Harcourt Terrace and Number 1: Dublin’s Quiet Epic
Sun and Stone: The Terrace is Born
In the swirling city of the 1830s, Dublin stood at the meeting of progress and lingering rural beauty. “Dublin, city bright, / With ancient charm and modern light, / Whispers stories old, / Under skies of grey and gold…” Harcourt Terrace was its southern edge—beyond the canal, villas and fields faded into sandy tracks and the ghostly shimmer of Dublin Bay.
Here, Charles Jaspar Joly raised a vision from limestone and brick: “a home for the future; a monument to the family, the city, and the age.” Medallion portraits of his children adorned the façades; Ionic porches greeted the morning sun. Number 1, corner-sited and bold, watched over the city’s transformations from its deep stone steps and elliptical-headed windows, its boundaries marked by the same thick hedge—still as old as the house itself.
The hedge surrounding Number 1, with ancient roots weaving through the granite plinth, has shielded the house for close to two centuries: “a living fence, green heirloom, nature’s protection—witness to the laughter of children, the steps of revolutionaries, and the voices of boarders greeting sunrise…” In records and recollections, the hedge featured in many stories: local boys crafting whistles from branches, a stray fox denning in its depths, a place where generations leaned and lingered.
The Street: A Gated Eden
Early maps reveal Harcourt Terrace as a gated street—its ornate iron portals closed each evening, only residents and visitors admitted after dusk. A row of lime trees once flourished up the center, creating a tranquil mall recalled by those who wandered beneath their shade: “The avenue was peace itself, the children played while sunbeams danced in the lime, and the laughter of maidens rang with the singing of birds…”
Grand gardens unfurled behind the houses, filled with rare flowers and shrubs, the terraces laid out with bowers and benches for contemplation and gentle conversation. Number 1’s hedge was a local landmark—thicker, lusher, with deep roots entwining the lore of the land and the history of those who called it home.
Movements, Muses, and Melancholy
As Dublin grew, Number 1 became a kind of quiet refuge: “Within these walls, all manner of souls found home—teacher and scholar, artist and agitator, widow and child, all together within the city’s embrace…”. Census rolls record names: Henry Barton, Rebecca Browne, Christina Hoey, Mary Jones; they managed the boarders, cooked for the aged, and kept the ledgers of city charities.
Memoirs remember a Christmas dinner shared among paupers and poets: “A small young man, lost in a huge overcoat, gave me a bunch of flowers. Although badly off, my mother wanted to share anything with a lonely student, far from home…”
Number 1’s rooms echoed with the music of Irish harps and the laughter of country children come to the city for a new life, dreaming under Sarsfield windows, as “sunlight kissed St Stephen’s Green…”
Sarah Purser’s studio at No. 11 was a beacon for artists—her second Tuesday soirées gathering Yeats, Maud Gonne, nationalists, feminists, and playwrights. Michael MacLiammoir and Hilton Edwards, doyens of Dublin’s theatre, held salon nights at No. 4, their home filled with “the smell of oil paint, the sound of rehearsal, the thrill of debate well past midnight.”
Revolution and Sanctuary
As Ireland pulsed with unrest, the terrace gave quiet shelter. Countess Markievicz hosted meetings and plotted social change; Michael Collins hid here, the boards and plaster muffling the hurried footsteps of freedom seekers, “their every whisper a plea for dawn and peace.”
One poem, “No moon slides over Harcourt Terrace. / The canal is black. / The barracks silent…” written by a resident in 1916, marks the tone of those years—when revolution brewed in drawing rooms and in the hearts of boarders hoping for a different world.
President Patrick Hillery spent his earliest student days at Number 1, sketching a larger destiny in books and letters, filling quiet evenings with thoughts of Ireland’s future.
