City Hall to Christ Church Place

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SECTION VIII** *

From the City Hall to Christ Church Place*

The older buildings of Dublin have suffered many and strange vicissitudes. At some time or other almost all of them have been used for purposes other than those intended by their founders. Thus at one end of Dame Street a seat of national government has become a bank; at the other, commerce has been driven out to make room for the municipality. The present City Hall on Cork Hill was originally an Exchange, where merchants met daily to make their bargains and sign their contracts.

As the centre of the town moved eastwards the Exchange was left, as it were, high and dry, forsaken by its former patrons. While in this derelict condition, it was used by the Government as a prison for those charged with complicity in the rebellion of 1798. Suspicion was so rife at that period that it was hardly safe to take an interest in a rebel. A gentleman strolling by the Exchange casually glanced up at its windows and fell into a reverie on the possible fate of the present occupants. He was roused by a tap on the shoulder and the harsh tones of Major Sirr, officer of police, hinting in no uncertain language that his manifest curiosity might be gratified with an immediate acquaintance with the inside of the prison if he were not careful.

In the 19th century the Corporation took over the building, their old Tholsel being ruinous. The interior contains a large circular room, with a domed ceiling and many pillars and statues, including a curious portrayal of the popular leader Lucas, who is shown in a half-crouching attitude with hands upraised over his head. This was the chamber where the traders transacted their dealings with all the din, bustle and confusion characteristic of a commercial centre. It is now a peaceful antechamber.

The Corporation officials will readily show the antiquities in their charge, of which the most remarkable are the original charter of 1171, under the terms of which the men of Bristol founded a colony in Dublin, and the heavy, silver-gilt mace and sword presented to the city by bygone kings of England.

The street lying between the City Hall and Christ Church Cathedral is a modern improvement called Lord Edward Street. The unhappy Mangan, whose great poetic genius was marred and brought to a miserable end by his intemperate habits, was born near here. His finest work is the passionate hymn of patriotism addressed to Ireland under the name of “Dark Rosaleen,” “the little dark rose,” that had suffered so much and so long.

Parallel to Lord Edward Street, and running along the front of the Castle, is the narrow and sombre Castle Street, associated, as seems fit, with the gloomier phases of Irish government. The rebellion of 1641 was hatched here under the very nose of the authorities. Next year things had come to such a pass that the citizens were ordered to deliver a moiety of their plate to commissioners sitting in the same street. The treasury was so low that the goblets and tankards of Dublin had to be melted down and coined into money wherewith to pay the troops. Subsequently, when matters grew even worse, copper tokens were poured on the suffering public from the same source.

The house to the right of the main gate of the Castle is the oldest bank premises in Dublin. It was erected by David Latouche, one of the many Huguenots, who made their mark in the history of Dublin, and is now a government office. Opposite stands another old bank, Newcomen’s, now the City Treasurer’s Office. Beyond Latouche’s bank an iron gateway on the left gives on to the Castle Steps, a flagged passage consisting of several flights of stairs beneath the west wall of the Castle. It was a short cut to Ship Street, but was closed in order to isolate the seat of authority and render it more defensible in case of a rising.

Two well-known names are associated with Castle Street. It was the birth-place of the actor Doggett, who left the coat and badge still raced for by Thames watermen, and also contained the residence of Sir James Ware, an Irish historian, whose son, Robert, was the first pioneer in the unexplored field of the annals of Dublin.

At its further end Lord Edward Street debouches into Christ Church Place, a wide, open space surrounding the Cathedral. Here again, as at S. Patrick’s, municipal improvement has opened up a fine view of the ancient church, once closely encompassed by houses, that rendered it impossible to see the edifice as a whole. The old street of the curriers, Skinners’ Row, some 17 feet in width, used to occupy this site. Four interesting streets run from the corners of Christ Church Place.

