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Narrative of a residence in Ireland during the Summer of 1814, and that of 1815 (Author: Anne Plumptre)

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Visit to Ravenswell — The Dargle — Mr. Grattans Seat at Tinnahinch. — Lord Powerscourt's Seat at Powerscourt — Unfortunate End of the Duke of Dorset — The Waterfall at Powerscourt — The Hermitage — The Glen of the Downs — Mr. Latouche's House at Belle-Vue — Village of DelgenyBray-Head — Great Sandbank — Mr. Weld Hartstonge — Mr. Henry Mason — Origin of My Pocket-Book.

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On the renewal of my acquaintance with Mr. Weld, (as mentioned at the beginning of the fourth chapter,) he very obligingly invited me to visit him at Ravenswell, a house he had lately purchased near Bray, when he would introduce me to his wife and one of his sisters. Thither I accordingly went on the 6th of August, the latter lady, Mrs. Cuthbert, a most delightful woman, the wife of a barrister then absent on the circuit, carrying me over; and here I passed four days most agreeably. I found Mrs. Weld a very sweet and pleasing woman, every way worthy of her husband and his sister.

Ravenswell is but just out of the town of Bray. It stands very pleasantly, not more than a furlong from the sea, the space between being occupied by a little paddock. The house is a very good one, the gardens and grounds very pretty, and the country about abounding with beauty. Here I first learned to understand how much milder the climate of Ireland must be in winter than that of England. In Mr. Weld's gardens the Hydrangea and the Fuchsia coccinea were growing in the open ground, in a much more thriving and luxuriant manner than in the conservatories, where they are always kept in England. Surprised at what I saw, I inquired whether any means were taken to protect them in the winter, and was answered, — None at all, they were not even matted over. I afterwards saw many other instances of these plants thus growing in shrubberies, as healthy and flourishing as if they were natives of the soil. The Hydrangeas were even large spreading shrubs.

The Dargle, the name of which is well known to every body who knows any


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thing about Ireland, is not more than a mile from Ravenswell. It is a spot well deserving all the celebrity it has acquired. At the bottom of a deep glen runs a stream, which having a channel broken with blocks of stone, the water rushing and foaming over them charms alike the eye and the ear. The steep banks on each side are clothed with beautiful woods; the branches in some places meeting and entwining with each other, form lovely green arches over the water. Among the woods wind the most enchanting walks, sometimes carried down to the very edge of the water, sometimes rising to a great height above it. In one place is a vast rock which towers abruptly from the stream to a great elevation; this has the name of the Lovers' Leap; — to how many rocks in the world has the unhappy fate of poor Sappho furnished a name! — About half-way in the glen the stream has a considerable fall down the rocks, at the foot of which it expands to a sort of basin, the woods forming a little amphitheatre round it: in this lovely spot is placed a pretty little mossy hermitage, and in different parts about the woods are several other similar rustic and sequestered bowers.

The name of the Dargle is differently derived. Some will have it to be the Dark-glen, others contend for the Darra-glen; — Darra signifying an oak in the Irish language, and oaks being the trees of which the woods are principally composed. This dell is more than a mile in length. A little way beyond the end of it is Tinnahinch, the beautiful seat of Mr. Grattan. One side of the Dargle is the property of this gentleman; the other belongs to Lord Powerscourt. The latter is the side most frequented. On Mr. Grattan's side, at the summit of the rocks, in a very beautiful spot, is a sweet little rustic cottage built by Mrs. Grattan. Here, while she was in health, parties to dinner or to tea were frequently made by her, the better to furnish her friends with an opportunity of enjoying this delightful retreat. Unfortunately she has fallen into ill health, is become almost a cripple, the parties have ceased, and the cottage has fallen very much to decay. Both the proprietors of the Dargle, with true liberality, with the true spirit of gentlemen, allow the public free access to this demesne, and parties are often made in the summer to dine in the woods, the visitors bringing a cold dinner with them. On Sundays in particular, if the weather be fine, the place is often full of these parties, many of them coming even from Dublin, though a distance of eleven miles. From Lord Powerscourt's side of the Dargle the conical heads of the two mountains called the Sugarloaves


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are seen rising just above the trees on the other side, looking as if directly behind them, though they are in fact at a considerable distance.

