The Fringes and Liberties of Dublin City

The Fringes and Liberties of Dublin City* *

**Castle Street. - Cage-House of Sir Daniel Bellingham. - Hoey’s Court. - Eede’s Coffee-House. - The Procession of the Fringes. - Houses of the Nobility in High Street, Thomas Street, Fishamble Street. - “Waking” Wolfe Tone.

• St. Audoen’s Church. - Portlester Chapel. - St. Audoen’s Arch*. - Freeman’s Journal*
• Anecdote of Faulkner. - The Messiah. - Chamber-Organ upon which Handel played. - St. Werburgh’s Church. - Church of Holy Trinity. - The Bishop’s Liberty. - St. Patrick’s Cathedral. - Schomberg’s Tomb. - Tomb of Stella. - Dr. Narcissus Marsh. - Patrick Street.
• The Refugees. - The Coombe. - Weavers’ Hall. - Huguenot Houses. - Clarence Mangan’s Story.**

Leaving the Castle by the principal entrance, we pass through the street which bears the same name, and is coeval with the stronghold itself. “In the majority of cities in Ireland,” says Sir John Gilbert in his” ” History of Dublin City,” “the most ancient streets are to be found in the immediate vicinity of the Castle or chief fortress of the town, the protection afforded by which was an object of paramount importance to the burghers, who, until the seventeenth century, were constantly harassed by the incursions of the native clans.”

The English settlers therefore congregated round the Castle, many of them having cage-houses in Castle Street. Here lived Daniel Bellingham, first Lord Mayor of Dublin, and other dignatories.

On a portion of the City wall on the south side of. Castle Street stood the Bank of Messrs. Latouche & Kane. During the dispute relative to the power of the English Cabinet to impose Wood’s halfpence on the Irish nation, one of the Latouche family made himself unpopular, - and was the subject of a ballad beginning:

Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year,

Vet in one hour lost it, ‘tis known far and near;

To whom did he lose it-a Judge or a Peer?

Which nobody can deny.

Mr. Latouche, however, soon regained his popularity.

Hoey’s Court is another point of interest in Castle Street. Here the great Dean of St. Patrick’s was born, 1667, at the house of his uncle. Hoey’s Court has been demolished, and no trace of Swift’s birth-place remains. It seems extraordinary that this indignity towards one of Ireland’s most gifted sons should have been allowed: the houses, however, in the court were condemned, being in a dilapidated condition-all the more shame to those who allowed Swift’s birthplace to be so neglected. “The many admirers of the Dean,” says a recent writer, “would have gladly subscribed, if called upon.

The site of Hoey’s Court is at the bottom of the steps running by the west wall of the Castle, or it can be entered from Werburgh Street. It was in its day a well-considered locality. Surgeon-General Ruxton lived here, as did also Chancellor Bowes. A little farther on was Eede’s Coffee-house, the resort of the wits and statesmen who came to drink Canary, for which Eede had a reputation.

Castle Street is the entrance to that portion of Dublin City known as the “Liberties.” The Liberties or Franchises of Dublin (to use the correct term) were twenty-five in number, each liberty or franchise taking its name from the head or principal individual residing in the locality. Thus we have the Bishop’s Liberty, which comprised the large area of the Coombe; Lord Kildare’s Liberty; and the Earl of Meath’s Liberty, which was of the nature of a manor, and included Kevin Street and Booter’s Lane, Bride Street, Bull Alley, Meath Street and Mellefont Lane, etc.

(The twenty-live Franchises took in, besides those places already mentioned, Clontarf, Donnybrook, Ringsend, Clonskeagh, Miltown, Dolphin’s Barn, Hospital Fields, Stonybatter, Grange Gorman, Finglas, Drumcondra, Ballyburgh, and Raheny.)

The Corporation of the City were bound by their charter to perambulate at fixed periods the limits of the Lord Mayor’s jurisdiction, and to make stands or stations at various points.. A procession of the different Guilds, headed by the Lord Mayor, Aldermen, Sheriffs, and Peers, took place every third year. It was called the Procession of the Fringes or Franchises, and was intended to designate the Lord Mayor’s rights over the City.

The word “liberty” therefore meant outside** **his jurisdiction; and when his Lordship; in the course of his perambulation, came to one of these sacred territories, he thrust his sword through the wall of a certain house, or, if at the seaside, he hurled, when the tide was out, a javelin as far as his strength could send it, this being understood to form the boundary not belonging to Neptune.

The processions, which continued up to the beginning of this century, were magnificent displays, the Guilds of the different trades taking part in the show. The journeymen and apprentices walked; the masters rode, - each trade being preceded by a platform or car, drawn by four or six horses; on the platform some of the best hands were seen working at the trade represented. The smiths had a high phaeton, in which was seated the handsomest girl in the City, representing the wife of Vulcan, whose representative, armed *cap-à-pie, *and flourishing an enormous sledge-hammer, rode beside the phaeton on the largest horse that could be found.