The first, going to the right past the eastern end of the Cathedral, is Fishamble Street, once, as its name implies, a shambles or market for fish. The narrow way was lined with open stalls, beneath which lay the children of the dealers. The uncleanly habits of the fishmongers were a sore trial to the Corporation, especially their practice of casting the offal of their trade into the gutter, where it lay until rain came and swept it down the hill into the Liffey. There are some typical old Dublin houses on the left or western side, tall and narrow, turning a high-peaked gable towards the road.

No less than three events, each of which has filled the world “with sounds that echo still,” have occurred in this side street. In a vanished alley called Molesworth Court, off Fishamble Street, the Drapier Letters were printed and published. The famous doctrine that “government without the consent of the governed is the very definition of slavery” was then first enunciated. The same principle in much the same words is set forth in the preamble of the American Declaration of Independence.

Twenty years later, the great, rolling choruses of the “Messiah” broke on the astonished and enthralled ears of a fashionable gathering in the Music Hall, which then adorned the street. Handel, in a fit of discouragement, had retired from London, and the first production of his masterpiece took place in Dublin. The performance was for the benefit of Mercer’s Hospital. In order to provide room for a large audience, ladies were requested to lay aside their hoops and gentlemen their swords. By this means an audience of 700 was crowded into the space, and the concert realised £400.

In 1746, Henry Grattan, whose ideals are those of many Irish politicians even now, was born here and baptised at S. John’s Church.

s.gif (32976 bytes)On the opposite side of Christ Church Place, Werburgh Street trends away to the left. Its name is derived from a certain Werburgh, a Cheshire saint, to whom the church on the left-hand side is consecrated. The Cheshiremen in the colony used to hold a sort of county reunion at the edifice dedicated to their patroness. This is the third church on the site. It once possessed a steeple, which was, however, taken down in 1810 as unsafe. The severity of the interior is relieved by some pleasant wood carving, notably a splendid old pulpit (pictured, right), the stairs and balustrade of which are richly ornamented.

The organ, which was erected in 1767, is gaily decked out with gilding. Its tone is perfectly pure and sweet, even to this day. Just beneath it in the centre of the gallery is the Lord Lieutenant’s private pew, marked by the Royal Arms. Until a special place of worship was erected in the Castle, S. Werburgh’s, being so close at hand, was used as the private chapel of His Excellency, and, in consequence, was usually thronged by the fashionable crowds, who followed him as their leader.

There are three entrance porches. In those to left and right are the monuments taken respectively from the disused churches of S. John’s, in Fishamble Street, and S. Bride’s, in Bride Street, a southerly continuation of Werburgh Street. Near the main entrance are the old city fire engines, the larger no bigger than a hand cart, the smaller somewhere about the size of a garden wheelbarrow. Dublin first obtained such appliances in 1706, and from the rude appearance of these survivals, with their small, solid, wooden wheels, destitute of spokes, it may be conjectured that they are the identical “water engines” then purchased.

A series of vaults runs beneath the whole length of the church. Under the chancel is the family burying-place of the Geraldines, whose town house stood near here until their head moved to Leinster House, in Kildare Street. Hither, at two in the morning, the body of the unfortunate Lord Edward Fitzgerald was brought from Newgate gaol for interment. As the city was under martial law, the little party of mourners escorting the corpse was more than once held up by the watchful patrols that traversed every street.

By a strange chance the man whose bullet killed Lord Edward lies close to his former foe. Major Sirr, whose complicated system of espionage and relentless methods of repression proved fatal to many a poor fellow during that period, is buried in the left-hand corner of the churchyard under a plain slab. Artistic sensibility to criticism is curiously exemplified here too. In the centre of the little enclosure lies John Edwin, an actor of Crow Street. Tradition tells that he sank and died under the gibes of an anonymous lampooner.

‘Tis Strange the mind, that very fiery particle,

Should let itself be snuffed out by an article.”

