Luttrellstown

Luttrellstown, Chapelizod, Etc.

Luttrellstown. - The Luttrells. - Castle Knock. - Chapelizod. - La Belle Iseult. - Brass Castle. - Lucan. - Mrs. Agmonisham Vesey. - Her Silver Ears. - Leixlip. - Celbridge Abbey - .Vanessa. - Swift.

Leaving the Park, which is seven miles in circumference, we pass through the Knockmaroon Gates, and a short drive brings us to Castle Knock.

At Castle Knock there are the ruins of an old castle or fortress, which, it is said, existed in Henry II.’s reign, when it was presented by its owner, Hugh Tyrell, to his trusty friend Strongbow. Tyrell, of Norman extraction, was a man of extraordinary strength and valour; he built his fortress upon a mound, which, it is thought, was one of those sepulchral chambers or monuments of prehistoric antiquity.

The fortress was called Tyrell’s Pass, and woe to the force who tried to attack it. Edward Bruce made the attempt in 1316, and failed. In these days of peace, in place of a fortress we have in the grounds of the old Castle the handsome College for Training Catholic Youth. There is also a modern church.

Having passed the Knockmaroon Gates, you can, if you please, proceed by the lower road towards Chapelizod and Lucan, passing the Strawberry Beds on the way. This lower road, which in the coaching days led to Knockmaroon, is one panorama of lovely scenery meadow and woodland, banks of fern and foliage, sloping to the river’s side.

The Liffey widens into a broad estuary after we pass the Marine School, and gets broader until it joins the Rye at Leixlip. Two miles before we come to Lucan we note the beautiful demesne of Luttrellstown, now the residence of Lord Annaly.

Woodlands, or Luttrellstown (its original name), belonged to the Lottrells or Luttrells, a somewhat wild and ambitious race, ever to the front in war, love, or politics. The first settler (for they were AngloNormans by descent) was of James I.’s planting. The King, who was full of his scheme for peopling Ireland with Scotch and English as a defence against the disloyalty of the natives, gave large grants of land to the new settlers.

To Luttrell, who was one of the royal favourites, was allotted a plenteous portion in the best quarter round about Dublin, and here the Luttrell of the day built for himself a dwelling-house, situated in the midst of a sweet, smiling country. Here he lived and prospered, intermarried with high families, and attained great distinction. In James I.’s reign we find a Simon Luttrell Governor of Dublin, a post he filled at the time of James’s unfortunate expedition to Ireland.

After the Battle of the Boyne, Simon (an unswerving adherent of the Stuarts) retreated with all he could gather of the Dublin garrison to Limerick from thence he escaped to France.

In i688 he was attainted for high treason, the attainder being reversed later, provided he returned in eight months. Through the treachery of his brother Henry Luttrell, his return was prevented, and he died in exile, the forfeited estates being given over to his treacherous brother.

The Irish historian O’Callaghan calls Henry a bad man, who was father to a bad man, and grandfather to a bad man, meaning that there were three generations of bad men. From a worldly point of view their wickedness prospered, the second bad man being created successively Baron Irnham, Viscount and Earl Carhampton.

[After the usual fashion of satirizing any unpopular character, the first Lord Irnham was introduced in a satirical ballad, in which the Devil is represented as summoning before him those who had the strongest claim to succeed him as King of Hell. Having summoned amongst others Lord Lyttleton, the ballad concludes;

But as he spoke there issued from the crowd

Irnham the base, the cruel, and the proud

And eager cried, “I boast superior claim

To Hell’s dark throne - and Irnham is my name.”]

This favourite of fortune had married the heiress of one Nicholas Lawes, Governor of Jamaica; and had a family of five sons and three daughters, handsome of person, charming in manner, brilliant, reckless, and depraved.

Strange stories were current of the revels at Luttrellstown, of the high play and ruinous wagers; of the duels that ensued, and the hushing up of compromising details; of the family quarrels between father and sons, brothers and sisters.