The Liberties derived a certain importance from the proximity of the Castle, which in the early days of Strongbow’s conquest drew into the neighbourhood the English settlers, who generally sought protection from the attacks of the native Irish who occupied the hillsides and mountain fastnesses.

As time went on this animosity in a measure subsided, but the nobility and men of position still remained inhabitants of the Liberties, where later on they dwelt in the timber or cage-houses built by the English plantation of James I. These in the beginning of the last century made place for the more substantial but ugly stone mansions which were the taste of the day.( These houses were spacious, and some twenty years ago there “were traces remaining of their former high estate in the form of finely carved chimney-pieces. The dealers have now carried away everything of value the best finding an excellent market in England.) The two last remaining cage-houses were taken down early in this century, one being the Carbric in Skinners’ Row, which had been the residence of the Earls of Kildare. Sir Christopher Ussher’s, which stood at the corner of Castle Street, was taken down in 1813.

Some of the wooden beams of the Carbric or Cerbric House can be seen in the lower storeys of Nos. 6 and 7, Christchurch Place (Skinners’ Row, now Christchurch Place). On the site of these houses stood Dick’s Coffee-house, where the principal auctions of books, land, and property were held. The owner of the coffee-house, one Pue, published a paper called *Occurrences. *Edmund Burke relates, 1747, that, as he was sitting in a shop under Dick’s Coffee-house, the back-house fell in and buried Pue, the coffee-house keeper, and his wife in the ruins.

Sir John Gilbert’s valuable** ‘History of Dublin” supplies a long list of notables who had residences in the City. Liberties. Lord Meath, whose name and that of his son Lord Brabazon are still to be seen in two of the wide, spacious streets, lived in Thomas Street (his house has long since sunk to the degraded position of a tenement-house). Lord Molyneux had a quaint mansion in Peter Street, which is still existent. Lord Molesworth and Dr. Grattan, father to the much-honoured patriot, had houses in Fishamble Street; the Earl of Kildare in Thomas Street (The Earl removed there from the Carbric) **the Earl of Roscommon in High Street, where also lived Sir Patrick Wemyss and the Plunkets; High Street and Thomas Street, like Meath Street, are spacious, and some of the houses have the air of having seen better days.

Here too was enacted many a thrilling and tragic incident. High Street was the scene of one of the foulest murders that ever disgraced a country, that of an old man in the presence of his daughter. It was a night in June; the patriot Emmet had selected it for his toy rebellion; he had in fact just sent up the rocket which was to summon his followers from their hiding-places, and this undisciplined mob had debouched into High Street as Lord Kilwarden’s carriage came down the street, taking him and his daughter home to their house in Leinster Street, after dining at the Castle with the Chief Secretary, Lord Castlereagh. (Some accounts state that a nephew of Lord Kilwarden, Mr. Wolfe, also was of the party).

Imagine the scene. The silken curtains were torn from the windows, the old man dragged out, his weeping daughter clinging” to him. Kilwarden, who was a splendid orator and a courageous man, addressed the excited crowd. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am Kilwarden, Justice” of the Common Pleas.” “And you hung my son!” howled the fellow nearest man (a man called Shannon), as he plunged his pike into the old man’s breast.

That Emmet had no share in this miserable tragedy is certain; in fact he was so overwhelmed by such a beginning, and his own incapacity to control his followers, that he fled from the scene, abandoning his mad scheme; neither, as it afterwards appeared, had Shannon any grudge against his unfortunate victim, whom he mistook for Lord Carleton, the judge who had sentenced his son.

Every step we now take along the deserted streets is associated with these troublous times, which, although a century has passed since such scenes of bloodshed were enacted, have left their imprint upon the nation. At 151, Thomas Street the unfortunate Lord Edward FitzGerald was arrested at the house of Murphy, a feather merchant. (No.22, Corn Market was another place of refuge used by Lord Edward FitzGerald, whose humble friends were most generous in running risks for his sake. At Moore’s house in Corn Market Lord Edward passed as tutor to Miss Moore.)

Hard by, at 9, Lower Bridge Street, the disaffected met at Oliver Bond’s. This man was exceedingly active in administering the oath to the United Irishmen. Reynolds, the informer, was admitted to all the meetings, and by his revelations on January 4’ 1797, Bond and 14 members of the secret society were secured and tried for conspiracy. Bond was sentenced to death, but received a pardon, it was said, for turning King’s evidence.

At 65, High Street (where Sarsfield was born} Wolfe Tone, one of the purest of the Irish patriots, was waked. Theobald Wolfe Tone, like most of the leaders of rebellion in Ireland, was of the Established Church, and came of a good family. He makes a picturesque figure in history, but his end was ghastly.

