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Down the avenues and alleyways of the old Belfast town
By Joe Baker
Joe continues his journey back into Belfast of the early 19th century
Click to view old photo of High Street from postcardworld.co.uk
Over the past few weeks we have been exploring how old Belfast looked through the writings of a man named John Smyth who was writing about his early memories at the turn of the last century.
In last week’s article he left off at Waring Street and took us to the corner of Bridge Street.
Before turning the corner the eye instinctively glances up Rosemary Street and there was to be seen in these good old days the extensive woollen warehouse of William Johnston.
It occupied the entire upper portion of the block of buildings extending from Bridge Street Place to the establishment of Messers McHugh; and when the firm moved to Donegall Street, under the title of Johnston & Halliday, it was one of the largest and most respectable in the trade in Ireland.
Farther up on the opposite side, but invisible from Bridge Street was the Presbyterian Meeting House known as Killburn’s Church. You can catch a slight glimpse of the railings in front of it, but the building itself occupies a recess, and is somewhat removed from the public gaze. A similar feature is observable in all the old Presbyterian Churches of Belfast; and do the folk who worship there know the reason? The sect was not given to mock modesty in 1800. On the contrary, it was a spirited, turbulent independent body, chaffing under restraints, real and imaginary, and moved with a restless spirit which aimed at objects beyond its reach. If that old church, the premier one of Presbyterianism in Belfast is now obscured by houses.
Times are greatly changed; all these things and many more of a similar character are forgotten, not through charity, I fear, which would be a very laudable proceeding, but from motives which that old Dr Killburn would not much have appreciated. He had a soul about servitude and above fear, as he showed on that terrible day, to which I will hereafter have to allude when the infuriated troopers of Barber wrecked the houses of all the inhabitants obnoxious to the government, and threatened the church.
The old man, nothing daunted, mounted the pulpit, gun in hand, and conducted with the utmost calmness and imperturbability, the service to the end. Prepared to defend himself, and die at his post if necessary, he bade defiance to despotism, which it shrank from accepting. Peace be to his ashes! He has left no successor behind him, and different tones come now from the pulpit which he so often filled and always adored.
But we must pass into Bridge Street and enter on a different train of thought and observation. The most remarkable house in this little thoroughfare was one whose uses, like its substance, have long passed away – I allude to the Discount Office, situated in Walkers Entry. In these times that magnificent institution for convenience, or inconvenience, as the case may be, a bank was unknown in Belfast. Notes, even those of the Bank of Ireland, were not legal tender, and all payments were made in silver or gold. It is easy to imagine the confusion which this state of things caused in a mercantile community.
How was gold to be obtained? How were payments to be made to parties at a distance? It was managed in this way: In Bridge Street there lived a Mrs Callwell, a respectable widow lady who kept a haberdashery shop, and had the pride and honour of rearing a family of three sons and three daughters, whose names are prominently associated with the progress of Belfast since that period. One of the daughters was married to Magee, the stationer, who lived on the opposite side of the street and was a man of well earned influence in these times. He was brother to the man who founded the Dublin Evening Post and in whose defence O’Connell delivered that magnificent speech on which rests his fame as the Irish Demosthenes.
Another daughter was married to Langtry, an extensive shipowner and merchant, and the man who had the honour of bringing into Belfast Lough the first steamer that ever disturbed its tranquil waters. The third daughter was married to Thompson, the linen merchant, to whose energy and enterprise the west side of Donegall Square owes its existence. Of the sons Robert served his times in Magee’s and afterwards transacted business there, which mainly consisted in obliging his customers with gold for notes, at the then current rate of 10%. The business increased and the transactions extended from notes to bills. The Discount Office was then opened, and all safe paper was negotiated at a uniform rate of 9%.
As we pass on from the Discount Office to High Street we come upon Martin’s establishment. A handsome man was Mr Martin who rode a splendid charger and had a high haughty manner with him. Yet such is the fate of greatness. He awoke one morning and found himself unenviable famous. Having inserted in one of the local papers a characteristic advertisement, which gave pre-eminence to his goods, he sternly disarmed criticism by appending to it the epigrammatic declaration “Martin Never Puffs”. The assertion tickled the fancy of the wags and the following morning, which happened to be Sunday, all the shutters in High Street and Bridge Street bore in chalk the dignified phrase, which thenceforth degenerated into cant, and the lordly equestrian passed the remainder of his days under the title of “Puff Martin.” Here I cannot omit a passing notice of Smith’s drapery establishment (Bridge Street then was the street of drapery) owned by the editor of the Northern Star.