Colonel Luttrell, the eldest son, was a distinguished officer of wild habits, to whom fear was unknown. When he was put forward by the Court party to contest Middlesex against the popular idol Wilkes, policies of insurance on his life were opened at Lloyd’s Coffee-house; but he escaped uninjured, being such a first-rate shot that to fight a duel with him was to court death.

He and his father, being alike fierce in temper, quarrelled perpetually. On one occasion they disputed as to some furniture in Lord Carhampton’s house in Merrion Square, which he had made over to his son. The quarrel could only be adjusted by a law suit; father and son conducted each his own suit in a manner not unworthy of a trained counsel.

During the troubles of 1798 Colonel Luttrell was made Commander-in-Chief of the army in Ireland. He exercised immense influence, and is said to have practised unnecessary cruelties towards his unfortunate prisoners. He at all times showed a perfect indifference to public opinion, and was undoubtedly the most unpopular man of his time.

After his accession to the title he became more arrogant and offensive, and on several occasions narrowly escaped the knife of the assassin. His death was said to have been caused by a curse given to him by a woman upon whom his horse had trampled as he rode away from his own door, hale and hearty ; in an hour’s time he was brought back dead.

Of Lord Carhampton’s daughters, Elizabeth, Anne, and Lucy, Anne, Mrs. Horton, will be for ever famous, not only for her beauty, which was unsurpassed in a day when beauty was at its highest standard, but for her marriage with the Duke of Cumberland, which brought about all the stir and commotion of the Royal Marnage Act.

She had married when a mere girl Christopher Horton, a sporting squire, of whom little is known save that he was owner of Catton Park, Derbyshire. After a few years he died, leaving his widow a moderate provision, not a quarter sufficient to satisfy her extravagant tastes. She was 24, with bewitching eyes, which, when she pleased, she could animate to enchantment.

“Her coquetry was so active, so varied, and yet so habitual, that it was difficult not to see through it, and yet as difficult to resist it.” Horace Walpole describes her as a coquette beyond measure, artful as Cleopatra and completely mistress of her passions and projects. “Indeed,” he adds, “eyelashes three-quarters of a yard shorter would have served to conquer such a head as she has turned.”

[For all that, Horace was mightily well pleased when his niece, the beautiful Lady Waldegrave, made the conquest of the Duke of Gloucester, whose mental qualifications were much on a par with those of his brother, the Duke of Cumberland]

Mrs. Horton met the Duke, it is said, at a boarding-house, whither he had gone until the scandal of one of his numerous love affairs had blown over. He was no match for the beautiful widow, whose dancing of the minuet completely carried his slight defences, and, finding she was impervious to any proposal save orthodox marriage, he followed her to Calais, where the knot was tied hard and fast, all legal forms being duly executed, and no loophole left through which the royal captive could wriggle.

The Duchess did not gain all she expected. The Royal Marriage Act indeed could not separate her from the Duke, or take from her the title of Duchess; but these advantages (especially the first) hardly repaid her for the snubs of the Court and for the isolation of her life, this latter lasting many years, the nobility being too good courtiers to risk irritating their Majesties by paying any deference to the interloper into the royal circle.

Later, the Duchess and her husband took a fiendish method of retaliation. When the Prince of Wales (afterwards George IV.) came to man’s estate, the Duchess wove her toils about him so as to attain great influence over his easily governed mind: neither she nor the Duke made any secret that their object was to intimidate the party into receiving the Duchess, and the plan succeeded; although not publicly recognized, she had the *entrée *to the more intimate family circle.

Her triumph, however, did not last long, as much of her glory was shorn when the Duke died in 1790. From that time we get only occasional glimpses of the beautiful Duchess, who survived her husband some twenty years. Of the Duchess’s two sisters, Lucy, who was a beauty in a less dignified style, married very young a Captain Moriarty, and was little heard of in her generation.

It would have been well if the same report could be given pf the eldest sister, Elizabeth Luttrell, called in derision Princess Elizabeth, a coarse, unprincipled woman, devoured by a love of play.

This passion brought about her tragical end. She was imprisoned in the Fleet for her gambling debts; and gave a hairdresser £50 to marry her, which, according to the then state of the debtors’ law, enabled her to procure a release. She went to Germany, where she was convicted of picking pockets, was sentenced, and condemned to clean the streets chained to a wheelbarrow. The unfortunate woman poisoned herself.