Being concerned in the landing of the French at Killala in 1798, he was taken prisoner attired in the full uniform of the French service, was tried in Dublin, and condemned to death. On the day fixed for his execution his friends exerted themselves to obtain a reprieve, and Lord Kilwarden (who was a connection of the family, his name being likewise Wolfe) granted a decree of *Habeas Corpus, *with the additional order that it should be served at once.

Curran, who was acting for the prisoner, urged that his client might be executed before the order was presented. “Then,” said the Chief Justice, “let the Sheriff proceed to the barracks and see that he be not executed.”

After an interval of agitation and suspense the messenger returned, reporting that the Field Marshal refused to obey. “Then,” said Kilwarden, “Mr. Sheriff, take the body of Tone in custody and the Provost Marshal likewise, and show the order to General Craig.”

Unfortunately, while his friends were thus exerting themselves on his” behalf, Tone, resolved not to undergo the disgrace and horror of being hung, had taken matters into his own hands, and had deliberately cut his wind-pipe across with a penknife, but failed to destroy himself, having strength to say, “I am but a bad anatomist.”

The wound was sewn up, and the authorities would have carried out the execution, but Kilwarden again interfered, and the unhappy prisoner was allowed to die from his self-inflicted wounds. His body was, moreover, given to his relations**, **who transported it to High Street, and paid it the honour of a grand wake.

Turning out of High Street, we come upon one of the rarest bits of antiquity in old Dublin - St. Audoen ‘s Church. St. Audoen (whose family name was Audaine) is a corruption of St. Ouen, the edifice being built in 1171 by the Norman invaders, who naturally called it after one of their patron saints.

The entrance is from the street through an iron gate of a forlorn and “Tom’s all alone” character. You descend some steps, and, turning to the right, are in a ruin which communicates with the restored, or rather I should say renovated, portion.

The Church originally consisted of a chancel and two long aisles like fingers, the latter being supported on arches of most elegant design. The Church now in use is the west half of the north aisle. The latter is the ruin of what was the Portlester Chantry, which was built in 1430 by the Baron Portlester. The chantry originally held six altars: the remains of these can be seen, as also the raised ground for the High Altar.

Some of the tombs have been wrecked and the crosses torn away, but the inscriptions can be made out. And here too the cenotaph or table monument of the Portlester family had its place - the Baron, in his chain armour and helmet, lying side by side with his wife, Margaret, daughter of Jenico d’Artois. Round the margin of the tomb there is the following inscription in Gothic letters:

“Orate pro animae Rolande Fitz-Eustace de Portlester, qui Hunc Locum sive Capellam Dedit in Honoram Beate Maria Virginis etiam pro Animae Margaretae Uxoris suae, etc. Anno Domini 1455.” The monument was removed from the chantry some years ago, and placed in the entrance to the Church, near to another, greatly defaced, of some Church dignitary.

Both, sad to say, are disfigured by some glaring red-and-blue lettering put upon them with questionable taste.

In a corner near the Church door is a recess which is called the Bishops’ Chapel, from the fact of three bishops, father and two sons, being buried there; on the wall their names are recorded, and for the preservation of their monument John Parry, the father, left an annual sum of forty shillings, to be continued so long as the bones of the Parrys remained undisturbed. Such disturbance happening some years ago, the stipend ceased.

In the restorations of the Church in 1848 a very curious monument, erected to the memory of John Malone and Mary Pentony, his wife, was nearly destroyed. Near to it was a curious group of kneeling figures, having neither name nor date. The figures were saved from being hacked away by the late Dr. Petrie. It was his opinion that the group formed part of the Malone monument. Underneath this monument there is a death’s-head with angel wings - a curious emblem.

Some 20 years ago a subterranean passage was discovered beneath the Church. Two stone jugs were part of the find; and from the fact of the workmen engaged in the excavations absconding and never since being heard of, it is conjectured these jugs held valuable coins.

There formerly existed a passage from the Church down to the river, but this has long since been walled up.

From the top of the belfry tower a splendid view can be had all over the City, which, like a panorama, stretches out before the spectator. One of the bells in the tower has completed its two-hundredth anniversary. The tone of this ancient servant is delightfully tuneful, no wheeze of old age denoting its antiquity.

At a stone’s-throw from the Church is the sole survivor of the entrance gates to old Dublin. This venerable portal dates from 1316, when it was erected to defend the City against the threatened invasion of Robert Bruce. It is stated in Stanihurst’s “History of Dublin” that “the Maior Robert Noringham razed down an abbaie of the frier preachers called - Saint Saviour, his Monasterie, and brought the stones thereof to these places where the gate now stands.”

This most interesting relic of former generations has been restored, but the tower was not rebuilt.*** ***It is, however, well that so much has been done, for in 1880 the poor old arch was condemned by the Corporation *“as a nuisance,” *and its removal was strongly recommended. Mercifully, this act of vandalism was prevented. The tower of St. Audoen’s was put to rather a singular use in 1764, being turned into a printing office, and here the first number of the now widely circulated *Freeman’s Journal *was printed.