Hedge and Heartbeat
The thick old hedge—its roots undisturbed by development, drought, or folly—frames the story. “There’s no other place in Dublin where a hedge can tell the tale of two centuries, green and secretive, shading lovers and rebels, giving refuge to sparrows and families alike…”
The Rosses and a Long Vigil
Eileen and Rico Ross, while resident at Number 8, have their story braided deep with Harcourt Terrace: their charitable activism, community gardening, and tireless campaigns saved the terrace from decay and erasure. Eileen welcomed each new resident, fostered education and preservation, celebrated Irish culture with her pottery and science, and chronicled the street’s evolution in local and national memory.
Their work with heritage and community projects strengthened the avenue’s standing as “not a museum, but a living, breathing thing—a city’s memory, open to the air.” From council meetings to high court cases, in measured diplomacy and passionate defense, the Rosses kept Harcourt Terrace whole, for all who came after.
Festivities and Occasions
The gardens of the terrace saw legendary gatherings: archaeological evenings, recitals, even a dramatic performance of “Deirdre” in George Coffey’s garden—locally celebrated as a “night of moonlight, myth, and music…”. Birthdays, weddings, charitable fêtes, and heritage tours filled the records and reminiscences, with Number 1 always at the heart—a place where stories began, romances blossomed, and the city’s pulse could be felt.
Dublin’s Shifting Spirit
“In Dublin’s heart, the Liffey flows, / A silver thread through ancient stone, / It hums a tune only Dublin knows, / Weaving tales in its undertone…” Harcourt Terrace, with its unique mixture of architectural splendor and lived experience, stands as the quiet epic of a city—born of vision, sustained by generosity, and secured by activism and love.
Its thick ancient hedge, the last witness to every era, bears silent testimony to the days when lime trees adorned the avenue, gates stood as sentinels to privilege and peace, and the houses kept memories safe inside stone and glass. Today, Number 1 welcomes new guests into old stories—its heart open, its history alive, its hedge old as hope itself.
This chronicle draws from memoirs, poems, historic records, and city archives to weave a full account of Number 1 and its terrace through nearly two centuries of Dublin’s change, culture, and enduring spirit.
Sun and Stone: The Terrace is Born
In the swirling city of the 1830s, Dublin stood at the meeting of progress and lingering rural beauty. “Dublin, city bright, / With ancient charm and modern light, / Whispers stories old, / Under skies of grey and gold…” Harcourt Terrace was its southern edge—beyond the canal, villas and fields faded into sandy tracks and the ghostly shimmer of Dublin Bay.
Here, Charles Jaspar Joly raised a vision from limestone and brick: “a home for the future; a monument to the family, the city, and the age.” Medallion portraits of his children adorned the façades; Ionic porches greeted the morning sun. Number 1, corner-sited and bold, watched over the city’s transformations from its deep stone steps and elliptical-headed windows, its boundaries marked by the same thick hedge—still as old as the house itself.
The hedge surrounding Number 1, with ancient roots weaving through the granite plinth, has shielded the house for close to two centuries: “a living fence, green heirloom, nature’s protection—witness to the laughter of children, the steps of revolutionaries, and the voices of boarders greeting sunrise…” In records and recollections, the hedge featured in many stories: local boys crafting whistles from branches, a stray fox denning in its depths, a place where generations leaned and lingered.
The Street: A Gated Eden
Early maps reveal Harcourt Terrace as a gated street—its ornate iron portals closed each evening, only residents and visitors admitted after dusk. A row of lime trees once flourished up the center, creating a tranquil mall recalled by those who wandered beneath their shade: “The avenue was peace itself, the children played while sunbeams danced in the lime, and the laughter of maidens rang with the singing of birds…”
Grand gardens unfurled behind the houses, filled with rare flowers and shrubs, the terraces laid out with bowers and benches for contemplation and gentle conversation. Number 1’s hedge was a local landmark—thicker, lusher, with deep roots entwining the lore of the land and the history of those who called it home.