Another object of universal admiration in this quarter is Powerscourt, the beautiful seat of Lord Powerscourt. The house is a handsome modern edifice, delightfully situated, commanding a fine prospect every way. The ceiling of the hall by which it is entered is singular and whimsical; it is divided into small square compartments, each square having round it a cornice of shells in stucco. One cannot help immediately thinking of the Ossianic heroes banqueting in their hall of shells. Upstairs there is a handsome saloon and suite of apartments, but upon the whole the house has nothing in it very remarkable. It was while hunting with Lord Powerscourt that the young Duke of Dorset came to his unfortunate end. He took a leap over a low stone fence, not aware that on the other side was a pit; he and his horse fell together, and when taken up he was wholly senseless; he was brought alive to Powerscourt-house, but expired in less than an hour. A messenger was sent off at the moment of the accident to Lord Whitworth and the Duchess, but long before they could reach Powerscourt all was over. Lord Powerscourt was so deeply affected with this catastrophe, that he immediately disposed of his hounds and has never hunted since.

The most remarkable feature of the demesne is the celebrated waterfall. It is not in the grounds immediately surrounding the house, but at some distance from it, I think five miles, in the heart of a mass of wild and romantic mountains. At the foot of a pretty considerable descent, after passing through a gate, a shallow stream running over broken blocks of stone is crossed, and a valley is entered through which this stream winds, still over the same rocky bottom. One side of the stream is occupied by Lord Powerscourt's deer-park, which lies on a considerable but not very steep acclivity and abounds with fine oak-trees. This part is forbidden ground; the other side of the stream is open to every one who chooses to visit the waterfall, and a road runs along the valley quite up to it. But a much more advantageous distant view of the fall is to be obtained on the deer-park side of the river: and desire to have the best possible view of it being a more powerful feeling with our party than fear of wetting our shoes, we made no hesitation to commit a little trespass, trusting that the recording angel would not enrol it in the great book, under the head of heavy sins,


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but only under that of minor peccadilloes: — in this confidence we quitted our car, and sent that on to the fall, while we very successfully, assisted by the fragments of stone, waded through the stream, almost without the forfeiture of wet shoes, and pursued our route along the forbidden side; I believe, like true descendants of Eve, enjoying our walk the more for its being taken in opposition to the imposed taboo.

Indeed the spectacle presented as we advanced along the valley was truly enchanting. Of a different nature from the Dargle, there is some extent of pasture on each side the stream before the slopes begin to rise. At length the valley expands into a beautiful amphitheatre surrounded by the wooded slopes, in the centre of which is the waterfall, rushing profusely down an almost perpendicular rock from a very great height, said to be three hundred feet. Nor do I believe this an exaggerated estimate, including the whole height that the water descends; but the whole cannot be seen looking from the valley below. The stream by which it is fed comes from a small plain above among the heights of the mountains, and after meandering through this plain it falls into a very narrow thickly wooded little dell, where running a short distance it then rushes down the great cascade. At this time I only saw it from the valley: it is possible to climb from thence to the head of the cascade; but the rocks are very steep, the ascent very slippery, and petticoats are ugly troublesome things in climbing, — so we did not attempt the adventure: in an excursion, however, the following year to another part, going over the high grounds at the top of these mountains I was gratified with a sight of it.