(In a curious and rare old book of epistles, the joint composition of George Howard (ancestor of the present Duke of Norfolk) and Faulkner, the King’s printer, there are some bitter lines against the new journal, which, edited by Lucas, was a formidable rival to Faulkner’s paper:

He first, with many a fair pretence

To public spirit, truth, and sense,

Hatched that disgrace to law and reason,

That mass of slander, dulness, treason,

That journal which the arch produces.

The following incident is told by Faulkner: “A gentleman called one day in a fine frenzy. His name had appeared in my death column, which had caused considerable confusion, his creditors all clamouring to be paid what was due to them. ‘Sir,’ cried I, ‘it is impossible for me to know whether you be alive or dead, but I am sure I gave you a very good character in my journal.’ The gentleman,” he adds, “was so pleased that he ordered books from my shop in Essex Street to the value of 14 shillings, this amount being added to the list of moneys due.”)

From High Street we make our way through Fishamble Street to the two great stone cathedrals. Round Fishamble Street Theatre float a host of memories of Handel as he sat at the chamber organ (The chamber organ upon which Handel played was removed to the Bluecoat School, where it could be seen 20 ago. Since then Mr. Thomas Jackson saw it at a private house in Eccies Street, Where we must presume it now remains. Such a relic of the great maestro should be in some museum.) in the orchestra conducting’ the rehearsals of the *Messiah; *also of the *dilettante *nobleman Lord Mornington, who founded an Academy of Music strictly of amateurs, and quite independent of all *mercenary *professionals. The conductor was the Earl himself; the band were gentlemen well known in society; so too with the singers and chorus; and we are told that these performances were quite up to the professional standard. Then came the ridottos and the masquerades for which Dublin was famous. They made another chapter in the history of Fishamble Street.

Its highest glory, however, is its association with the German maestro. Handel came to Dublin in a fit of pique, and remained five months as the guest of the then Viceroy, the Duke of Devonshire. During his visit, on April 15, 1741, he produced *for the first time *the Messiah. (The fact of the Messiah being performed for the first time in Dublin has been many times dispute. The letter, however, of Jennens, the librettist, to Lord Howe, Handel’s patron, places the matter beyond cavil. The letter will be found in Sir John Gilbert’s “History of Dublin”)

The *Dublin Evening Post, *in its notice of its performance, says

“‘On Tuesday last Mr. Handel’s oratoria of the *Messiah *was performed at the new Musick Hall, Fishamble Street. The best judges allowed it to be the most finished piece of musick. It is but justice to Mr. Handel that the world should know that he generously gave the money from the great work to be equally shared by the Charitable Infirmary, Mercers’ Hospital, and the relief of prisoners. There were over 700 persons present, and £700 was collected.”

This calculation would lead one to suppose a guinea was paid for each ticket - an unprecedented charge in those days.

The great master seems to have been well pleased with his Dublin audience, for we find him writing to his friends in a strain of elation:

“The nobility did me the honour to make amongst themselves a subscription for six nights, which did fill a room of 600 persons, so that I did not need to sell a single ticket at the door, and, without vanity, the performance was received with general approbation. Signora Avolio, which I brought with me from London, pleases extraordinary. I have form’d another tenor voice which gives great satisfaction, and the rest of the chorus singers do exceeding well. As for the instruments, they are really excellent, Mr. Dubourgh being at the head of them, and the music sounds delightfully in the charming room, which puts me in such spirits (and my health being good) that I exert myself at the organ with more than usual success. I cannot sufficiently express the kind treatment I receive here; but the politeness of this generous nation cannot be unknown to you, so I let you judge of the satisfaction I enjoy. They propose already more performances when the subscription is over, and my Lord Duke of Devonshire will easily obtain a longer permission for me from his Majesty.”

(Towards the end of the last century Fishamble Street Theatre was hired by a company of amateurs with histrionic aspirations at the yearly rent of £8o. Lord Westmeath, one of the company, induced Valdré, the Earl of Buckinghamshire’s *protégé; *to paint the ceiling, proscenium, and some of the scenes. The *dramatis personae *included Lords Westmeath and Barrymore, Sir Edward Denny, Sir Charles Vernon, Mr. McClintock, Colonel Nugent, Mr. Wandesforde Butler, and Captain Ashe, whose portraits (in his different characters) are often to be met with. He seems to have been the heart and soul of the company, having much talent for comedy acting, great facial command, and extraordinary agility, which he evinced by dancing the minuet in *High Life Below-stairs *on his toes, and scratching his ear with his toe.)

Grattan, as every one knows, was born in Fishamble Street, his father being an eminent physician. In the same street lived at No. 3 James Mangan, father to the unfortunate poet James Clarence Mangan, born 1803. This house bore the arms and motto “Ne vele velis” (“Wish nothing base”), the family device of Sir Christopher Ussher, Serjeant-at-Arms, who removed here from the cage-house mentioned earlier in this chapter. Mangan’s house in Fishamble Street dates (says Mr. Evans, whose knowledge of old Dublin is unchallenged) from Queen Anne, and there are traces of the earlier Georgian era in the narrow windows with their very small panes.

