O'Connell Bridge to Kingsbridge

SECTION XIII

The Southern Quays - O’ Connell Bridge to Kingsbridge

The inland quays of Dublin, like those of Paris, are a characteristic feature of the city. They extend quite a mile and a half on either bank of the river. Some part of them was once used by shipping, but, as trade progressed, the upper reaches of the Liffey were found too shallow and dangerous for the larger class of vessel that began to frequent the port.

The quays form a pleasant promenade now, more so than if cranes were turning and bales dangling in the air along the water-front. The tall, narrow houses, often brightly painted, the numerous bridges, the sombre and silent river, all dominated by the great dome of the Four Courts, combine to make up a picture of great charm, especially in the’ evening, when the setting sun gilds the frontage on either side and the crimson of the western sky is reflected, “as in a glass darkly,” by the level surface of the Liffey. As the river runs due east and west, it is so placed as to catch every gleam of the sunset. Occasionally, during a spell of fine, settled weather, a scene worthy of Turner’s brush may be viewed every nightfall from O’Connell Bridge; the whole horizon over the park and along the quays becomes one blaze of glory and the stream below is so flooded with ruddy light that it seems a great highway to the declining orb of day.

The shops on the quays are interesting. Those on the south are mostly devoted to second-hand books, old prints, curios and jewellery. Passing the Metal Bridge with its crude advertisements, the first turning of any size to the left is Parliament Street, opposite a wide bridge, once called after Essex, a viceroy, but now after Grattan, a popular leader. This street was so named because of its construction by order of the Irish parliament with a view to opening up a communication between the Castle and Essex Bridge. The tenants of the houses, which were marked for demolition, refused to vacate their premises despite the offer of ample compensation. The authorities adopted a simple, yet clever, means of eviction. Men were sent by night to tear the slates from off the roofs of the recalcitrants, who, exposed to the fury of wind and weather, were at last glad to come to terms.

Off Parliament Street to the right, at a corner marked by a large, old, grey house, is West Essex Street, the modern euphemistic form of Smock Alley, famous for its theatre. Immediately after the Restoration a playhouse sprang up here. It had its triumphs, especially during the visit of Garrick, when such multitudes thronged to the theatre that the heat and the crowding produced a fatal epidemic, nicknamed the “Garrick fever.” The history of Smock Alley is much the same as that of its rival and eventual conqueror, Crow Street. The excitable populace carried its politics into the theatre. On his own “command night,” the Duke of Rutland, viceroy, was the object of a hostile demonstration, which continued throughout the whole programme.

Another disturbance arose when Thomas Sheridan, the father of the famous dramatist and orator, was manager. The stage was in a dreadful state at the time. Young men of fashion claimed admittance behind the scenes as a right, not as a favour. The auditorium was a bear-garden and the greenroom a hotbed of every kind of vice. Sheridan set himself nobly to the task of reform and succeeded in raising the dignity of his profession after an arduous struggle, during which he was at one time sought for by an angry mob of “Trinity Boys,” armed with swords.

Subsequently, however, he too was ruined by a political demonstration, in which the theatre was wrecked. His successors found it impossible to compete with Crow Street. The nadir was reached when a gentleman,. who had sent his servant to secure places, found, on arrival, the theatre not yet opened and his man playing ball against the street wall. At last he and his party were admitted to find themselves the only occupants of the pit. The boxes had but a single tenant. The orchestra consisted of a solitary fiddler. In the course of the evening the lady in the box, oppressed by loneliness, came down to the pit for company. It was a sad sight for a profession to which popular applause is as the very breath in its nostrils. By one of those bizarre coincidences so frequent in Dublin history, the site of the old theatre is now occupied by a sacred edifice, the Catholic Church of S. Michael and John.

Essex Bridge has been rebuilt two or three times. None of the structures which now span the Liffey date back more than a century or so, although, in many cases they have been superposed on the ruins of ancient predecessors. The citizens were prone to postpone the repair of their bridges from day to day, until at last a great storm came, and the river. Suddenly swollen with rain at its source in the mountains, came raging down through Dublin and carried away the rickety fabric bodily. The first Essex Bridge was built of stones taken from S. Mary’s Abbey, near its northern end. Its subsequent collapse was probably regarded as a fit punishment for the sacrilege of the builders. The second structure was adorned with a recess, in which stood an equestrian statue of George I., looking upstream. The figure is now in the garden of the Mansion House. To the westward is Wood Quay, the landing-place of timber in early times.

A little further on is Richmond Bridge, whose true name is quite obscured by the prevalent Dublin habit of calling each bridge after the nearest street. In this particular case the eponymous thoroughfare is Winetavern Street, which runs uphill to the left, opening up incidentally a fine and little-known view of Christ Church with its tower and buttresses looming very large as seen from the lower ground. This short street gets its cheerful-sounding name from the number of little inns, or rather drinking-places, that it once possessed.