Luttrellstown was set up for sale after the death of John, third Earl of Carhampton, when the title became extinct, the estates passing to Sir Simeon Stuart, through his marriage with Lady Frances Luttrell.

For many years, however, no buyer could be procured, owing to the evil reputation the place had got ; the country folk telling ghostly tales of the satanic revels held at night, when the house was lit up and demoniac gamblers gathered round the card-table, and staked the souls of men.

Such stories did not, however, prevent Mr. Luke White from becoming the purchaser of Woodlands, [Mr. Henry White changed the name Luttrellstown to “Woodlands,’~ under which title the place was known until lately, when the present noble. owner reverted to the original and much prettier designation.] which during the lifetime of Mr. Henry White (created Lord Annaly, 1862) was a gay resort of Dublin society, who clustered round the handsome and fashionable Mrs. Henry White, who kept the ball rolling with garden parties, dances, and private theatricals.

I have a bill of one of these performances lying before me now - a memento of 36 years ago: all the *drama/is personae *are long since dead, so there can be no ill nature in telling how one of the *corps dramatique, *a lady of much talent in other branches of art, made her first and last appearance as an actress, for, on confronting the audience, she was paralyzed by stage fright, and had to be led off by the stage manager, the late Lord Drogheda. Fortunately her part was a minor one.

The mansion itself is of an imposing character, and is surrounded by thick-growing trees; the upper gate leads to the railway station at Clonsilla, a pretty secluded spot, where is the village church.

Chapelizod and Lucan

From Luttrellstown the road leads by way of the Strawberry Beds and Chapelizod to Lucan.

The compound word Chapel-izod denotes that here once upon a time, in what we now call the early *Wagnerian *period, there dwelt the lovely princess la belle Iseult, or Isolde. She was daughter to Anguish, King of Ireland, and had for her town residence Izod’s round tower, situated near Dames’ Gate, close to the water-side.

Iseult was betrothed to her father’s hereditary enemy, Mark, King of Cornwall-a marriage to which she dare not say nay, but to which she did not look forward with satisfaction, for she was thoughtful beyond her years, and as good as she was lovely.

What madness could have possessed the King to have sent his handsome nephew, the Knight Tristran, to escort this beauteous bride to her new house? But then Tristran was a Knight of Sir Arthur’s Round Table; and could he act dishonourably? Nor would he have done so, only for circumstances, very extenuating ones, in his case. The Knight fell sick, and the maiden nursed him, with the result told by Gower, a versifier of the fourteenth century:

In every man’s mouth it is

That Tristran was of love drunke

With belle Isolde.

It is a sweet story and an old one; and if you list, you can read it all in Malory.

I do not fancy that the folks who went a-pleasuring to Chapelizod 130 years ago knew anything about Isolde’s story. I fancy not; for in those days Chapelizod had a barrack, and artillery were quartered there, and there were many little romances more interesting than bygone love tales going on under the poplar trees, which then stood in military rows here and there among the orchards and old timber that lined the banks of the river, for Chapelizod lies in the very Valley of the Liffey, whose waters here have altogether another face from the turbid stream that runs through the City.

Frankly speaking, there is nothing to see now at Chapelizod. Those who remembered it some 60 years ago have left the tradition that there were even then rows of houses with steep roofs and many-coloured hall doors; that there was an inn in the centre of the village with panelled walls and chimney-piece, over which hung the portrait of King William III. in his “robe, garter, and periwig”; likewise the old salmon house, gone many years ago. It was picturesque, but tumbling down, so why keep it? And in this way Chapelizod is clean as your hand of old associations.

There is still one solitary house with a peaked roof: Brass Castle it was called. [In Mr. Le Fanu’s “House by the Churchyard,” a now forgotten novel, the scene is laid at Chapelizod, where he lived as a boy. Brass Castle is mentioned as being the residence of the villain of the story.]

No one can now tell what is its story; but it looks as if it had one to tell, and so we have reproduced it.