On the south wall of the church, overlooking the narrow passage that leads to the graveyard, are two old monuments - one of a knight in armour and his wife, doubtless some bygone Geraldines; the other, which is in two parts, consisting of a number of small figures of a distinctly ecclesiastical type. The received explanation is that it represents the Twelve Apostles, eight effigies being in one section and four in the other. One bears on his knees a representation of the Crucifixion, another carries a lamb, and several seem to have croziers. It may be part of an ancient reredos or rood-screen.

A little beyond the church is Hoey’s Court, where Jonathan Swift was born. It seems once to have been a sort of square, surrounded by houses of some size and architectural pretensions. Now it has degenerated into a slum. The dip in the ground close by marks the site of the city gate, by which De Cogan and his companions sallied out to fall on the rear of the Norsemen, who were assaulting Dame Gate in 1171. Here, again, as almost everywhere in Dublin, there are associations with the stage.

The first theatre in Ireland, and, most probably, in the British Isles outside London, was established in Werburgh Street during the viceroyalty of Strafford. James Shirley, the last of the giant brood of playwrights, who succeeded Shakespeare, came to Dublin in the train of the great Lord Deputy. He was probably the chief mover in the enterprise of founding a permanent home for the drama in the city. Several plays of his own composition were produced there, notably “S. Patrick for Ireland,” a remarkable dramatisation of the story of the national saint. This piece, which, considering its subject, might be better known in Ireland than it is, is not without some fine passages, particularly in the last act, when the saint, attacked by the snakes conjured up by the heathen enchanter Archimagus, banishes all such venomous beasts for ever from the country. The author has here caught something of the Shakespearean note:

Hence, you frightful monsters,

Go hide, and bury your deformed heads

For ever in the sea! from this time be

This island free from beasts of venomous nature.

The shepherd shall not be afraid hereafter

To trust his eyes with sleep upon the hills,

The traveller shall from hence have no suspicion,

Or fear to measure with his wearied limbs

The silent shades; but walk through every brake

Without more guard than his own innocence.”

This legend is the popular explanation of Ireland’s singular and complete freedom from snakes, toads, and such loathsome reptiles. Scientists ascribe it rather to the dampness of the climate. Shirley’s daring choice of a subject was justified by a great popular success. Soon afterwards, however, on the fail of Strafford and the accession to power of Puritan Lords Justices, Werburgh Street theatre was summarily closed. The dramatist returned to England to carry a musket for King Charles. The first chapter in the history of the Dublin stage was of short duration.

saudeons1.gif (20590 bytes)On the same side of Christ Church Place as Werburgh Street, but further west, is Nicholas Street, which also takes its name from a church, now ruined, that of S. Nicholas Within. Old Dublin had a tremendous number of parish churches huddled together in a small space. Within a stonethrow of the two great cathedrals were S. John’s, S. Michael’s, S. Werburgh’s, S. Nicholas Within and Without, S. Kevin’s, S. Bride’s, S. Peter’s, and S. Audoen’s (pictured, left).

In modern times, for lack of congregations, some of them have been left derelict; others joined together in twos and threes to form a single cure. The massive masonry of S. Nicholas Within *(i.e. *within the walls) forms part of a wall on the left hand side of Nicholas Street. The depression in the road level again marks the site of a city gate. Beyond this lay S. Nicholas Without, whose parishioners, it will be remembered, worshipped in the north transept of S. Patrick’s Cathedral.

The astrologers and miracle-workers of Dublin gravitated to this neighbourhood. One of the earliest was a Father Finachty, who held great popular assemblies, where, by prayers and exorcisms, he effected, or was thought to effect, some marvellous cures. His proceedings and his eventual overthrow are described by his co-religionist, the Franciscan Father Walsh, who was frankly sceptical of the whole business. While Finachty was in the monk’s lodging off Nicholas Street, Sir William Petty, an eminent physician and a Protestant, came with the design of testing his miraculous powers. If Finachty could cure his short sight he would profess himself a Catholic. The priest accepted the offer, so tempting to one of his cloth. But in the quiet room and before the small, uncongenial audience, he failed completely.