Movements, Muses, and Melancholy
As Dublin grew, Number 1 became a kind of quiet refuge: “Within these walls, all manner of souls found home—teacher and scholar, artist and agitator, widow and child, all together within the city’s embrace…”. Census rolls record names: Henry Barton, Rebecca Browne, Christina Hoey, Mary Jones; they managed the boarders, cooked for the aged, and kept the ledgers of city charities.
Memoirs remember a Christmas dinner shared among paupers and poets: “A small young man, lost in a huge overcoat, gave me a bunch of flowers. Although badly off, my mother wanted to share anything with a lonely student, far from home…”
Number 1’s rooms echoed with the music of Irish harps and the laughter of country children come to the city for a new life, dreaming under Sarsfield windows, as “sunlight kissed St Stephen’s Green…”
Sarah Purser’s studio at No. 11 was a beacon for artists—her second Tuesday soirées gathering Yeats, Maud Gonne, nationalists, feminists, and playwrights. Michael MacLiammoir and Hilton Edwards, doyens of Dublin’s theatre, held salon nights at No. 4, their home filled with “the smell of oil paint, the sound of rehearsal, the thrill of debate well past midnight.”
Revolution and Sanctuary
As Ireland pulsed with unrest, the terrace gave quiet shelter. Countess Markievicz hosted meetings and plotted social change; Michael Collins hid here, the boards and plaster muffling the hurried footsteps of freedom seekers, “their every whisper a plea for dawn and peace.”
One poem, “No moon slides over Harcourt Terrace. / The canal is black. / The barracks silent…” written by a resident in 1916, marks the tone of those years—when revolution brewed in drawing rooms and in the hearts of boarders hoping for a different world.
President Patrick Hillery spent his earliest student days at Number 1, sketching a larger destiny in books and letters, filling quiet evenings with thoughts of Ireland’s future.
Hedge and Heartbeat
The thick old hedge—its roots undisturbed by development, drought, or folly—frames the story. “There’s no other place in Dublin where a hedge can tell the tale of two centuries, green and secretive, shading lovers and rebels, giving refuge to sparrows and families alike…”
The Rosses and a Long Vigil
Eileen and Rico Ross, while resident at Number 8, have their story braided deep with Harcourt Terrace: their charitable activism, community gardening, and tireless campaigns saved the terrace from decay and erasure. Eileen welcomed each new resident, fostered education and preservation, celebrated Irish culture with her pottery and science, and chronicled the street’s evolution in local and national memory.
Their work with heritage and community projects strengthened the avenue’s standing as “not a museum, but a living, breathing thing—a city’s memory, open to the air.” From council meetings to high court cases, in measured diplomacy and passionate defense, the Rosses kept Harcourt Terrace whole, for all who came after.
Festivities and Occasions
The gardens of the terrace saw legendary gatherings: archaeological evenings, recitals, even a dramatic performance of “Deirdre” in George Coffey’s garden—locally celebrated as a “night of moonlight, myth, and music…”. Birthdays, weddings, charitable fêtes, and heritage tours filled the records and reminiscences, with Number 1 always at the heart—a place where stories began, romances blossomed, and the city’s pulse could be felt.
Dublin’s Shifting Spirit
“In Dublin’s heart, the Liffey flows, / A silver thread through ancient stone, / It hums a tune only Dublin knows, / Weaving tales in its undertone…” Harcourt Terrace, with its unique mixture of architectural splendor and lived experience, stands as the quiet epic of a city—born of vision, sustained by generosity, and secured by activism and love.
Its thick ancient hedge, the last witness to every era, bears silent testimony to the days when lime trees adorned the avenue, gates stood as sentinels to privilege and peace, and the houses kept memories safe inside stone and glass. Today, Number 1 welcomes new guests into old stories—its heart open, its history alive, its hedge old as hope itself.
This chronicle draws from memoirs, poems, historic records, and city archives to weave a full account of Number 1 and its terrace through nearly two centuries of Dublin’s change, culture, and enduring spirit.