Chapelizod has some historic associations. It is stated by different authorities that both James II. and William III. rested there-the first on his way to Drogheda, the latter on his victorious return from the Battle of the Boyne.

So far as regards James, there seems no certainty. William undoubtedly occupied an old manor-house at a little distance from the town; it was called in consequence “the King’s House,” and it would seem that his Dutch Majesty had some intention of returning to it, as he caused the grounds to be laid out after the Dutch fashion of planting.

In 1717 the custodian of these gardens was placed on the Civil List with a yearly salary of £120. At this time the King’s House was often occupied by the Lords-Deputies, who at that period exercised the function of Viceroys. In 1 740 this royal residence was deserted, and the gardens, with their formal yew walks, became a tangled mass of ruin.

There is also the village Church, where the Viceroys, who had their summer residence close by at Leixlip Castle, came on Sundays in semi-state, with a guard of honour supplied by the artillery from the barracks. His Excellency rode in a finely emblazoned coach-and-six, with six running footmen hanging on wherever they could, and outriders in grandly emblazoned uniforms.

The Church, which dates from Queen Anne’s reign, is principally remarkable for an ancient belfry tower, probably as old as the fourteenth century. Up to 1839 this venerable memorial of past days was covered with. a thick growth of ivy. [The Irish ivy has a larger leaf and grows in a far more luxurious manner than does its smaller-leaved English sister. D’Alton, the historian, commenting on this fact, suggests that the luxurious growth of Irish ivy is due to the multiplied ruins scattered through the country, over which it extends and develops.]

This was destroyed by the storm which took place on January 6 of that year, and the tower now presents a bare and somewhat desolate appearance.

Chapelizod was at one time the home of thriving manufactures. In the earlier ages it had supplied the raw material used by the Dutch in their cloth and woollen manufactures. Later on, when Philip of Spain, through a misguided and mischievous policy, ruined the trade of his Dutch subjects, these supplies ceased; but in 1671 it entered into the mind of a certain Colonel Lawrence that the raw material so plentiful in Ireland might be manufactured by the Irish people.

In accordance with this idea he imported from Brabant and Rochelle Dutch and Belgian workmen, and established them with their wives and children in Chapelizod. These men, like the Huguenot refugees, imparted the secret of their trade, and soon a most promising manufacture was established of woollen and linen goods. How this, like the silk-weaving trade, was abolished is a matter of history, and needs no comment here.

A couple of miles farther brings us to Lucan, which can be reached either by the lower road from Knockmaroon Gates or the Chapelizod Road, which is not so romantic. More rural than Chapelizod is Lucan. Situated in a thickly wooded valley, lying at the foot of the sloping hills above the Liffey, it is a miniature bit of Switzerland - peaceful, serene, tender; and here in the last century came men of note and women of fashion to repair exhausted nature by draughts from the famous spa, which was highly recommended by the faculty.

Soon there sprang up fine assembly rooms, said to have been decorated by Angelica Kauffmann, all on the plan of Bath or Cheltenham. To the end of the last century Lucan Spa held its own, and in the spa-house that curious genius Maturin would often be found playing his fiddle for the young folk to dance.

But even then the palmy days of the little watering-place were well-nigh over; other health resorts being found more easy of access. The exodus from Dublin of the upper classes gave it a final blow, and for many years the sear of neglect fell upon this charming spot. It was little known except to. the residents in the neighbourhood, who in the summer-time picnicked in the woods and drank tea in the deserted ball-room.

It is pleasant to think that since the steam tramcar has brought this pretty suburb nearer to the citizens of Dublin a revival of the old glories of Lucan has set in; a spirited company have started an hotel close to the former one, which had fallen into ruins; it is well managed, the ubiquitous German waiter is here to be found, and there is a certain foreign air that reminds one of a German Wirthhaus. The spa is situated within the grounds of Lucan House, the demesne of Captain Colthurst Vesey, who is the Marquis of Carabas of the locality.

