One Irish Summer

by William Eleroy Curtis

The main building is a fine example of architecture, and the house of the provost, which adjoins it, is a gem of the Elizabethan type. The other buildings are unpretentious. They are rather low and long and plain, in excellent proportions, but without particular individuality, although the engineering building, which stands out on the campus, is an exquisite example of modern architecture, and Ruskin pronounced it the most beautiful modern structure in the United Kingdom.

As you enter through a low archway under the main building you come into a quadrangle formed by a dormitory and an examination hall at the right. Beyond that is a library. Another dormitory stands on the left, and the chapel and the dining-hall (the last two have Grecian porticos), and directly before you a bell tower of beautiful and original design erected about one hundred years ago. Beyond the first quadrangle is another, which is gloomy and uninviting. The buildings are plain, and the dark stone of which they are made is not cheerful. The students call it “Botany Bay,” because of the prison-like style of the architecture and its uninviting appearance. The buildings surrounding it are dormitories, and in one of them, No. 11, Oliver Goldsmith roomed. He wrote his autograph with a diamond upon one of the panes of glass, which has since been removed and preserved in the library, where it lies in a case beside the original manuscript of Handel’s oratorio, “The Messiah,” which was given there for the first time in 1745. A portion of it was written in England, but it was completed in Dublin and sung by a Dublin choral society immediately after.

In “Botany Bay” is a pump of great age and much history. In early days it was the focus of academic disorder, and any policeman, sheriff, or bailiff who dared violate the sacred precincts of Trinity was purged of his guilt by a thorough ducking. The origin of this form of punishment is attributed to a famous Dr. Wilder, who for many years was provost of the college. He happened to be crossing the campus one day, when a bailiff, who had a writ to serve, was being baited by a group of students, and called out to them something like this: “Young gentlemen, be careful that you do not put him under the pump,” and they took the hint.

Quadrangle, Trinity College, Dublin

Another version of the story is that Dr. Wilder cried out, “Young gentlemen, for the love of God don’t be so cruel as to nail his ears to the pump;” and certain authors have claimed that they interpreted him to mean the reverse, and did what he had forbidden them. But I am assured by competent authority that the former and more humane version is the true one, and all agree that ever since those boisterous days every officer of the law who has been caught within the college grounds has been given an involuntary bath from “Old Mary.”

The war between the students and the police has continued ever since the foundation of the college, and as the buildings are situated in the very center of the city these conflicts have been unexpected and more frequent than they might have been otherwise. In former days “Trinity boys” never went out of the grounds without their peculiar weapons, which were the massive keys of their rooms, about six inches long and weighing a half a pound or more, which they would sling in handkerchiefs or in the skirts of their gowns and use very effectively for offense or defense, as the case might be. On one occasion several students were captured and hustled off from their fellows to a butcher-shop, where they were hung from the meat hooks. The rumor ran like a prairie fire that the captives had been impaled, but when the rescuing party arrived it was discovered that they were hanging only by the waistbands of their breeches.

The walls of Examination Hall are hung with portraits of eminent men, and in one corner is a full-length painting of Queen Elizabeth, the founder. There is a superstition among the students that the picture has an evil eye, and that whoever sits within her sphere of influence at examinations is bound to fail. Hence the benches in that neighborhood are empty. But a certain alcove in the library is quite crowded. Several full sets of examination papers are preserved from year to year in that particular alcove, and every day during examination weeks it is filled with students cramming from them.

Across the quadrangle is the chapel. It is not specially interesting, although there is some fine wood-carving in the stalls. The students are required to wear surplices, and look very awkward in them, although the white gowns light up the room and make it much more cheerful than if they wore black. When I attended service Sunday morning two-thirds of the stalls were vacant, although attendance is supposed to be compulsory. I counted exactly one hundred and four persons present, including the preacher, the professors, and ten boys in the choir. These boys belong to the choir of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and are loaned to the college authorities in order to increase the interest of the Sunday services. It is considered the finest choir in Ireland, but that isn’t saying much.