, however humble, was excluded—equality reigning in its most perfect state at the assemblies. Generals and wig-makers—king’s counsel and hackney clerks, &c. all mingled without distinction as brother-aldermen:—a lord mayor was annually appointed; and regularity and decorum always prevailed—until, at least, toward the _conclusion_ of the meetings, when the aldermen became more than usually noisy and exhilarated,—King William’s bust being placed in the centre of the supper-table, to overlook their extreme loyalty. The times of meeting were monthly; and every member paid sixpence per month, which sum (allowing for the absentees) afforded plenty of eatables, porter and punch, for the supping aldermen.

Their charter-dish was _sheeps’ trotters_ (in allusion to King James’s running away from Dublin):—rum-punch in blue jugs, whisky-punch in white ones, and _porter_ in its _pewter_, were scattered plentifully over the table; and all regular formalities being gone through, the eating part of the ceremony ended, and numerous speeches made, the real _business_ began by a general chorus of “God save the King!” whereupon the grand engine, which, as a loyal and facetious shoemaker observed, would _bind_ every _sole_ of them together, and commemorate them _all_ till the end of time, was set at work by order of the _lord mayor_. This engine was the charter-toast, always given with nine times nine! and duly succeeded by vociferous acclamations.

The 1st of July (anniversary of the battle of the Boyne) was the chartered night of assembly: then every man unbuttoned the knees of his breeches, and drank the toast on his bare joints—it being pronounced by _his lordship_ in the following words, composed expressly for the purpose in the year 1689; afterward adopted by the Orange societies generally; and still, I believe, considered as the charter-toast of them all.

This most ancient and unparalleled _sentiment_ runs thus:—

ORANGE TOAST.

“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]

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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]

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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.

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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.

PROCESSION OF THE TRADES.

Dublin corporation anecdote—Splendid triennial procession of the Dublin
corporation, called _Fringes_ (franchises), described.

Nothing can better show the high opinion formerly entertained by the Irish of their own notoriety, and particularly by that celebrated body called the “Corporation of Dublin,” than the following incident. Mr. Willis, a leather-breeches-maker in Dame-street, and a famous orator at the corporation meetings, holding forth on a debate about the parochial watch (a subject which was considered as of the utmost general importance), discoursed as follows:—“This, my friends, is a subject neither trifling nor obscure; the character of our corporation is at stake on your decision!—recollect,” continued he, “recollect, brother freemen, that the _eyes of all Europe are upon us_!”—The volunteers were certainly of some celebrity, and it was supposed they would not be unheard of in foreign countries.[46]

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Footnote 46:

At the breaking out of the American war Colonel Brown, in derision of
the colonists, declared, that he would march through all America with
_St. Andrew’s watchmen_!—This declaration being made in the House of
Commons, was thought to be in earnest by several members of the Dublin
corporation. It was therefore suggested by one of the body to address
his Majesty with a tender of the watchmen of St. Andrew’s, St. Ann’s,
and St. Peter’s parishes, for _American service_. This _serious_ offer
drew down on the poor colonel such a volley of ridicule, that he never
after mentioned America in Parliament. But such was the _general_
contempt of the Americans at the _commencement_ of the contest.

Colonel Brown was brother to old Lord Altamont.

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One of the customs of Dublin which prevailed in my early days made such a strong impression upon my mind, that it never could be obliterated. The most magnificent and showy procession, I really believe, except those of Rome, then took place in the Irish metropolis every third year, and attracted a number of English quite surprising, if we take into account the difficulty and hazard of a passage at that time from London to Dublin.

The corporation of the latter city were, by the terms of their charter, bound, once in three years, to perambulate the limits of the lord mayor’s jurisdiction, to make stands or stations at various points, and to skirt the Earl of Meath’s liberties—a part of the city at that era in great prosperity, but forming a local jurisdiction under the earl (in the nature of a manor) totally distinct from that of Dublin.