Clarence Mangan’s childhood was made unhappy by the severity with which his father treated him and the rest of his family. This unpleasant individual, who had something of Squeers in his character, made a boast that his children would “run into a mouse-hole” to escape him. But in this we must remember that it was the tone of the day to keep young people in their place. Mangan, who was not a wealthy man, had no idea of feeding idle mouths, so at a very early age Clarence had to furnish his quota towards the support of the household by copying work in a scrivener’s office, a drudgery he detested, for he had all the morbid tendencies which accompany highly strung natures. He thus describes his own morbidity:

“My nervous and hypochondriacal feelings verged almost on insanity; I seemed to myself to be shut up in a cavern with serpents, scorpions, and all manner of monstrous, hideous things, which writhed and hissed about me and discharged their slime and venom upon my person.

Mr. Wakeman, in his papers upon old Dublin, gives his personal recollections of Clarence Mangan, which are full of interest:

“We were supposed, when on home duty, to meet daily in the office at 10 a.m. All were usually punctual except Mangan, who as a rule was late, would often not appear before 11 or 12 o’clock, and. would not unfrequently be absent altogether. He had in our room a large unpainted deal desk, about breast-high, supported upon four legs; and, to match, an equally plain stool or seat, - both being his own property, and of his own introduction. Upon this desk, when he worked at all, he would copy documents as required. He had nothing else to do, so that his training as scrivener made the task all the more easy. At times he would be very dull and silent, but occasionally he was apt to make puns and jokes. He generally had some awful story of a supernatural character to tell as he was sipping his tar-water, a bottle of which medicine he always carried with him. At the time I speak of Mangan could not have numbered more than 35 or 36 years, yet he was then physically worn out, aged in fact, as far as the body was concerned. His mind, however, still was that of the poet, and he was inditing those soul-stirring verses published then and afterwards in the *Irish Penny Journal *the *Dublin University Magazine, *and I believe elsewhere. Aged in body, I repeat. His hair had gone, and given place to a very common-looking, flax-coloured wig; his teeth were a false and ill-fitting set, as evidenced by the fact that the wearer was ever fixing them with his fingers, lest they should fall from his gums; he possessed very weak eyes, and used a huge pair of green spectacles; he had narrow shoulders, and was flat-chested, so much so that for appearance’ sake the breast of his coat was thickly padded. Of course there was no muscular strength; and his voice was low, sweet, but very tremulous. Few perhaps could imagine that so odd a figure might represent a genius, and Mangan himself did not appear to care a fig what people thought of him - in fact he seemed to court the reputation of an oddity. His coat was of an indescribable fashion, both in cut and colour; it appeared to have been a kind of drab. Out of doors he wore a tight little cloak; and his hat exactly resembled those which broomstick-riding witches are usually represented with. Sometimes, even in the most settled weather, he might be, seen parading the streets with a very voluminous umbrella under each arm. The large coloured spectacles, already referred to, had the effect of setting off his singularly wan and wax-like countenance with as much force as might be accomplished by the contrast of colour.”

In an unfrequented part of Glasnevin Cemetery, where the grass grows rank and tall, hiding the mass of forgotten graves, a headstone marks the spot where the Irish poet lies; arid looking at this sad memento of a man who had undoubtedly the divine fire of genius, some lines of his recur to the memory. They are, I think, very pathetic:

Tic-tic! tic-tic! not a’ sound save Time’s,

And the wind gust as it drives the rain;

Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes,

Go to bed and rest thy aching brain.

Sleep - no more the dupe of hopes and schemes;

Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow -

Curious anti-climax to thy dreams

Twenty golden years ago!

Not far from Fishamble Street stands the small elegant-looking Church of St. Werburgh. Its steeple was 160 feet high, and the toof a masterpiece; but in 1810 both were found to be in a ruinous condition, and had to be removed. Now it is little known and rarely visited; but in Handel’s time it was the fashionable church of the City, the Viceroy (when in residence) attending it on Sundays with his suite, when some fashionable preacher like Dr. Delany would give a sermon suited to his august listener. The viceregal seat is still to be seen, facing the organ upon which Handel, during his stay in Dublin, played to the delight of his hearers.1 In the vaults of St. Werburgh’s the remains of the unfortunate Lord Edward FitzGerald are interted, and on the wall of the Church there is a curious tablet to John Edwin, the actor, who died of a broken heart in consequence of adverse criticisms.