Lucan House, as it was called, has historic associations. It was the residence of Patrick Sarsfield, one of James II.’s generals, who was by him created Earl of Lucan. Sarsfield was killed at the Battle of Landen, in Flanders, and, having no heirs, his estates reverted to his brother, William Sarsfield, of Lucan, who had married a daughter of Charles I. – a sister to the unfortunate Duke of Monmouth.

This gentleman’s only daughter and heiress married Agmonisham Vesey, and thus the property passed into the family of Vesey, who have ever since retained it. Lucan House is charmingly situated [The principal feature of Lucan House are the grounds, which present a panorama of varying attraction. The views here reproduced are of the grounds and surroundings; also of the ancient Norman Castle, and the remains of the Monastery of St. Mary, dating back to King John.] the interior, especially the hall, is ornamented with medallions painted by Angelica Kauffmann, who was a personal friend of the artistic Anne, Lady Bingham, who was an amateur artist of much merit, [The Earls of Lucan descend from Anne, daughter to Agmonisham Vesey, who married Sir John Bingham. This Bingham is said to have caused the loss of the Battle of Aughrim by his desertion on the field from James II. to William III. In 1736 Sir John was satirized:

Here observe the tribe of Bingham,

For he ne’er fails to bring ‘em;

whilst he sleeps the whole debate,

They submissive round him wait,

Yet would gladly see the hunks

In his grave, and search his trunks.]

And of her daughter, the beautiful Miss Bingham, married to the Earl Spencer, and with whose portraits by Sir Joshua we are well acquainted. So we are with Mrs. Agmonisham Vesey, the lady who belonged to the Blue-stocking Club, and wore Lady Spencer’s silver trumpets in her ears, and who is so well described by wicked little Fanny Burney, that we seem to have known her, although she has been crumbling away in the family vault for more than 100 years.

“She has,” says this most accurate portrait painter, “the most wrinkled, time-beaten face I ever saw. She is exceedingly well bred, and of agreeable manners; but her name in the world must have been acquired by her skill in selecting parties and by her address in making them easy with one another” - an art that seems to imply no mean understanding.

She then describes a party at Mrs. Vesey’s, where were Sir Joshua Reynolds, Richard Burke, and other celebrities, and the hostess’s anxiety to break the stiff circle into groups, insisting upon every group sitting with their backs to other groups, the chairs drawn into little coteries of three in a confused manner all over the room.

Such arrangements do not always succeed, but Mrs. Vesey knew her world, and so Dr. Johnson told Fanny, who was inclined to laugh, as she always was, until she was told to be grave by some one she wanted to toady, for she was a terrible little time-server. And as to the matter of settling her chairs, Mrs. Vesey was right there is nothing promotes conversation like placing your guests. comfortably. “Seat your visitor in an easy chair, low, and with plenty of room,” says Madame de Swetchine, “and then you can travel over his mind.”

But then very few Englishwomen understand the very least little bit of the science of travelling over anybody’s mind; nay, even their own is more or less of a blank.

And now we must hurry on to Leixlip, [Leixlip is a Danish name meaning “salmon leap.” The salmon leap up the fall, as has been noticed by Cambriensis, the old Irish historian, who calls it “saltus salmonis.” The salmon desert the fall in March and and April, returning in November.], where is the lovely salmon leap, 180 feet in breadth, with a waterfall of brilliant, fairylike spray, cool and lovely to look at; and as one stands and gazes at the ever-falling drops with their many prismatic colours, and hears the musical rhythm of the water as it falls over the edge, a rhythm that will go on for ever and ever, how far away seems the world and its petty doings, its miserable nothingness! And, strange to say, this wonderful show of Nature’s own doing is caused by - what do you think? - our friend Stand fast* *Dick, that good-for-nothing rock which runs across the channel of the Liffey, and upon which the Royal Exchange is built. [This statement is made in some of the old chronicles; it seems some-what incredible.]

Not far from the waterfall we have Leixlip Castle, placed in a commanding position, overlooking the river. It is said to date from the reign of Henry II., and, according to tradition, was built by Adam de Hereford, one of the Norman followers of Strongbow.

