Few amongst us who tread the Dublin of the present in all its beauty,
think of the Dublin of the past in all its contrasted insignificance.
True, the eternal features are the same; the landscape setting of the
city is coeval with creation. Tyrian, Dane, and Norman have looked as
we look, and with hearts as responsive to Nature’s loveliness, upon the
emerald plains, the winding rivers, the hills draperied in violet and
gold, the mountain gorges, thunder-riven, half veiled by the foam of
the waterfall, and the eternal ocean encircling all; scenes where God
said a city should arise, and the mountain and the ocean are still, as
of old, the magnificent heritage of beauty conferred on our metropolis.
But the early races, whether from the southern sea or northern
plain, did little to aid the beauty of nature with the products of
human intellect. Dublin, under the Danish rule, consisted only of
a fortress, a church, and one rude street. Under the rule of the
Normans, those great civilizers of the western world, those grand
energetic organizers, temple and tower builders, it rose gradually
into a beautiful capital, the chief city of Ireland, the second city
of the empire. At first the rudimental metropolis gathered round the
castle, as nebulæ round a central sun, and from this point it radiated
westward and southward; the O’Briens on the south, the O’Connors on the
west, the O’Neils on the north, perpetually hovering on the borders,
but never able to regain the city, never able to dislodge the brave
Norman garrison who had planted their banners on the castle walls.
In that castle, during the seven hundred years of its existence, no
Irishman of the old race has ever held rule for a single hour.
And what a history it has of tragedies and splendours; crowned and
discrowned monarchs flit across the scene, and tragic destinies,
likewise, may be recorded of many a viceroy! Piers Gaveston, Lord
Lieutenant of King Edward, murdered; Roger Mortimer--“The Gentle
Mortimer”--hanged at Tyburn; the Lord Deputy of King Richard II.
murdered by the O’Briens; whereupon the King came over to avenge his
death, just a year before he himself was so ruthlessly murdered at
Pomfret Castle. Two viceroys died of the plague; how many more were
plagued to death, history leaves unrecorded; one was beheaded at
Drogheda; three were beheaded on Tower Hill. Amongst the names of
illustrious Dublin rulers may be found those of Prince John, the boy
Deputy of thirteen; Prince Lionel, son of Edward III., who claimed
Clare in right of his wife, and assumed the title of Clarence from
having conquered it from the O’Briens.
[Illustration: DUBLIN CASTLE, IRELAND.]
The great Oliver Cromwell was the Lord-Lieutenant of the Parliament,
and he in turn appointed his son Henry to succeed him. Dire are
the memories connected with Cromwell’s reign here, both to his own
party and to Ireland. Ireton died of the plague after the siege
of Limerick; General Jones died of the plague after the surrender of
Dungarvon; a thousand of Cromwell’s men died of the plague before
Waterford. The climate, in its effect upon English constitutions, seems
to be the great Nemesis of Ireland’s wrongs.
Strange scenes, dark, secret, and cruel, have been enacted in that
gloomy pile. No one has told the full story yet. It will be a Ratcliffe
romance of dungeons and treacheries, of swift death or slow murder.
God and St. Mary were invoked in vain for the luckless Irish prince
or chieftain that was caught in that Norman stronghold; but that was
in the old time--long, long ago. Now the castle courts are crowded
only with loyal and courtly crowds, gathered to pay homage to the
illustrious successor of a hundred viceroys.
The strangest scene, perhaps, in the annals of viceroyalty, was
when Thomas Fitzgerald (Silken Thomas), son of the Earl of Kildare,
and Lord-Lieutenant in his father’s absence, took up arms for Irish
independence. He rode through the city with seven score horsemen, in
shirts of mail and silken fringe on their head-pieces (hence the name
Silken Thomas), to St. Mary’s Abbey, and there entering the council
chamber, he flung down the sword of state upon the table, and bade
defiance to the king and his ministers; then hastening to raise an
army, he laid siege to Dublin Castle, but with no success. Silken
Thomas and five uncles were sent to London, and there executed; and
sixteen Fitzgeralds were hanged and quartered at Dublin. By a singular
fatality, no plot laid against Dublin Castle ever succeeded; though to
obtain possession of this foreign fortress was the paramount wish of
all Irish rebel leaders. This was the object with Lord Maguire and his
papists, with Lord Edward Fitzgerald and his republicans, with Emmet
and his enthusiasts, with Smith O’Brien and his nationalists--yet they
all failed. Once only, during seven centuries, the green flag waved
over Dublin Castle, with the motto--“Now or Never! Now and for Ever!”
It was when Tyrconnel held it for King James.
In the ancient stormy times of Norman rule, the nobility naturally
gathered round the Castle. Skinner’s Row was the “May Fair” of mediæval
Dublin, Hoey’s Court, Castle Street, Cook Street, Fishamble Street,
Bridge Street, Werburgh Street, High Street, Golden Lane, Back Lane,
etc., were the fashionable localities inhabited by lords and bishops,
chancellors and judges; and Thomas Street was the grand prado where
viceregal pomp and Norman pride were oftenest exhibited.