The Unimportance of Being Mulligan

"The gaelic name is O Maolagain," the genealogy report stated. "The Mulligan family is descended from Milesius, King of Spain, through the line of his fifth son, Ir."

Well, I once heard a young priest straight out of Maynooth say from the pulpit that St. Patrick probably was born in Spain. So there's glory enough for you, even if there were letters to the bishop about his preposterous assertion.

The data further revealed that the Mulligans "were styled Princes of Meyliffey, and their possessions were located in the present counties of Mayo, Derry and Cavan. In the last named county, the Mulligans were hereditary bards to the O'Reillys," which may account for my own journalist tendencies.

The chap at the castle added, rather disinterestedly, that Mulligan may have been Anglicized from the Norman name Molyneux. Trinity College in the 18th century, I later learned, graduated three famous Molyneuxs: Samuel, an astronomer; William, the philosopher, and Thomas, a physician who was one of the founders of the Dublin Horse Show.

A French branch of the family boasted a Capt. Molyneux, who made a fortune as a distiller, not of whiskey or brandy, but of eau de toilette - toilet water. I purchased a spray bottle of the Captain's shaving lotion at the Shannon Duty Free Shop and found it to be potent stuff.

The flight attendant brought me three or four gargles of Cork Gin before serving dinner and, afterwards, when I gave my chin another spritz, a couple of Baileys on the rocks.

On this side of the ocean too, the name Mulligan has come in for some unflattering usage. In the 1880s, when unwelcome Irish immigrants were still flooding these shores, the Mulligan Guard was a sell-out figure of fun in the music halls.

Written by Ned Harrigan and performed with his partner, Tony Hart, the plays and skits lampooned the tenement-dwelling Irish on Manhattan's Lower East Side as drinking, brawling, dancing, singing amadáns with pretensions of climbing the social ladder all the way from shanty to lace curtain.

George M. Cohan might have rescued the Mulligan name from such cruel satire by fitting the spelling into the lyrics of "H-A-Double R-I-G-A-N." Instead, he chose to honor his idol, Ned Harrigan, who perpetrated these stage-Irish stereotypes.

Even Tennessee Williams, who kindly invited me to his New Year's Eve party when I was crossing to Ireland on the S.S. America, has two inconsequential characters, Lord and Lady Mulligan, in Camino Real, one of his more incomprehensible plays. I don't have total recall of that party, but I hope I was not the inspiration for these babbling bibblers in a Mexican bordello.

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