Cabra, Drumcondra, Glasnevin, North Strand.

SECTION XVIII

The Northern Suburbs - Cabra, Drumcondra, Glasnevin, North Strand

While deliberate design may often be traced in the central plan of a city, the suburban districts are usually allowed to grow up haphazard, each sprawling ungracefully over the countryside, and linked with its neighbours by narrow and winding lanes, which have lost their rustic beauty, but 8till retain their primitive inconvenience.

The outskirts of Dublin, however, are a remarkable exception. The men who planned Sackville Street and O’Connell Bridge did not neglect the outlying parts. A great circular road, which was to be some nine miles in length and enclose completely the city, as it then stood, was projected and successfully carried out.

In seasons of distress, which once recurred very frequently, the poor were employed on this road as a kind of stock task. So it is possible to traverse the whole length of the suburbs by a wide and easily followed thoroughfare, from which digressions can be made to points of interest on either side.

The northern section of this girdle may be taken as commencing with Infirmary Road, a turn to the right off Parkgate Street close to the main park entrance. The infirmary, which bestows its name on the street, is an old eighteenth century hospital for soldiers. It turns its back on its godchild, and its face to the pleasure grounds of the Phoenix. The road is somewhat gloomy, as though it felt the slight. Soon another park entrance appears on the left, giving a pleasant glimpse of the deep glen and lake, which go far to redeem the People’s Gardens from the charge of artificiality.

At this gate the North Circular Road proper begins, running in a north-easterly direction. The ground is high, and where the villas permit, the city may be seen in its hollow to the south, and, far away, the ridge of the mountains. This was the main approach to the Viceregal Lodge before the completion of the northern line of quays. The district is connected also with the old times of bribery at elections.

There is still a place known as “The Hole in the Wall,” where the virtuous elector used to pass his empty hand through an aperture and withdraw it again filled with guineas by some unseen benefactor beyond. Thus the voter might conscientiously swear his ignorance of the party, from whom he had received the money.

The road, too, follows fairly closely the route taken by the mayor and corporation during the formal perambulation of the city liberties known as “riding the franchises.” Every three years the civic train, bearing the King’s sword, was wont to pass completely round the limits of its jurisdiction, thus asserting its authority wherever it went. If houses barred the way, a chink was made in the wall and the sword was thrust through.

On the sea shore the mayor rode out into the water and cast a dart as far as he could into the waves. The precedent of former excursions was usually narrowly observed. But the company sometimes fell foul of local proprietors, who conceived themselves injured by the claims of the city.

There were occasional broils. Once a certain Davys offered resistance to the passage of the sword and was ordered “to be cooled by tumbling him in the river.”

At the Royal Hospital Captain Sankey opposed armed force to the mayor’s retinue, but was overawed by the arrival of that functionary in person, for the chief magistrate of Dublin was then a great potentate, second only to the Lord Lieutenant.

The first considerable turning to the right is Aughrim Street, which later becomes Manor Street and Stonybatter. The latter name, which, at first sight, suggests a culinary disaster, is, like many others, a hybrid between English and Irish. The “batter” is the Irish “bothair” a road. The whole means the “paved or stony road” Stonybatter is part of the old route from Meath to the ancient crossing over the Liffey at Bridge Street, and from thence along the sea coast to Wicklow. The footsteps of S. Patrick followed this path.

After a walk of about half a mile the tramlines branch off to Glasnevin, a very pretty and interesting little suburb. It contains the Botanic Gardens, lying pleasantly on a slight incline overlooking the river Tolka, also the celebrated Prospect Cemetery, the open air Pantheon or Westminster Abbey of Catholic and Nationalist Ireland.

The monuments are for the most part well-designed, and the place so beautifully kept that the visitor is not overwhelmed, as he is at Westminster, but merely saddened to a tender melancholy and to wistful musings on the whys and wherefores of political strife. Here sleeps O’Connell beneath a tall, white sentinel tower; many other men of note lie around. A curious feature is the circle of tombs around the central space. In a remote corner, and in a grave that seems half-neglected, are the mortal remains of the strongest, yet on one side the weakest, of Irish politicians, the unhappy Parnell.

