In the heart of Limerick, where memories linger like the echoes of an old tune, the seasoned souls of the city fondly recall the days when the Theatre Royal in Henry Street was a haven of entertainment. Oh, but there was a time before, when another Theatre Royal graced Cornwallis Street, now known as Lower Gerald Griffin Street, a place built by the hands of Tottenham Heaphy in 1770. Alas, fire claimed its grandeur in 1818.
Then, in 1810, another theatre emerged on George’s Street, now baptized O’Connell Street. Yet, its stage was fleeting, as the Augustinian Fathers claimed it for a higher purpose, transforming it into a sacred space. For a brief span, Limerick remained bereft of Thespian tales until the year 1841, when Joseph Fogerty, with ambition and a plot in Henry Street, raised a new Theatre Royal from the ground. A dwelling for himself and a row of houses in the neighbouring lane, Fogerty’s Range, stood testament to the dreams he wove into the fabric of bricks and mortar.
This one-storey haven, with its entrance proudly centred on Henry Street, boasted a columned portico, a regal gateway to the world of drama. Storms of time took their toll, and the portico yielded to a veranda in later days. The stalls found solace on the left, and around the corner, the gallery greeted its patrons. The parapet flaunted the royal coat of arms, and atop the roof, a louvred ventilator met the heavens, guided by a steadfast weather vane. A snug abode, accommodating 1,300 souls, it claimed the title of Ireland’s largest after Dublin’s Theatre Royal succumbed to flames.
Chalk-sketched classical figures adorned the vestibule, a prelude to the artistic tapestry within. Walls whispered tales with pictures of Thespian legends, including the illustrious Catherine Hayes. Ascending the stairway to the circle, two wooden soldiers, once denizens of Thady Cooney’s Circus, stood sentinel. To the right, the foyer beckoned to the pit, a domain where the floor sloped toward the stage, and wooden forms replaced the padded luxury of the stalls. The circle, encircling above the pit, culminated in stage boxes, while the gods, perched on high, echoed their judgments and applause.
Gaining entry to this theatrical realm, in the era before queues, was a feat of fortitude. Might ruled the day, as one navigated the tumultuous crowd, elbowing and jostling until the coveted entrance was won. A side door attendant lured the cautious with the promise of “Early doors, sixpence extra.” The coin of admission varied: circle, 3/0; stalls, 2/6; pit, 1/1; gallery, 6d.
Before the dawn of electricity, gasaliers suspended from the gallery balcony illuminated the house. The stage, a vast expanse, drew the gaze from every corner, ensuring that no spectator felt far from the magic. The drop screen, a masterpiece by Henry O’Shea, unfolded with Shakespeare at its centre, flanked by allegorical figures of Music, Comedy, and Tragedy. “All the World’s a Stage” adorned the canvas, while a heavy, dark curtain signalled the conclusion of each performance.
The theatre played host to touring companies, journeying from London to Dublin and Cork, bringing operas, comedies, plays, and dramas. Local amateurs, too, graced the stage with productions ranging from comic operas to school entertainments. The theatre resonated with melodies and echoes of renowned voices, from Arthur Rousby’s to Moody Manners, from D’Oyly Carte to Elster-Grime, and the beloved Frank Land. The arrival of John McCormack, a local luminary, stirred the soul, while Madame Clara Butt and Joe O’Mara enraptured audiences with their melodic tales.
Shakespearean spectacles unfolded, featuring luminaries like F.R. Benson, Norman V. Norman, Osmonde Tearle, and Madame Bandom Palmer. Victorian melodramas, particularly “East Lynne,” left indelible imprints on tear-stained faces. Irish dramas, courtesy of Kennedy Millar, stirred patriotic fervour, capturing the essence of “Seamus O’Brien,” “Michael Dwyer,” “Conn, The Shaughraun,” and “The Colleen Bawn.”
In the annual calendar, “Pool’s Myriorama” stood as a captivating event, weaving tales of far-off lands through large canvas pictures and variety turns. Theatrical wonders extended to amateur talent, with the Limerick Operatic Society, Saint Michael’s Temperance Society, and Gaelic League concerts gracing the stage. The “Gods,” ever vigilant critics, offered witty banter and impromptu performances during intervals, transforming the theatre into a lively social hub.
Balls and political meetings shared the stage, with dance floors unveiled beneath removed seats and floorboards for the former and impassioned debates for the latter. The Theatre Royal embraced a spectrum of experiences, from exhilarating performances to heated political discussions, all under its time-worn roof.
Yet, the inevitable march of progress casts its shadow. Films emerged, eclipsing stage productions. Tin cases of film replaced actors and actresses, and the orchestra dwindled to a modest ensemble. The raucous days of “talkies” ushered in the era of silent film comedians—names like “Fatty” Arbuckle, John Bunny, Flora Finch, Ford Sterling, and the incomparable Charlie Chaplin. Buck Jones and Tom Mix, the daredevils of cowboy fame, enthralled the younger generation.
The Fogerty family’s enduring connection with the theatre yielded to English actor George Abel and later to William Shanley. As silent films danced across the screen, the theatre resonated with a different rhythm. On a sombre Monday afternoon in 1922, the lament of “Fire” sounded, and despite valiant efforts, the Theatre Royal succumbed to the flames. The final curtain fell on the old Royal, leaving behind the embers of cherished memories, forever etched in the collective soul of Limerick.
Old Limerick Journal (Vol 3, June 1980)
The Old Theatre Royal By J.F. Walsh
