The Rebels of Ireland (67 page)

Mr. Benjamin Franklin was making his first visit to Ireland.

Fortunatus conducted him round the room, introducing each member of the family to him in turn, while the American shook
hands or bowed his white head in the simplest and most pleasant manner imaginable. But Georgiana had seen enough of public men to notice that the kindly old eyes were also exceedingly sharp. And when he got to her, and the eyes lit up with an unmistakable gleam at the sight of her own gently swelling bodice, she smiled to herself and concluded: this clever old fellow is not as sweet and homespun as he pretends. But he's a first-rate actor.

“Mr. Franklin has already paid a visit to our House of Commons, where he was invited to sit as a member, during a debate, and where I had the honour of making his acquaintance,” Fortunatus announced. “As to his purpose in visiting Ireland, I shall let him explain that himself in a little while.”

For about a quarter of an hour, Franklin conversed with several of the party and gladly answered their questions. Yes, he was a member of the Philadelphia legislature. Indeed, he'd been born in Boston. He had returned from America to London upon his present business, but had resided in London for many years in the past and had the warmest affection for that city. After a little while, however, Fortunatus led him to one end of the room, from where he could address them all.

When the old American spoke, it was in a very simple and friendly manner. He had come to Ireland, he explained, because he believed that their own situation here was rather similar to the case in the American colony.

“We have our legislatures, as you have yours, but they are not given the powers which, as plain free men, we should think reasonable. We can adjust local matters, but all decisions of importance are made in London, by men we never see. Troops are quartered in our towns—by London. We are ruled by government officials who are chosen and paid—by London—so that we have no control over them. Our trade is restricted and ordered—by London. It is London that controls our currency. Contentious taxes are imposed—by London. Yet in the Parliament in London that so orders our lives and our livelihoods, we have no representation whatever. We are
subjects of the king, yet we are treated as something less than subjects; we are free men, yet we are not free. I should therefore say that while most of those in the American colony are well affected, they are nonetheless seeking an amelioration of these conditions.

“My purpose in visiting London,” he continued, “is to negotiate some concessions on these matters; and my hope is that if we in America and those desiring similar changes in the Irish Parliament were to act together, we might both stand in better hope of equitable treatment. For if the American colonists receive no satisfaction,” he added seriously, “then I do not know what troubles may follow.”

This speech was received with differing degrees of enthusiasm, but Fortunatus was nodding warmly.

“The party in our Irish Parliament which seeks changes of this kind—and I am often of their opinion—are rightly called the Patriots,” he declared. “For while they are steadfast in their loyalty to the king, they have an equal love for their native land. You will find many friends in Ireland, Sir.”

Lord Mountwalsh now gently intervened.

“Granted what my father has just said, is it not also true that you have been prepared to take actions, harmful to Britain, to make your point?” he enquired. “How do you justify this?”

“We refused to buy British goods, and won concessions on some unjust taxes thereby,” Franklin answered. “Now we are importing British goods again. Was that justifiable? I think so.”

“As a matter of fact,” Fortunatus remarked, “that's exactly what Dean Swift told the Irish to do fifty years ago.” He noticed as he said it that his grandson was frowning. “So, Hercules,” he called out, “have you a question to ask Mr. Franklin?”

Though it was clear that Hercules would sooner not have been asked, Fortunatus was glad that his grandson responded in a manly way.

“The government in London would deny that the American colonies are not represented,” he said. “The king himself, and the
men of the British Parliament, who have America's interest always in their hearts, are your representatives. How would you answer that?”

“The phrase they use is that, if we lack elected representatives in London, we have, through their kindness, a
virtual representation
,” Franklin replied with a nod. “And a very pretty notion it is. But if we allow this, then let me make you a proposal.” His old eyes twinkled. “If we accept this
virtual representation
, then instead of paying taxes ourselves, we will also allow the English to pay the taxes for us; and this we shall call
virtual taxation
.”

This raised a general laugh, although not from Hercules.

“We have heard of the loyal intentions of the colony,” he pursued, “yet at the same time, you hint that if your demands are not met, other troubles may follow. Do you mean rebellion?”

“God forbid,” said Franklin firmly. But it did not seem from the young man's face that Hercules entirely believed him, and so, to avoid unpleasantness, Franklin went on smoothly: “I also have hopes that our position will be well understood in Ireland because of the extraordinarily close links between our peoples. You will all know of the huge communities of Ulster Presbyterians in America now. Yet for every five Presbyterians, I estimate that there are at least two Irish Catholics also—since they are free to practice their religion without disability in America.” Here he glanced with a quick smile towards Terence Walsh and his family. “Taking these two together, it is an undoubted fact that one out of every two people in our entire American colony has come from this island. We look to you as our family, therefore.” And he smiled at them all.

This remarkable information was greeted with some surprised murmurs.

“So if there's a rebellion there, it'll be an Irish one,” Hercules muttered, but luckily no one except his mother heard him.

After this, the party broke into groups and people came up to Franklin, who chatted to them very amicably. Georgiana waited a little, then joined the great man while he was talking to Doyle.

“What surprised me most, I confess,” the old American was saying, was the noble scale of your capital. Your Parliament building is finer than the London Parliament.” The building that now housed the Parliament, designed early in the century by a young architect named Pearce, was indeed of a magnificence to rival the Roman Empire. “When I was in that great domed hall of your Commons, I might have supposed myself in the Pantheon, or Saint Peter's Rome. As for your broad streets…” Franklin was lost for words.