When Robb, its first editor, was obliged to fly the country to escape the grasp of the government, and no one could be found courageous enough to take his vacant post. Mr Smith, who was brother-in-law to the exile, left his desk and boldly assumed the editorial chair
Nearly opposite Smith’s lived another merchant of whom tradition had some pleasant tales and who was of a different stamp of character to the amateur conductor of Northern Star. I allude to Willy Wallace not altogether lost to memory or fame.
Wallace was a wealthy man of rough and ready manners, indifferent to forms, but keenly alive to business, in which he prospered. Fortune, whom he never courted, invariably smiled on him, for it is characteristic of this dame that she will despise her. On one occasion Mr Wallace desired his clerk to order a wheen of black buttons from a leading London house. The clerk suggested that the literature of the order might not be readily comprehended beyond the channel, but Mr Wallace, who had faith in his own language, scorned to amend it, and it was sent in his expressive vernacular. The ignorant Cockneys who received it were puzzled to reduce it to any known standard of quantity, and after much cogitation and a reference to two interpreters and one expert they came to the sapient conclusion that the mystic word had an indefinite meaning and they acted accordingly. As Mr Wallace was a wealthy and honourable man they had the less hesitation in giving vent to this speculation, and so they packed up all the black buttons that could be got in London and dispatched them to their customer in Belfast.
Mr Wallace’s surprise was considerable when he received the extensive cargo. Amazement was succeeded by alarm, for he had buttons enough for a kingdom, and visions of bankruptcy floated before his mind. But just as his brain was busy in Bridge Street resolving plans for his extrication, a friend of his and humanity at large called Death was busy in London and struck down for his hungry feast a fat Royal buck. The Court went into mourning, black buttons came into sudden demand and rose enormously in price, and Mr Wallace conferred a benefit on society and a service to himself by reshipping at a remarkable comfortable profit the ‘wheen’ of trifles, which entailed on him no other loss than that of six solid meals and two nights sound sleep.
The only name remaining in Bridge Street which belongs to these old days is the honoured one of Patterson. The house standing at the corner has been rebuilt, but the old establishment was worthy of the locality and its companions. As I pass it now and look back beyond a generation, the changes that have taken place become more and more striking. In this particular instance, however, there is but little change, for I see reflected in the present occupant of ‘Pattersons Corner’ the integrity, honour, and intelligence of a family not unworthy of its old position and alliances.
Standing at this corner, High Street opens upon us – not as it is now – but with the unbroken range of ordinary two and three storey houses, invariably set off by the projecting bow windows in front.
It terminated at its eastern extremity at Prince’s Street, where the old quay wall bounded it. On the left, looking towards the river, Mr Girdwood’s carpet warehouse and Mr McGee’s clothing establishments stood. Farther down on the same side were J. Cunningham’s spirit stores – best of cellars for that most glorious of liquors, Antigua Rum! What celebrity that rum had in its day.
Dunville, Jamieson, Coleraine, widely as they are known, never attained such fame, and I venture to say no votary of these beverages, good as they are, can conceive the devotion paid to the pleasant and deceptive juice of the cane. At the corner of Church Lane was another spirit store kept by a Mr Donnellan, who was one of the few Catholics then resident in Belfast. In the early part of the 1800’s you could have counted the Catholics on your fingers. Passing by Reid & Calvert’s, the great linen, muslin and cotton yarn merchants, we come to Pottinger’s Entry, called after the family of that name.
Here was McMullan’s tavern, devoted to fun and frolic, and boisterousness, in which the Belfast bucks had their club, and in which they revelled, and drank, and played such antics as need not be told in these times. The club was a facetious one, and its members were not very particular as to what they might either say or do. A prank on a waiter was acceptable and one day when the much chaffed James Hebe, in apron and small clothes, had deposited a relay of liquor on the table, the door was suddenly locked, a tumbler filled with wine was placed in his hand, and he was ordered, on pain of being thrown through the window, to give the most blackguard toast he knew or could invent.
Remonstrance’s and entreaties were in vain, the door was locked and the window was open, the full tumbler was in his hand to the prescribed sentiment. He was in a state not to be envied, but in the midst of his trepidation and the exultation of his torturers, he claimed silence and said, “Well, if I must drink the most blackguard toast I know of, here’s to your health.” It is needless to say the door was opened and James escaped to the cellar with whole bones.
• NEXT WEEK
WHEN MEN WERE HANGED IN HIGH STREET