Later it was occupied by General Sandford, from whom it was purchased by the Government as a summer residence for the first permanent Viceroy, Lord Townshend. It was from 1769 the scene of many a gay revel, masquerades and suchlike. Amateur theatricals were given there during Lord Townshend’s viceroyalty (1769), when, as is the manner of amateurs, ambitious pieces were chosen, such as *Tamerlane *and The Fair Penitent, the performers being Lords Kildare and Mountmorres, Messrs. Brownlow and Jephson, and the three beautiful Miss Montgomerys [These ladies became subsequently Lady Townshend. Lady Mountjoy, and the Hon. Mrs. Beresford.].

In the troublous times of 1798 Leixlip Castle was not thought a safe and convenient residence for the Viceroy, its distance from Dublin precluding easy access; it was abandoned for the less dignified Lodge, which, as before mentioned, was purchased from Lord Leitrim.

Four miles from Lucan stands the old Abbey of Celbridge, formerly Marlay Abbey, a most picturesque house, which has seen many owners and many vicissitudes.

There is an old superstition as to the confiscation of Church property, which it is said entails extinction of the intruders through lack of heirs. The superstitious may, if they are so minded, count up instances in point; and Celbridge may be added to the list, as it has changed owners many times. The great interest of the place, however, lies with Esther Vanhomrigh, whose life, like Stella’s, was shadowed by her unfortunate contact with Swift*, whose fatal *attraction seems to have been alike to that of the upas tree, which killed all who came within its embrace.

The story of both these women forms an indictment against the great Dean which will last so long as men and women live on this earth of ours. The facts, so far as they are known, have been literally torn to pieces without any very definite conclusion being arrived at, save that the old story which dates from all time of woman’s self-sacrifice was here played out to the bitter end. There is no need to recapitulate an oft-told tale: my task is merely to point out the connection between Vanessa and Celbridge Abbey, where she lived for many years.

Taking into consideration the hedge of propriety that encompassed women in the last century, this throwing to the winds of all the well-established rules for unmarried females, and setting up a household on her own account, shows that Miss Vanhomrigh was considerably in advance of her generation.

She was, in fact, of a very undisciplined nature, guided altogether by her passions. Her foreign extraction cannot exactly be taken into account, unless indeed some drop of Spanish blood filtered through her veins from some bygone ancestress, who, at the time of the Spanish occupation of the Netherlands, may have intermarried with a Vanhomrigh, this union of Spanish blue blood with the Dutch traders occasionally taking place.

Moreover, the Vanhomrighs were merchants of old descent. They had dwelt in Antwerp before the crass bigotry of Philip of Spain had driven away the bone and sinew of the Netherlands to teach other nations how to carve fortunes out of the resources of the land.

The original Vanhomrigh settled in Chapelizod, where Colonel Lawrence had already established a Dutch colony. Near Celbridge are the remains of what was no doubt Vanhomrigh’s factory.

Vanessa’s father, however, Bartholomew, made his fortune in Drogheda, [Up to far into the Forties there were Vanhomrighs living in Droglieda who had many traditions concerning Swift and Vanessa. Unfortunately the family is now extinct.] then an important port for foreign ships. He was Commissary of Stores to William’s army during the civil war, and afterwards Quartermaster-General and Commissioner of Irish Revenue, preceding John Beresford in this last-named office.

He made a large fortune, much of which he laid out in the purchase of forfeited estates. No doubt Celbridge Abbey was one of** **these, for we are told that after her mother’s death Vanessa with her young sister “retired to Ireland, where her father had left a small property near Celbridge.” In the earlier part of this century there still were old people living who dimly remembered or had heard their parents speak of the English lady who dwelt by herself in a corner of the Abbey.

The very loneliness of her life must have fostered the strange passion which had taken possession of every fibre of her being. Passion is, as we know, akin to madness, and Vanessa’s frenzied love for a man so many years her senior would seem to have been due to some cerebral malady. One would have supposed that the checks administered by the Dean would have cured any affection; but there are women who, as “Nancy” and “Jane Eyre,” like to be brutally treated.