After falling a considerable way almost perpendicularly, it comes to a number of broken masses of rock, among which it dashes and bounds till it terminates finally in the little stream below. Another stream coming from a dell which branches off from the principal valley joins the cascade stream at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, when both together form the rivulet we had waded through. It appears very astonishing, nay even incomprehensible, when one stands contemplating an object of this kind, how that body of water constantly rushing down with such astonishing velocity can be supplied, and one almost expects at every moment that the great jug above must be emptied and the pouring out of the water cease. If this be the sensation at the humble fall of Powerscourt, what must be felt at beholding the Falls of Niagara? I


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know not whether it be possible to compute the quantity of water that pours clown here at every minute; but considering the steepness of the descent, and the consequent velocity with which the water rushes, it must be prodigious. The summer had been rather a wet one, so that there was plenty of water, though at a time of year when it often fails. Altogether this is a truly enchanting spot. Another place to which my kind host at Ravenswell carried me was the Hermitage, a beautiful but now deserted spot, the owner, who married a daughter of Mr. Grattan's, having removed to Altidore, a seat lately purchased by him in the neighbourhood. At the Hermitage is a beautiful dell in the style of the Dargle, but not near its length, having high wooded slopes on each side, a streamlet in the bottom, and pretty walks ascending and descending among the woods. The rocks here are a schist coloured by chlorite, and richly veined with quartz. We returned by the Glen of the Downs, another dell of the same kind, through which runs the new mail-coach road from Dublin to Wicklow and Wexford. In this glen the road lies directly at the foot of the slope on one side. Down this slope a few days before an immense mass of stone had rolled from the summit to the bottom, where it was then lying. On its course it swept down every thing that lay in its way, leaving the track by which it descended as distinctly marked as if a road had been cut through the thicket. The other side of the glen is a part of the grounds of Peter Latouche, Esq.; a little lawn, shrubbery, and rivulet course the foot of the slope, and along the slope are beautiful plantations. Just at the mouth of the glen a road turns off to the village of Delgeny; and above this road, at a considerable height, stands Belle Vue, Mr. Latouche's house, in a situation which renders it truly worthy the name it bears. Few people with the means of Mr. and Mrs. Latouche have the same spirit of employing their wealth in diffusing happiness around them. They are alike distinguished for hospitality to their equals and liberality to their dependants. The village of Delgeny, the parish in which Belle Vue stands, is prettily situated upon the slope of a hill; there is a neat new church built by Mr. Latouche, and a school maintained by Mrs. Latouche. The children educated there sing at the church on a Sunday, and people in the neighbourhood come thither very much to hear them.

The road from hence to Bray by the coast is very pretty: the latter part


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skirts along the land side of Bray-head; a stupendous height, rising by degrees almost to a ridge, which runs out into the sea, forming a bold and majestic promontory: it is seen by vessels at a great distance. The rocks here are a very close-grained limestone, of various shades of gray. Bray is a neat little town, standing prettily upon the shore, and having the stream from the Dargle running at its foot. This, after pursuing its course some way over a wide, shallow, pebbly channel, here empties itself into the sea. It is celebrated for fine trout. Off this part of the coast, some way out at sea, is a great sandbank, where a vessel is always moored, as at the Goodwin Sands off the Kentish coast, with lights at night. Some pretty pebbles are occasionally found here, and plenty of weed; but I saw no shells, and no corallines except two small pieces of the sickle. The counties of Dublin and Wicklow are divided by the river; so that while Bray is in the latter county, Ravenswell is in the former.

Mr. Weld has here a very beautiful table of the yew-tree wood, which is occasionally found in the bogs. A striking and remarkable feature of the bogs of Ireland, is the quantity of wood dug up from them at a great depth below the surface. Whole trunks of trees are found, which must have lain there, probably for centuries; but far from having any appearance of decay, the wood acquires additional hardness from being thus submerged. It also becomes of a very dark hue: the oak, in particular, will sometimes be turned nearly as black as ebony, and will bear an equal polish. This and fir are the principal woods dug up, but others are occasionally found, — yew among them. The table I saw at Ravenswell was turned nearly as dark as old mahogany, retaining all the beautiful veining of the wood with the utmost distinctness, and having as fine a polish as could be given to the finest mahogany.