The Botanic Gardens, by the way, are another product of’ the zeal and enterprise of the Royal Dublin Society. It has well earned its Virgilian motto “What land is not full of our labour?”

Glasnevin has associations with famous English men of letters. At Delville, a house in the centre of the village, Dr Delany entertained Swift, Addison and many other writers of note. The mansion was built by the Doctor in conjunction with a friend of his, one Helsham. It was at first styled Heldeville, as the result of an attempt to bring in the names of both parties, but this title was soon dropped when the wits of the city began to pronounce it “Hell-Devil.”

The Dean is so closely associated with this place that it is not easy to remember that he was but a visitor here. He chose the motto for the temple “Fastigia Despicit Urbis,” in which “despicio,” like the English “to look down on,” is used in a double sense.

In a vault below this classic structure, the “Legion Club,” his ferocious libel on the Irish parliament, is said to have been secretly printed. The angry Commons offered a reward for the discovery of the author, but Swift was never betrayed. His sardonic wit was wont to indulge itself with an occasional gibe at the homestead of his dearest friends He mocked at the doctor’s endeavour to realise all the beauties of a large demesne in his limited area.

A razor, though to say’t I’m loth,

Might shave you and your meadow both

A little rivulet seems to steal

Along a thing you call a vale,

Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,

Like rain along a blade of leek,

And this you call your sweet meander,

Which might be sucked up by a gander,

Could he but force his rustling bill

To scoop the channel of the rill

In short, in all your boasted seat

There’s nothing but yourself is-great”

Notice the Irish rhymes of “vale” and “steal,” “great” and “seat.” The pronunciation, which is brogue nowadays, was then cultured English.

However, Swift’s account of Delville is mere humorous exaggeration, for the grounds are very extensive and cover several acres. The explanation is probably that Delany’s contemporaries disliked the new, romantic style of landscape gardening, which was beginning to displace the formal lines and terraces made popular by the Dutch. With its lofty lime trees and undulating walks Delville has a distinct charm of its own. The house is a fine example of an old interior, with its spacious decorated rooms lit by quaint windows, the little panes of which are set in wooden frames of tremendous strength and thickness. Dr Delany’s fondness for “multum in parvo,’ [much in little] is seen in his tiny oratory, which is no larger than a modern bay window. Some remains of his wife’s hobby appear here and there. She used to collect shells, which she afterwards painted and affixed to the walls and ceilings so as to form a sort of design. The effect is not unpleasing.

Addison's Walk.gif (63838 bytes)Addison is remembered in the Botanic Gardens by his favourite walk under an avenue of old yew trees (pictured left). It runs in a westerly direction along the brow of a hill from a group of hothouses to the rock garden. The early contributions to the Tatler were sent from Dublin, where the essayist held the post of secretary to the profligate viceroy Wharton.

The records of Addison’s stay in Dublin show him a man somewhat different from the blameless character depicted by Macaulay. One always fancies that there must be a flaw somewhere in these perfect beings. So it was with Addison. His official correspondence shows him fretfully eager about money, exacting the uttermost farthing of his fees even from personal friends, embarking on commercial ventures with cargoes of shoes, and trying to evade the customs whenever he sent wine to England. He was, probably, on the whole, a conscientious and good-living man, but he was not exempt from the usual small weaknesses of humanity.

Continuing the former direction along the North Circular Road, the next tramway crossing to the left leads to Drumcondra, a modern suburb, known only to history as the scene of the runaway match of Hugh O’Neill and Mabel Bagenal in the sixteenth century. The houses here stand amid trees, over a road which is sunk two green sloping banks.

The Mall, as it is called, is the beginning of the Great North Road of Ireland, leading from the capital to Belfast and Derry. There was a noted haunt of highwaymen not far from Drumcondra. The parish church lies off the main thoroughfare. Its graveyard is the most venerable in Dublin. The graves are crowded thickly together under the old trees, and the lichen-covered headstones are inclined in every possible direction, some tottering forward, others almost prostrate. “Etiam memoriae pereunt.”

The only relic of the past within the building is a monument of Marmaduke Coghill, once Judge of the Prerogative Court. With the characteristic paganism of an artist, the sculptor has supported the central figure, on one side with orthodox religion drooping under her sorrow, on the other with the upright, half-defiant figure of the heathen goddess Minerva, so placed that she seems to stare fixedly at the preacher.

