After a week of “hearings” at the police court and intense excitement among the university men, the ringleaders were fined. The fines were paid at once. The captured policeman, who was a little battered and bruised, received ten pounds from the students for “sticking-plaster.” The board wisely let off the offenders with a reprimand, and the trouble ended in a grand display of fireworks by the students.
Old Trinity is an imposing structure. Life-size statues of Burke and Goldsmith are placed at either side of the principal entrance. The college grounds cover about thirty acres—a beautiful green spot in the heart of the city. In the centre of the outer quadrangle is a pretty campanile. The provost has a pleasant residence within the college limits. Entry into the grounds is free to all. A chief porter, in a swallow-tailed coat and black-velvet jockey-cap, watches over the principal entrance. The examination-hall, the library, the lecture-rooms, the museum, etc., are each under charge of a special Cerberus in a jockey-cap, who shows you the room or building under his particular charge. Each Cerberus expects a gratuity. He will be very obsequious if he gets what his modesty considers a sufficient douceur, and the reverse if he does not. The new museum building is a fine edifice. The entrance-hall and principal stair-case are remarkable for the splendid specimens of every variety of native marble they contain. The old rooms, where the museum now is, are damp and cheerless. There is an interesting collection of ancient Irish weapons, ornaments, etc. What is said to have been the harp of Brian Boroihme will be pointed out to you by the jockey-capped janitor, who will also inform you that, though the public is admitted, the collection [pg 528] is intended for the use of the students, and not as an exhibition of curiosities.
Lectures, to which the public are admitted free, are given twice a week by the various professors during term-time. I had the pleasure of attending some lectures by Sir Robert Stewart, the professor of music, and one by the professor of ancient history. The latter gentleman handled Mr. Froude in an eminently courteous and scholarly manner, but at the same time most decidedly “without gloves.” His lectures, however, were but poorly attended, while Sir Robert crammed the examination-hall with the taste and fashion of Dublin, from the lady-lieutenant down. All flocked to hear his comparison of the Scotch and Irish bag-pipes, illustrated by performers on these instruments. Lady Spencer, it seems, has taken the Irish bag-pipes under her patronage. Her ladyship seems to be a very amiable and charming person, but as to her taste in musical instruments—well! dêgustibus non.
Trinity College is on the east side of College Green. On the north is the principal façade of the old Parliament House. It was sold to the Bank of Ireland after the Union. The House of Commons is now the teller's office. The principal façade is of the same order. It is grandly simple and impressive. The semi-circular colonnades of Ionic columns produce a noble effect. This building is said to be the finest development of the order among modern structures in Europe. I am inclined to think that this pretension is not without foundation. The dingy appearance of all public buildings in Ireland and throughout the British Islands—the effect of smoke and almost continual rain—detracts greatly from their effect. A porter in livery, with a scarlet waist-coat and a nose to match, shows you the House of Lords. A statue of George III. stands where the throne formerly stood. In all other respects the room remains as it was when Ireland had “a Parliament House of her own.” Tapestries of the Siege of Derry and the Battle of the Boyne are hung on the walls. If you give your red-breasted conductor a sufficient gratuity, he will ask you to “take a chair,” that you may be able to say “you had a seat in the House of Lords.”
One must not leave College Green without paying his compliments to the equestrian statue of William III., which stands nearly opposite the Bank of Ireland. The king is costumed en Romain. The bronze representative of the glorious and pious Dutchman and his charger have suffered severely at the hands of their enemies. The steed's fore-leg, which is raised, as in the act of stepping, has been broken off more than once, and replaced in contempt of proportion. A curious critic has calculated that, if the leg were straightened out, it would prove to be about half a foot longer than the other legs. A gilded wreath on the brows of the statue gives it rather a “gingerbread” appearance.
At the end of College Street is a bronze statue of Thomas Moore. The Dublin critics call it “a gloomy horror that murders the memory” of the poet. The unrivalled songster is enveloped in a long cloak, and holds a tablet and pencil. He seems to be taking an inventory of the cabs and “outsides” that pass his station. The statue reminded me of that of Mr. Lincoln in [pg 529] Union Square. Both have the same weather-beaten, “Ancient Mariner” appearance, even to the trowsers of truly nautical extent. At the end of Westmoreland Street—which is a continuation of College Street—is a statue of William Smith O'Brien, which is quite respectable in design, and does not lack spirit in execution. The artist saw that voluminous trowsers are incompatible with bronze or marble.
Two minutes' walk brings us to the City Hall—formerly the Exchange—situated on Cork Hill. It is a fine building of Portland stone with a Corinthian portico of six lofty columns. It is surmounted by a cupola. In the hall is a statue of Grattan by Chantrey, one of O'Connell by Hogan, of Dr. Lucas by Rontilias, and of the Third George by Van Nost. If you wish to see the Council Chamber—which has nothing more attractive than portraits of the various lord-mayors, O'Connell among the number—a gruff and crusty old porter in blue coat and brass buttons will admit you, moyennant finance. Even an extra obolus will not soften this rough old Cerberus.
We are now close by the Cork Hill entrance to “the Castle.” A figure of Justice, or Fortitude—I really forget which—surmounts the gate, and a private of the Coldstream Guards stands sentry. He will not stop you, as entry is free to all. About eleven in the morning is a good time to visit the castle-yard. At that hour the guard is relieved, and a magnificent military band will delight your ears with most excellent music.
The castle is a rambling structure, situated in a poor quarter of the city. There are two quadrangles: the upper and the lower castle-yard. In the upper are the apartments of the viceroy; in the lower, the offices and the castle chapel. The only portion of the original building now standing is the Record Tower, anciently known as the Ward Tower. Irish prisoners of state were here formerly confined. General Arthur O'Connor, I believe, was the last state prisoner who had to endure its hospitality.
The castle chapel is really a Gothic gem. It is built of Irish limestone and oak. The carving in the interior is exquisite. The windows bear the arms of the various lord-lieutenants in stained glass. The verger—a patriarchal-looking Englishman in a long, gray beard—was very polite and attentive. He looked so “respectable,” so venerable, that we hesitated to offer him a gratuity, lest we might offend him. He soon undeceived us on this point, for he accepted an English shilling; and pocketed it with an expression of thanks. The traveller through the three kingdoms never fails to discover a great many very respectable-looking persons who are not above receiving gratuities of sums from a three-penny piece upwards.