On a cold November night in 1892, likely similar enough to the ones we have been experiencing recently, someone lit a fire: not to stay warm, but to send a message. The fire grew, and soon it consumed Botany Bay and inspired the often drunk, often raucous, and always anti-authority Trinity populace to do battle in a way battle had never been done before on campus.
Trinity students today are known for being agents of liberal progress, whether it be in the face of Israeli genocide, South African Apartheid, or campaigning for abortion or transgender rights. In the 1890s as well, and in this story, the lads (there were no women enrolled back then), made themselves known for fighting against the system. This time, however, it was not about social progress, and there was no great, inspiring revolution. In a time before CCTV cameras and bot-fuelled political division on social media, the residents of Botany Bay had not the courage, but the audacity, to fight for their right to get drunk past curfew: not with words shouted through a megaphone, but with plain old knuckles, knees, and hard knocks. And in the end, proving absolutely nothing in the process, they won.
To properly tell this tale, we will start with the man who started it all, the man who fuelled much of the student ire of that era: George Salmon. It had been 4 years since George Salmon had taken over as a Provost of the College, and Salmon had begun to notice what historian and former Trinity student John Engle called “a growing laxity of college discipline, particularly from undergraduate students”. In the same way that Salmon had bashed Catholicism in periodicals and books published throughout the Isles, it was time again to rap some knuckles.
There was one problem with the Provost’s plan, however. Salmon felt he could not rely on the then Junior Dean Dr Thomas Thompson Gray, who had a reputation with the students as a kind and gentle soul.
In order for Salmon’s campaign against undergraduate unruliness to succeed, he needed someone more willing to let some heads roll than Dr Gray. For the job, he selected Dr George Wilkins, a tried-and-true tyrant and former master of Classics at the High School in Dublin. Wilkins promptly replaced Dr Gray, and wasted no time at all rounding up rabble-rousers from the ranks and punishing them with any and all ways his authority afforded him.
According to Engle, mere hours after Wilkins’ official appointment, he claimed his first victim. A student had stumbled through Front Gate in a drunken stupor long past the then strictly-enforced curfew, and before he could even step foot on the cobbles in the Square he was grabbed by Wilkins by the ear and dragged back to Botany Bay, where the student lived. This was seen by more than a few fellow student residents, fittingly up past curfew themselves.
The students, having heard of Gray’s dismissal already, had no sympathy for the notions of the new Junior Dean, and they descended upon the centre of Botany Bay and surrounded the terrified Wilkins.
Once the unfortunate student was free, another decision was made (or rather, another impulse followed). The posse of undergraduates converged in the centre of Botany Bay, then just an enclosed patch of grass and shrubs, and set bonfires in further protest. Wilkins attempted to return to restore order several times that night, eventually bringing a posse of his own. Nothing worked, and the fires burned through the night.
They burned through the week, actually, day and night. Smoke wafted around campus, reminding Wilkins of his failure, the Provost of his plan, and the students of their power. It eventually became too much for the once feared Wilkins, and he sought a “swift exit from his plight”, according to Engle. Salmon granted Wilkins his resignation, despite the fact that the University Board refused without order first being restored to Botany Bay.
Salmon was now forced to scramble to find a new Dean while the fires still burned. Working from within College to find a replacement, the Provost found his man in Alexander Charles O’Sullivan, a lecturer affectionately known as “Tully” to his students. Tully, along with Anthony Traill, former High Sheriff of Antrim and future successor to George Salmon, rounded up a posse of Trinity staff to go in and take names, violently, if necessary.
In a scene likely reminiscent of the opening scene of Martin Scorsese’s Gangs of New York, the two groups faced each other in a standoff that quickly devolved into a full-scale brawl across the green. Tully and his group went so far as to invade the private quarters of a few students who attempted to flee the commotion (and retribution) inside. In the end, Tully and his posse prevailed against the students and the fires were doused.
While the last of the smoke still trailed away from the charred remains of the centre green of Botany Bay, most students were content that Dr Wilkins was chased off for good. Tully ensured full-order was restored, and stepped down from his position two weeks after the battle.
If you are asking what one can learn from this tale, the answer is simple: not much. The same will be true with each new iteration of this column. However, in a world where so often riotous action is a part of a bigger political issue, and on a university campus where one can be scolded for simply riding a bike or smoking a cigarette outdoors, it is comforting to know that somewhere, at some time or another, a group of students fought tooth and nail for nothing but their fellow student (and the right to drink). Action without a purpose makes its purpose the action itself, and, in the process, we are forced to focus on the doing and not the reason why it is being done in the first place. After all, contending with results is easier than plotting out consequences, and someone had to lay the foundations for one day advocating for a student’s right to a one-night-stand in New Square.