Until fairly recent times there was a great liberty of unlicensed brewing in Ireland. Every third or fourth householder tried to eke out his scanty living by selling liquor, just as they still do in some country towns. This state of things gave great offence to visitors from England, who declared it a scandal worthy of the immediate attention of the Mayor of the Bull Ring. The first Town Hall of which we have any record, stood in Winetavern Street.

In the seventeenth century a tailor named Daniel Byrne live here. He was a man of ready wit, who had made a large fortune by clothing the Cromwellian soldiers. At a time when any man who had laboured with his hands was regarded with utter contempt by the gentry, Byrne worked his way into the fashionable world, repaying in kind every slight he encountered He had bought the estate of Shean from a young Squire Whitney, who was deeply in his debt.

The former owner, now landless and living in the castle, which had once been surrounded by his property, attempted to have, at least, the satisfaction of a verbal score over his supplanter. He invited Byrne to dinner and, while pressing him to eat, took care that he should have neither knife nor fork. The guest, at last, declared he had plenty of meat, but nothing to cut it with. “Why don’t you draw your scissors and clip it, sir,” said the polite host. “I drew them time enough to clip the lordship of Shean from off your back” was the retort.

Another squire, who had forgotten his own descent from millers, once pressed him to drink, saying the draught was but a “thimbleful.” “Yes, Willy,” was the ready answer, “I would drink it, if it were a hopperful.” Byrne bought a baronetcy for his son and became the ancestor of a noble family, who were probably in later days quite as scornful of tailors as any Whitney could be. The street now is quite unlike its old reputation, being handed over to coffin-makers and dealers in sec6nd-hand clothes, both lugubrious occupations.

Between Winetavern Street and the next bridge is Merchants’ Quay, the oldest of them all. The river crossing at its western extremity has historical associations going back to the time of the Danes and even earlier. This is the site of the hurdle ford called by the Irish “Ath Cliath” and of the primitive bridge, where the Norsemen, fleeing into the city from Clontarf, were overtaken by their enemies and slaughtered as they crowded into the narrow entrance. For many centuries this was the only bridge in Dublin. It was lined with houses and shops, had towers at each end and even provided room for a small chapel. Overloaded as it must have been, it is not surprising to hear that it fell in the fourteenth century.

There is a legend that Little John, one of Robin Hood’s band, was nearly detected here by his proficiency in shooting. He was in disguise in Dublin at the time, but was tempted to join in a trial of skill with the bow. His arrow fell in Oxmantown Green, nearly a mile away. When the fame of the exploit was noised abroad, men said the unknown archer must surely be Little John, so that, in order to avoid suspicion, the outlaw had to leave the town.

This bridge marks the highest point ever reached by ships entering the port. They were moored to Merchants’ Quay, the name of which sufficiently explains itself. A terrible disaster occurred on the wharf during the reign of Elizabeth. A whole cargo of gunpowder had been landed and placed ready for transport in carts to the Castle, when, from some unexplained cause, it blew up, causing great loss of life and property. The mayor reported that the deaths reached the number of “vi (six) skoare, beside sondrie headles bodies and heades without bodies, that were found and not knowne.”

The Liffey was very shallow so far up the river, no more than four or five feet deep at low water. A rock called “Standfast Dick” cropped up awkwardly across the muddy bottom. Strangely enough this reef, so annoying to the sailor, was a welcome object to the builder. Its continuation ran under some parts of the city itself and provided surer foundation for houses than the peaty soil of Dublin usually furnishes. While Christ Church has subsided, the City Hall and the Castle owe their stability to Standfast Dick lying far beneath. As might be guessed, it was the builders, not the sailors, who gave the rock its affectionate and half-admiring name.

From Merchants’ Quay the finest but one of Dublin river pictures is to be seen. The great dome of the Four Courts, its grey massiveness sometimes relieved by brilliant morning sunlight, rises from a long regular line of buildings alternating with screens of a graceful design. The balustrade of the quay walls and the adjacent bridges is arranged to harmonize with the architecture of the Courts. The spectator on the opposite bank is just at the right distance to see and appreciate the whole.

The Roman Catholic church on Merchants’ Quay is best known, even now, by its old name of “Adam and Eve Chapel,” derived, it is said, from a lane that ran near by and was called after our first parents. It is a good example of the inconspicuous style adopted for the buildings erected by the newly tolerated Catholics of the eighteenth century, and is, probably, the oldest existing church of that religion in Dublin.

Bridge Street continues the line of the “Old Bridge.” It is tortuous and narrow like all old streets. At No. 9 was the residence of Oliver Bond, a prominent United Irishman. The house was surprised by the police on the night of a meeting. Bond and several others were captured. A list of printed toasts was discovered, some pointing to hopes of a French invasion. One of them was “Mother Erin dressed in green ribbons by a French milliner, if she can’t be dressed without her.” Bond was sentenced to be “hanged, drawn and quartered,” but escaped the sentence by dying of apoplexy in Newgate.