On the road between Dublin and Bray stands a house, now a gentleman's seat, which having been formerly an inn was placed almost at the road-side. In its converted state the front has been turned away from the road, and a wall is run up behind, not many feet from the house, between that and the road, which wall is continued to the end of the grounds, with agate of entrance more than a furlong from the house. An English gentleman was walking by this place in company with an Irish one, while the people were at work making the gate of entrance; when the former said that he had heard much of the


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quaintness of the lower orders among the Irish, but though he had been some time in the country, he had not met with any traits of it. "You shall not be long without one," said the Irish gentleman; and going up to the men at work at the gateway, he said, "What are you doing there, my friends?" — "Plase your honour," answered one with a significant nod of his head towards the house, "making an entrance to that house." "What, to that house yonder?" said the Englishman. "Yes," replied the man, taking off his hat, and bowing respectfully towards the house, "to that very house."

In the hospitable mansion at Ravenswell I met two poets of the country, Mr. Weld Hartstonge, a relation of my hosts, and Mr. Henry Monk Mason — brother to Mr. William Monk Mason, whom I have already had occasion to mention. The former is the author of a poem entitled Marion of Drymnagh, a tale of Erin, written in imitation of the style and manner of Walter Scott, with whom the author is in habits of intimacy. It is founded on a legendary tradition annexed to Drymnagh castle, formerly the seat of the ancient family of Barnewall, viscounts of Kingsland and barons of Trimletston, now the property of the Marquis of Lansdown. The castle is a venerable remnant of antiquity, standing in a romantic spot not more than three miles west of Dublin. The legend on which the poem is founded has its origin in the Crusades; and that prince of crusaders, Richard Coeur de Lion, occupies a conspicuous place in it. From this circumstance the author takes occasion to mention in a note a derivation of the name of Plantagenet, which from its excessive whimsicalness, and to show how some persons will run all lengths after a derivation, deserves notice. It is this: The first Earl of Anjou, who bore the name, having been stung with remorse for some wicked action which he had committed, in atonement of his offence undertook a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Here, as a part of his penance, he caused himself to be plentifully scourged with twigs of the broom-plant (genista), and thence he afterwards assumed the name of Plantagenet (broom-plant), which was ever after borne by his royal successors8.


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Mr. Henry Monk Mason has also directed his poetical talents to the legends of his country: his poem refers to St. Kevin, a saint of whom we shall have occasion hereafter to make much more ample mention when we come to speak of the valley of Glendaloch and the remains of the seven churches there. Of these Mr. Mason has treated somewhat at large in the notes to his poem.

It was at the house of a gentleman in this neighbourhood that that excellent piece of humour, My Pocket-Book, had its origin. The good-natured, but perhaps rather superficial traveller, at whom the wit is aimed, was dining at the house of this person with a large party both gentlemen and ladies, when he was observed to draw out his pocket-book very frequently, and take down memoranda of what he heard in conversation; and that, as some of the company thought, rather more of the trivialities and frivolities which passed, than of more important matters, whence real instruction and information might have been derived. This awakened the attention, and rather gave a spur to the satire of some of the gentlemen present, who immediately took advantage of any opportunity presented to throw in an anecdote, no matter whether true or drawn from their own imagination, such as they thought the traveller would minute down; and seeing with delight that the bait took, their assiduities were redoubled. Laughing together afterwards at what had passed, the idea suggested itself of the publication in question. The effect it produced is well known, and was probably much more than they intended; their only idea was to afford a momentary amusement to themselves and to the public: they had no conception that they were to be the means of injuring the traveller's reputation as a writer. Nor, in all probability, would they have been so, but for the folly of the publisher in prosecuting the work: this only, as is invariably the case, occasioned it to be the more sought after, and gave additional poignancy to the satire. In Ireland, particularly, My Pocket-Book acquired so much celebrity, that while I scarcely met with any one who was not well read


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in that, I met with few who were acquainted with the work it ridicules. No tourist could now venture to write down a memorandum in the presence of company: I carefully avoided it, and reserved till evening, when I had retired to my own apartment, the task of taking down my notes and observations upon what I had heard or seen in the day. If any one should choose to make a sketch of me, either with pen or pencil, at this my nocturnal occupation, I resign myself to them freely; they may rest assured that they will not be prosecuted.


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