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]]
[45]. Leaping out of a window voluntarily was formerly by no means uncommon in the country parts of Ireland:—some did it for fun—others for love: but it was generally for a wager. Very few serious accidents occurred in consequence of these exploits, there being generally a dunghill, or some other soft material, under the windows of country gentlemen’s lodges—the tumble was, in truth, more dirty than dangerous; dislocation being the utmost injury I was accustomed to see resulting therefrom.
The doctor scarcely waited to thank his preservers, set out pretty well sobered to his home, and the next day, summoning all the humane and patriotic aldermen, to whom he told his own story, they determined to secede and set up a new corps at the King’s Arms in Fowns’s-street. The old aldermen defended their conduct as loyal subjects; the others stigmatised it as the act of a set of man-slaughterers: these old and young guards of the British Constitution from that day set about advertising each other, and making proselytes on either side; and the Orange and United Irishmen parties gained as many recruiting serjeants by the fracas, as there were permanents or seceders among those illustrious aldermen.