Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. 3 (of 3). Jonah Barrington

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      PERSONAL SKETCHES.

      PERPLEXITIES OF A BARONET

      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, СКАЧАТЬ