On leaving the Drumcondra district, the North Circular Road comes in view of S. George’s Church, which has, perhaps, the most graceful and conspicuous spire in Dublin. In this part of the city it seems to look down every street. The resemblance to some of Wren’s London churches has often been noted. The remains of the structure, which it superseded, are still to be seen at the foot of Hill Street, a lofty and dark old square tower.

The vaults under S. George’s were used as a spirit store by the Revenue authorities, who were once troubled to find that their casks had long been secretly tapped by some ingenious person, who had contrived a hidden passage from the church into the vaults.

In the side streets to the right, which lead to Sackville Street and its continuations, the houses grow tall and begin to wear the look of bygone splendour that marks an old aristocratic quarter. Still they have not sunk so low as some of their fellows. Well-to-do professional men reside in the homes of peers and statesmen.

In Great Denmark Street off Mountjoy Square, is Belvedere House, now a Jesuit college, where died the unfortunate lady who was the first Countess of Belvedere. When a mere girl, she had been hurried into a loveless match with a handsome roue, whose very methods of wooing frightened her out of her wits.

Her husband, the first ardour of his passion spent, went off to court and thought but little of his wife until he discovered a secret attachment between her and his brother. Belvedere took a most cruel revenge on his hapless bride. For seventeen years she was kept in close confinement in a lonely country house, never allowed to go out or to see her children or her relatives. When the death of her persecutor released the captive, she was a mere shadow of her former self, a scared, whispering, white-haired creature. To her death she protested her innocence of the charges brought against her.

Lord Belvedere had a turn for music, though, apparently in his case it failed to “soothe the savage breast.” His house is almost unique among Dublin mansions, as containing a large organ in one of the rooms.

In Gardiner Street, near Mountjoy Square, is a Jesuit Church, with a beautiful interior, adorned with wall-paintings of considerable merit.

The route again crosses a tramline, that leading to Ballybough Bridge, the central point of the great battle of Clontarf where Brian Boru broke the overweening power of the Danes.

Still keeping on, the road is known as Portland Row. On the right here 18 Aldborough House, a “sermon in stone” on the extravagance which ruined the Irish nobility. The earl, who built this huge mansion, might just as well have thrown his money into the Liffey. He already had town and country houses in England and Ireland, in London and Dublin

The reason put forward for the erection of this additional residence was the desire of his wife for a separate dwelling. The plan is the most wasteful that could be conceived. Everywhere there are circular rooms, which necessitate curving passages and odd corners at every turn. The hall is equal in height to the building and contains a great white stone staircase winding magnificently around from bottom to top.

Aldborough’s purse was, in the end, not equal to the demands made upon it by his capricious and ever-changing taste. Though the front of the house is stone, well set off with sweepstakes or curved wings, bearing lions and heraldic devices -with Latin mottoes beneath, yet the sides, which the height and situation of the building render equally conspicuous, are of the ordinary brick. After all the expenditure it is said that neither the earl nor his countess, nor indeed any of the family, ever resided in the place. Often derelict for years, it has been successively a school and a barracks, and is now used for the Stores Department of ‘the General Post Office.

Beyond Aldborough House our route crosses the North Strand Road, once, as its name implies, the actual north bank of the Liffey, from which it is now distant about half a mile. It was a favourite promenade and duelling-ground during one period.

The reclamation of the mudlands here was procured in a skilful manner by the Ballast Office. They merely erected their wall, the identical North Wall from which the cross-channel steamers depart. Then they divided the space behind into lots, which they succeeded in disposing of at a fair price. As the river was banked out from these areas, the proprietors, to obtain a profit on their outlay, set themselves to fill in and improve their holdings. Thus a new district, about two square miles in extent, was added to the city. Two streets near the river have names which suggest such an origin, “Lotts,” near Sackville Street, and “South Lotts Road,” near Ringsend. It may be well to terminate the walk at North Strand Road. The level reclaimed district between there and the Liffey is a maze of goods yards, railway sidings and dock bridges.

To Chapter 19. To Chart Index.