St. Werburgh’s is close to the Church of the Holy Trinity, commonly called Christ Church. This ancient pile is of older date than its neighbour, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, its vaults existing so far back as the occupation of the City by the Danes. It was in one of these vaults that St. Patrick celebrated the first Mass said in Ireland. (This is a complete fabrication KF)

The vaults used by the Saint may have ‘been a stone-roofed structure somewhat similar to the mysterious chapels or oratories mentioned by Dr. Petrie, and supposed to be as old as the fifth century.

In 1074 Bishop Donough laid the first stone of the Cathedral, which was continued by St. Lawrence O’Toole, Archbishop of Dublin, with the assistance of the Anglo-Norman invaders. Of this, the original Church of the Holy Trinity, only the transept and some of the choir arches remain; they are strictly Norman in character, exhibiting the semi-circular arch, enriched with chevrons and other ornaments.

The nave is Gothic, dating from 1230*. *The chapels which formed part of the original building were destroyed during the Reformation era. In the south aisle we find the tomb of Richard Strongbow, who died in Dublin in 1177, and, it was said, was buried here with his wife Eva, daughter to Morrogh, King of Leinster.

Strongbow, or Stringuil - that being his real name-is described in “Cambriensis” as being of “ruddie sanguine. complexion and freckled face, albeit feminine; his voice was small and his voice little, but he was somewhat high in stature.” This description hardly tallies with one’s preconceived idea of Ireland’s “first and principall Invader,” as is set forth in the description on the wall opposite to his monument-which monument, singularly enough, is not the one erected to Ireland’s invader; for, to quote again from the same inscription, that “was brocken by the fall of the Roof and Body of Christe Church in 1561, and set up againe at the charges of the Right Honourable Sr. Henry Sidney, Knight of the noble order, President of Wailes, and Deputy of Ireland.”

The facts, however, differ slightly from what is set forth on this tablet. The Lord-Deputy Sidney, not desiring to have the trouble or expense of setting up a new monument to the “principall Invader,” did the matter on the cheap by causing a monument of one - of the Earls of Desmond to be brought from Drogheda to replace that of Strongbow.

After all it matters little one knight ‘in armour resembles very closely one of his brother-knights; but it is a little distressing to hear that Strongbow’s bones have likewise disappeared.

Christ Church is in the Bishop’s Liberty, where likewise is situated St. Patrick’s. It seems strange that two such churches should have been erected in such close proximity to one another; but it must be remembered that St. Patrick’s was only a parochial church, and that it was not raised to the dignity of a cathedral with dean and chapter, until the thirteenth century, when Henri de Loundres, the only prelate of the Irish Church present at the signing of Magna Charta, conferred this honour upon it, we may assume to the annoyance of the Bishop and Chapter of’ Holy Trinity. Since this time St. Patrick’s has always held the first place, which it still retains.

During its early period of existence St. Patrick’s suffered from inundations and conflagrations - the River Poddle, which ran underneath the Church, occasionally rising to the height of seven or eight feet, while fires were of constant recurrence.

It also suffered much at the hands of the different Reformers, its vicissitudes being indeed strange. At one time it was “unchurched” altogether, then restored to a certain status, and again Cromwell degraded the venerable pile to the level of a stable.

Such a record leaves its trace, and long before its time the Cathedral showed signs of decay. Even in Dean Swift’s day the Church was already in a ruinous condition, and as years went on this state of’ things grew more and more painful to witness. Every one knows of the generous interposition of Sir Benjamin Lee Guinness, who, at the cost of £160,000, has restored St. Patrick’s and made it beautiful for ever.

It may be that in its rags it was more picturesque. Still, Dublin owes a debt of gratitude to the man who so nobly undertook the task.

In St. Patrick’s we find Schomberg’s tomb, over which Swift put up a stone and Latin inscription. The Dean; seems to have got into some trouble, by so doing, for in 1731 he writes to his friend and patroness Lady Suffolk: “I hear the Queen [Caroline of Anspach, consort to George II.] hath blamed me for putting a stone with a Latin inscription over the Duke of Schomberg’s burying-place in my Cathedral, and that the King said publicly I had done it in malice, to create a quarrel between him and the King of Prussia. The public prints as well as the thing itself will vindicate me, and *the hand the Duke *had in the revolution made him deserve the best monument. Neither could the King of Prussia take it ill, who must have heard that the Duke was in the service of Prussia and Stadtholder of it, as I have seen in his titles.”

After all the great charm of St. Patrick’s rests on its association with Swift. “The Cathedral is merely his tomb,” writes Sir Walter Scott, who could see nothing but the Dean’s “dark saturnine face” in every corner of the Church. His gigantic personality effaces all minor personalities except that of Stella. Her name is for all time bound up with his - even here she is with him. As Professor Dowden says: “The tomb of Swift must needs be Stella’s tomb - she lies beside him, their secret known only to themselves.”