“We have a body called the Wide Streets Commission,” Doyle informed him proudly, “whose aim is to make our thoroughfares and squares the most spacious in Europe. Have you seen our Rotunda Hospital? That's another fine building, and the first lying-in hospital, exclusively for women giving birth, in all the world, so they say.” The merchant was always glad to point out the splendours of his native city; and Franklin was not the first visitor to be impressed by the growing magnificence of Georgian Dublin.

“But there is one other discovery I have made in this fair city,” the Philadelphia man went on, “that has given me particular delight. And that is a most excellent beverage. It is brewed by a man named Guinness.”

“Ah now,” Doyle declared, “as to that, I can give you some particular information. For my late mother Barbara Doyle, a remarkable woman, was a friend of Guinness when he first began his business. And it was she who gave him the name for his brew.”

“Indeed?”

“Well, so she claimed. And it would have been a brave man who contradicted her, I can tell you. Guinness came to her one day—this would be a dozen years ago, when he first began—and he says to her, ‘I've a fine dark beer I want to sell, but the devil if I can think of a name for it.' And she says to him, ‘Well, if you want to sell to the city fathers, you'd better make sure the name will please them. So I'll tell you what to call it.' And he did.”

“Guinness Black Protestant Porter,” said Georgiana with a laugh.

“Guinness Black Protestant Porter, the very same,” echoed Doyle with satisfaction. “Though there's plenty that drink it without being Protestant, I may say.”

The contemplation of the excellent brew brought the conversation to a momentary pause, and Georgiana used it to put her question.

“I wonder, Mr. Franklin, whether in Philadelphia you ever heard of some of my family. My uncle there was a man named Samuel Law.”

She was almost ashamed of it, but in the nearly thirty years she'd been married, she had quite lost contact with her father's family. After the rift between her father and his brother John, the Ulster and Dublin branches of the family had never had any contact with each other. Her father had kept up a written correspondence with Samuel, and then his widow in Philadelphia, but she had never known much about this, and been too busy with her own family to pay much attention. So the truth was that she knew nothing about her cousins there, assuming that they still existed. “If I wanted to send a letter, I wouldn't even know who to write to,” she confessed.

“But I remember Samuel Law the merchant very well,” Franklin told her brightly. “And I know that he had brothers in Belfast and Dublin, for he told me so himself. They are an excellent family.”

And he proceeded to give her a most encouraging account of the family—lawyers, doctors, worthy merchants, with good houses and some excellent farms in the region. “Judge Edward Law would be considered the head of the family at present, I should say.”

“How I wish I could see them,” she exclaimed. “How I should like Hercules to meet them also.”

At this last idea, Franklin looked a little doubtful. But he gladly made a suggestion.

“I shall be sending a packet of letters to Philadelphia in a day or two, Lady Mountwalsh. If you care to write a letter to the judge, and give it to me, I can promise that it will be delivered to him in person.”

It was an offer she accepted at once.

And when the party ended later that evening, and the guest of
honour was escorted out, she agreed with all the rest of the family that it had been a great success.

The meeting of the Aldermen of Skinners Alley was well attended. More than forty cheerful fellows gathered in the upstairs meeting room of the city inn. As usual, the company was mixed. There was a wig-maker, two apothecaries, sundry other craftsmen and merchants, half a dozen lawyers, the operator of the Dublin-to-Belfast stagecoach, some clerks from the castle, a couple of army officers, numerous gentlemen, and a sprinkling of aristocrats, including young Hercules.

It was a convivial gathering. The Aldermen had been meeting like this each month for over eighty years, ever since the Battle of the Boyne. The business was light. A few new members were proposed and seconded, the sole qualification being that the applicant was a good fellow—and a Protestant, of course. News was exchanged. Hercules soon made the acquaintance of John MacGowan, who turned out to be a pleasant enough man, tallish, about thirty, with a receding hairline and a humorous caste of mind. Within an hour the business, which included collecting the sixpenny subscription that would pay for tonight's supper, was completed and the real object of the evening could begin.

The feast: everything was done to form. In the centre of the long table stood the hallowed bust of King William, the Protestant liberator. Down the middle of the table were numerous jugs: blue jugs for rum punch, white jugs for whisky punch, pewter jugs for porter—Guinness Black Protestant Porter, of course. As the members sat down and began to eat, a great platter of sheeps trotters was brought in, a reminder of how Catholic King James ran away from Dublin as King Billie approached. The talk was jolly. Only when the main meal was done could the profound business of the evening begin.

That deep business began with the entire company singing “God Save the King.” After which the master of ceremonies, duly elected
and given the office of Lord Mayor, solemnly rose and announced: “Gentlemen, I give you the Orange Toast.” And then, to as near as you can get to a hush when forty jolly fellows have already eaten and drunk a good deal together, he intoned the following awe-inspiring invocation:

“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 lack a Williamite to kick the arse of a Jacobite! And a fig for the
Bishop of Cork
! And he that won't drink this, whether he be priest, bishop, deacon, bellows-blower, gravedigger, 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 rump, 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 carcass to hell!
Amen!
”