The next quay receives its name from the Ussher family, honourably distinguished for the learning of its members. In 1571 one John Ussher issued from here the first book printed in the Irish language. It was intended for the education and conversion to Protestantism of the natives, and consisted of the Catechism of the Church of England together with an Irish alphabet and rules of pronunciation. A translation of the New Testament into the Celtic vernacular from the original Greek was published at the same place by Sir William Ussher in 1600. James Ussher, afterwards primate of Ireland, was the first great scholar to adorn Trinity College. His great collection of Celtic manuscripts is the glory of that institution to this day. At the end of Ussher’s Quay is Bridgefoot Street, which received its name originally from being at the foot or end of the Old Bridge, although it is quite a distance from the present structure on that ancient site. It must be remembered; however, that the Old Bridge must have been extremely wide to carry the enormous superstructure already mentioned. The greater part of the space between Bridge and Bridgefoot Street must have been occupied with its chapel, towers and double row of houses.

After passing Bridgefoot Street, which is also known by the not unmerited nickname of Dirty Lane, Ussher’s Quay becomes Ussher’s Island. There is nothing insular in the situation at present. The river has probably changed its course, or some side channel has been filled in. Standing back a little from the road is the Mendicity Institution, once Moira House. Nowhere does the reflection “Ichabod” rise so readily to the mind as here. This was once the most splendidly furnished house in Ireland. Its very windows were inlaid with mother-of-pearl. John Wesley, staid as he was, was manifestly impressed by such magnificence, though he closed the entry in his journal with the usual commonplace on the evanescence of earthly pomps and vanities. The glory has indeed departed now - the internal fittings have been removed, the garden is a barren courtyard, and even the architectural effect of the exterior has been completely destroyed by the removal of the upper story. It is now the daily haunt of the very poorest of the poor.

Moira House was much frequented by Lord Edward Fitzgerald and his wife, the charming Pamela, reputed daughter of Philippe Egalite and Madame de Genlis. On one occasion Major Sirr laid an ambush close by in order to intercept Lord Edward on his return homeward. However his intended victim came with a strong escort and, as soon as arrest, was attempted, a struggle took place in the dimly-lighted street. The forces of government were routed and Major Sirr narrowly escaped death.

At the western extremity of Ussher’s Island is Watling Street, which, with Bridgefoot Street, was the scene of the nocturnal conflict between the insurgent party and the police, who, to make sure of their prey, had occupied both Lord Edward’s possible lines of retreat.

Opposite Watling Street was the Bloody Bridge, so called because of a fierce riot soon after its opening, which had to be suppressed by force of arms. The vested interest of ferry proprietors and others was always disturbed by the erection of a new bridge. When constitutional means failed to procure any compensation, such men were prone to take the law into their own hands.

The river front of Guinness’ s and the towers of Kingsbridge Railway Station mark the termination of the long line of quays. Steevens’ Lane turns off to the left here, passing the front of the terminus. It received its name from the hospital on its right hand side about half way up. This is the oldest of the many institutions* *of its class in Dublin, having been founded at the beginning of the eighteenth century by Madame Grissel Steevens, who both. built and endowed it. The seal of the hospital is a design of the G9od Samaritan healing the wounds of the fallen traveller with the motto beneath ” Do Thou Likewise.”

There is a strange story about Madame Steevens, due to her habit of going about closely veiled. The people believed that she had a face so like the snout of a pig that for shame she durst not let it be seen. Popular report went on to ascribe this unpleasant characteristic to a curse consequent on a petulant and unfeeling remark made by her mother when pestered by the importunities of a beggar woman with a baby at her breast and a tribe of children at her heels. “Get away,” cried the lady, “you are like an old sow with a litter of bonhams.” The beggar retorted with the wish that the lady’s next child might be like the animal to which she had been compared.

The tale is probably fiction, for Grissel, whose portrait is still to be seen in the hospital boardroom, had a face, heavy and masculine, it is true, but in no wise piggish. By dint of sitting at an open window repeatedly she managed to refute the calumny, so far as Dublin was concerned. Yet the story is still told all over Ireland. Madame Steevens, by the way, would now be called Miss, for she was unmarried.

The hospital is built around a quaint old courtyard with its arches forming a sort of cloister or piazza all around, and with peculiar attic windows that cut across the intersection of the roofs at each corner. The interior is still very old-fashioned in many respects. The corridors are crossed here and there by huge spans of iron, which reach from wall to wall and carry midway a large lantern of primitive design. It is the type of illumination that one associates with the portecochere of an ancient mansion. In the chapel is what is probably the smallest and oldest organ in Dublin. It is about six feet high by four feet wide, rather smaller than the ordinary cupboard, and is now silent for ever, for its works have got out of order and it would cost more to repair them than to buy a new instrument. The hospital records are preserved and contain many curious entries, among others one as to the daily diet of a patient. He was to get something like two quarts of small beer with his meals! But, of course, before tea and coffee came into general use, beer was almost the only alternative to water.

To Chapter 14. To Chart Index.