“Poor injured Stella, the sweetest of her sex,” said Lord Orrery. “One thinks of her as we look at the Deanery House, (The Deanery House, or Marsh’s Gate, now a police barrack.) and remember how, on the night of her funeral, Swift sat here writing of her virtues, her courage, gentleness, vivacity of heart and brain. ‘Night, dearest little M.D.,’ he had so often added as the farewell word of the Diary to Stella. Now with her it was night, and a cloudier night with him.

And so the darkness deepened, indignation giving place to rage, and rage to imbecility, with no stars aloft, but murk and despair rising thick from the unwholesome earth, and throttling him in their shadowy coils.”

(This fine passage occurs in Professor “Dowden’s Dublin City” (Scribner), but it is not borne out by fact. Swift enjoyed ten years of various platonic attachments before the gloom of imbecility finally darkened his soul.).

Close to the Deanery is an iron gateway; we go through, mount a flight of steps, and find ourselves in Bishop Narcissus Marsh’s Library-a regular students’ haunt, solemn and silent, with the respectability of age. Bishop (afterwards Primate) Narcissus Marsh loved his books, and lived amongst them. Finding the Episcopal Palace, which was close at hand, not spacious enough to contain them, he added a portion of the Bishop’s Palace, wherein he determined to establish a Public Library. He appropriated the second floor of this building to the purpose; the lower part he gave to Dr. Elias Borroher, his librarian, and between the Library and his own residence he made a door of communication, so that he could come in at any moment.

His anxiety for the preservation of his beloved volumes is touching. He cared for them as men do for the children of their old age, making every provision for their comfort and for that of the reader. Loving silence himself, he appreciated its advantages as a necessary adjunct for the good digesting of literary food.

All down the Library are recesses for the students, constructed much after the fashion of church pews, and carefully separated from one another, so that solitude is easily attainable. The Library itself is built in the form of two long galleries, running at right angles to one another; in the centre is the librarian’s room, from which he can, command a bird’s-eye view of the whole.

Ornamented doors guarded the little chambers wherein were the Bishop’s treasures: here we may imagine he would sit looking from the windows out on the courtyard or quadrangle, built under the shadow of the Cathedral. At that time the Church was standing by the water’s edge. The River Poddle came up quite close to the very gates of St Patrick’s, so that Dr. Narcissus’s eyes must have looked out upon a pleasant view.

With all his provident care, the Bishop made a great mistake. He left no funds for the supply of fresh books, nor for the repairs of the building; it would have crumbled away long since but for the timely intervention of the restorer of St. Patrick’s.

The books themselves are too old to be of much use to the student of the present day. They were many of them the property of Stillingfleet, Bishop of Worcester: these are mostly theological. Later on a gift of some valuable French and Latin works was made by a French refugee from the Edict of Nantes, one Doctor Borroher, the librarian before named. This name got corrupted into “Borough,” and until quite lately a descendant of Doctor Borroher lived in Dublin.

One of the interesting relics in Marsh’s Library is the music-book of the Bishop. He was an elegant musician, playing the violoncello with much skill. The method of noting in his music-book is very curious.

Leaving the quaint old Library with regret, we take a look at the old Deanery House, now a barrack; and descending the hill, turn into the strange quarter Patrick Street, which is sometimes dignified with the title “St. Patrick’s Close.” In this squalid but picturesque ghetto (especially on Saturday nights) every conceivable article, from broken crockery to cast-off clothing, is for sale: the clothes indeed overflow; and the booths, which run along the hilly slope of the irregular street, not being sufficient to contain this collection of rags, the overplus is flung in a promiscuous heap on to a carpeting of sacks, spread out to save the merchandise from the mire of the street. One of Dickens’s most pathetic sketches deals with the fancied autobiography which he evolved out of a second-hand suit of clothes. He fits the coat and the hat with a wearer, and tells a piteous tale. His redundant fancy could, however, hardly conjure a romance out of the heterogeneous mass of cast-off apparel exposed to view in Patrick Street.

The problem is, Why were they ever bought? and again, Will they ever be resold-these sordid rags, these questionable blankets, this infected bedding?

The ‘owners and purchasers of such inodorous bundles are adepts in chaffering and cheapening, and to a stranger their dialect, which belongs to the Coombe, is altogether incomprehensible. Buyers and sellers alike present an endless variety of pictures: boys, like street arabs, with hardly a shred of clothing, yet with faces Murillo would loved to paint; girls with all the grace of girlhood gone; old women, veritable. hags, horrible to look at; disfigured as they are by drink; mothers with babies; babies without mothers, sprawling on the pavement.

Patrick Street leads on to Coombe, or Valley of the Poddle, that mysterious tributary of the Liffey. The Coombe, now a poverty-stricken and most desolate quarter, was at one time most prosperous and thriving, for here was the home of the weaving trade, which, like the woollen trade (of which more later), was actively carried on in Ireland.

The weavers of Dublin owed their high reputation for the manufacture of brocades and delicate paduasoys to the Huguenot refugees, who, driven out of France by the bigotry of Louis XIV. and his ministers, sought refuge in other countries. It was a short-sighted policy on the part of the French monarch to send forth men of talent and skilled artisans to teach other nations the arts formerly only known on the Continent.