Petty then wagered £100 he would cure as many sick as Finachty out of a given number. A public trial was arranged, but the challenged party evaded the contest by retiring to Connaught, where his practices were forbidden by his own archbishop. The astrologer Whalley also lived in this street, and poured forth volumes of abuse on his fellow-quacks, especially on one Coats, who had rashly predicted the approaching death of his rival. Whalley survived the period assigned to him, and scourged the false prophet with such gentle epithets as “baboon,” ” hardened villain,” and “scandal to astrology.”

Off Nicholas Street, to the right, is Back Lane, often associated with the struggles of the Catholic Church in Ireland. In the reign of Charles I. the Jesuits maintained a university here, which was soon closed, and its buildings handed over to Trinity College. Half way along Back Lane, behind an iron gateway and an elaborate arch, is the Tailors’ Hall, belonging to one of the old city guilds. In this ancient house met the Catholic Committee, nicknamed the Back Lane Parliament.

The short street running under the bridge, which connects the Synod House with Christ Church Cathedral, is called S. Michael’s Hill. Its present name is, probably, an attempt to render in English the Celtic MacGilleMocholmog, after whom the street was originally called. His tribe was under the protection of both Danes and English, and was allowed to encamp outside the city between the fortifications and the river Liffey. Old Dublin, it must be remembered, was a very small town. It was practically confined to the ridge on which Christ Church and the Castle stand, and for some hundred years did not even spread down the slope towards the river. From the fronts of some of the houses project remarkable wooden structures, sometimes a couple of feet wide. They may have been intended as a protection against wind and rain for the goods exhibited in the open, window-less shops of the past.

The intersection of S. Michael’s Hill and Christ Church Place was formerly the High Cross or centre of the city, where proclamations both of civic and vice-regal authority were read out, and where notorious offenders did public penance.

Here also stood the Tholsel. This name for a town hall is found in some other Irish towns, and is believed to have some connection with the Low Latin “Theolonium,” a toll-house. The citizens were summoned to the assembly by the ringing of a great bell. Then, as now, Corporation meetings were often stormy, but the jars of the present day, unlike their forerunners, do not end in bloodshed and loss of life. Interested parties some-times tried to manipulate Parliamentary or municipal elections by packing the Tholsel with their own adherents, and excluding all others from ~e building. The inevitable result was a tumult, not to be quelled until the Lord Mayor rushed to the Castle to procure military assistance.

The present enclosure around Christ Church Cathedral is not a graveyard, as might be imagined. The greater part of it is the site of old houses now cleared away. When suits ceased to be heard in the Castle, some of the church property here was let out to the government to be used for legal purposes.

These premises came to be known as the Four Courts, from the four historic divisions, which held their sittings there, Chancery, King’s Bench, Exchequer and Common Pleas. The name was transferred from the old Four Courts, now demolished, to its present successor on the quays. The cathedral and the courts were long associated by a curious custom, which survived until disestablishment removed its *raison d’être. *In gratitude for a royal donation, the vicars and choristers were accustomed to appear robed in the Court of Exchequer four times during the year, there to sing an anthem and offer up a prayer. During this celebration the business of the day was suspended, and, for a brief space, the atmosphere of Christian worship displaced the wranglings and sophistries of the law.

Between the old Four Courts and the cathedral ran a dark, narrow passage, half underground, and deeply shadowed by the great structures on either side. Some fantastic wit, struck with its gloominess, had given it the nickname of “Hell,” and others had carried out his idea by erecting at one end a figure of the devil himself, horns, hoofs and all. Lawyers have been known to call themselves, or to be called, “the devil’s own,” so perhaps there was a fitness in the neighbourhood. An old Dublin advertisement runs “Lodgings to let in Hell. N.B. They are suitable to a lawyer.”

To Chapter 9. To Chart Index