“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.”