To the energy of these refugees was due much of the progress made in Ireland (where they were most warmly received) in mercantile as well as intellectual matters. To them Dublin owed her first literary journal and her first horticultural society, while the manufacture of silk, linen, and poplin was brought to the highest ‘perfection. The silk weavers at first, by permission of the Dean and Chapter, set up their looms in the Crypt of St. Patrick’s Cathedral; but soon Colonel David Latouche, of Huguenot principles (who had fought under Caillemote for William III. at, the Battle of the Boyne), established a manufactory in High Street, where his countrymen could carry on their trade with more advantage.

Success followed this undertaking. The fame of the wondrous fabrics wrought by these foreign weavers spread rapidly. Soon a Huguenot settlement sprang up in the very heart of the Coombe, traces of which still remain in a few houses with gabled roofs and high doorways which are to be found in Weavers’ Square and the adjoining street, also the Weavers’ Hall and Almshouse in the centre of the Coombe.

The Almshouse has fallen into decay, but the Weavers’ Hall is in good preservation. Over the door there is a fine statue of George II., full length, in a Court suit, and full-bottomed wig. Across his arm are slung the different implements of the weaving trade - shuttles and the like. On a large beam are inscribed the names of several merchants and members of the then Corporation of Dublin.

The Hall is well proportioned; the cornices and architraves are fine specimens of wood-carving; the chimney-piece likewise is of carved wood-that is, as much as one can see of it. (The Hall is now in the bands of an ironmonger, who makes of it a store for his stock, and the saucepans are ranged against the mantel-piece. The firm has also in its possession an old mahogany chest, with the names of the silk weavers carved on the lid.). Over it used to hang a portrait of George II. worked in tapestry, with the following couplet on the” frame:

The workmanship of John Van Beaver,

Ye famous tapestry weaver.

As years went on the original French weavers died, but the trade was continued by their descendants, many of these being Irish by the mother or the father.

(The tanners and weavers were for ever coming in contact, the former persisting on washing their skins in the Poddle, thereby stopping the course of what a recent Writer calls “The Mysterious River,” which still runs through a considerable portion of the City. The Poddle was likewise used by the women of the Coombe as an inexpensive laundry; and here, one bright May morning, so far back as 1727**, **a French dancer, Madame Violante by name, came strolling by. The attention of this lady was drawn to a bright-eyed little girl of seven years old, whose well-formed limbs were admirably suited to feats upon the tight-rope. Madame Violante soon made a bargain with the child’s mother, and the little dancer grew up to be the famous actress Margaret or Peg Woffington.

There is still to be found in Dublin many descendants from the old Huguenot refugees. Le Fanu or Le Fanue, Dubedat, Maturin, Fleury, D’Olier, Borough, and Sauna are amongst these. The refugees were given by the Dean of St. Patrick’s the use of St. Mary’s Chapel for. their special service in their own language. This French service was in use so late as 1816. The more Calvinistic amongst them had a chapel in Peter Street, and another near Capel Street. They had also special burying-grounds, one of which is still to be seen in Merrion Row)

There was also the contingent of Irish workmen to whom the Huguenots had taught the secrets of their art. The poplin manufacture likewise received, both at home and abroad, the utmost favour and patronage - Mr. Pleasant, (Pleasant was a merchant. Mount Pleasant, near Ranelagh, a suburb of Dublin, was named after him, and there he had his country seat) evidently of Huguenot descent, erecting at his own charges a tenter stove house in the neighbourhood of Weavers’ Square (now a night asylum for the homeless poor), where the weavers could stretch upon hooks or tenters 36 pieces of silk previous to finishing off the work. These tenters were supported by pillars (an admirable system, we are told); and the building, which was 260 feet in length, cost the generous donor £13,000.

Dr. Samuel Madden, the friend of Johnson, and President of the Royal Society of Dublin, encouraged in every way the trade of the City. He offered prizes of £50 and £25 for the best painting on silk, £10 for the best paduasoy, £10 for the best velvet, £10 for the best tapestry, and £15 for the best imitation of Flemish tapestry.

With such encouragements it was little wonder that the weaving trade in-creased rapidly, and towards the end of the last century 500 looms were at work in the Coombe, and 3,700 weavers were employed. There were times, however, of depression, and some of the old “broadsides” are full of bitter attacks upon the ladies of Dublin for not giving sufficient employment to the weavers of the City.

“Hibernian ladies,” says the *Spy, *“dressed in silk of gold and silver embroidery from abroad, while even one loom cannot find encouragement.” On those occasions the wives of the Viceroys generally came to the rescue, giving entertainments where “all were to come in home-manufactured silk, and even the unbecoming” woollen.”

To Chapter 4. To Picturesque Index. Home.