Swift was a glorified Rochester. What could be more brutal than his manner of treating Stella after his new fancy had seized upon him? His journal and letters grew colder; there was a cessation of the “little language,” and, in fact, says Sir Walter Scott, he exhibited all the signs of a waning attachment. It was at this period also that he began making those remarks upon the advance of years and the change in her appearance which must have been gall and wormwood to poor Stella’s jealous heart. This bluntness, as his biographer calls a selfish indifference to a woman’s tenderest point, is first exhibited on her birthdays:

Stella this day is thirty-four,

we shan’t dispute a year or more;

However, Stella, he not troubled,

Although thy size and years are doubted.

Very few women would like to be told these unpleasant truths. And again

Now this is Stella’s case in fact,

An angel’s face** ***a little cracked. *

Contrast these lines with the portrait he draws of Vanessa in the matchless poem he wrote for her:

Vanessa, not in years a score,

Dreams of a gown of forty-four,

Imaginary charms can find

In eyes with reading almost blind.

Cadenus now no more appears,

Declined in health, advanced in years

She fancies music in his tongue,

No further looks, but thinks him young.

what mariner is not afraid

To venture on a ship decayed?

what planter will attempt to yoke

A sapling with a fallen oak?

It was not likely that the appearance of “Cadenus and Vanessa” would prove a very effectual cure for a love-stricken girl, especially when such lines as the following occurred:

And when platonic flights were over,

The tutor turned a mortal lover.

Swift’s biographers, however, all hold by the platonic theories. That Vanessa did not share this idea was made evident by her future conduct. Only that the end was truly tragic, one would be amused by the quandary in which she placed the Dean by the ill-advised step of pursuing him to Dublin.

He adopted a cold severity of manner towards the culprit of which she complains bitterly. “If you continue to treat me as you do, you will not be made uneasy by me long; it is impossible to describe what I have suffered since I saw you last. I assure you, I could have borne the rack much better than those killing, killing words of yours!”

And so on in piteous lamentations, concluding with, “Oh that you may have but so much regard for me left that this complaint may touch your soul with pity! I say as little as ever I can; did you but know what I thought, I am sure it would move you to forgive me.

Poor, poor Vanessa! and equally unfortunate Stella, whose jealousy was now awakened; and as she could not venture with her “cracked face” to show her feelings as her young rival dared to do, the repression of what was consuming her reduced her naturally delicate constitution to an alarming condition.

Her illness disturbed the Dean, but did not make him discontinue his visits to Celbridge, where Vanessa, who planted a laurel every time he came, formed of these mementoes of her lover’s presence an arbour, in which there were two rustic seats and a table.

From here a romantic view over the Liffey added to the charm of retirement, while the effect was heightened by the soft murmuring of a distant cascade. In this sequestered spot the Dean and his pupil sat for hours together, their study being not altogether confined to the books which lay upon the table before them.

Sir Walter Scott quotes some beautiful lines written by Vanessa, which, he drily remarks, will help us to guess at the subject of their classical studies. The end of these verses is indeed intelligible:

My guide, instructor, *lover, *friend,

(Dear names !) in one idea blend;

Oh, still conjoined your incense rise,

And waft sweet odours to the skies!

The Dean, cold at heart himself, was unconsciously playing a dangerous game with a strong, passionate nature like Vanessa’s. His real or simulated love for her drove her to the fatal step which she naturally thought would clear the way to their mutual happiness. The result is well known : Swift’s last dramatic ride to Celbridge, his wordless farewell to Vanessa, her own letter to Stella returned. was the unfortunate girl’s death warrant.

She died at Celbridge and lies buried there - at least, so we are told. But in this day of new discoveries and general upsetting of all tradition, 1 should not be surprised to hear some day of new developments in the old affecting story of Stella and Vanessa. I should hope not; for, like Maria Josepha Holrod, I do not like my ideas disarranged.

At what period Celbridge Abbey became the property of the Grattans I am unable to say. When I first knew it, it belonged to Mrs. Charles Langdale, eldest daughter of Henry Grattan’s second son and namesake.

I remember Vanessa’s Bower, as it was called; but at that time I was unaware of the romantic ground upon which I stood. We did not know so much as the present generation do - rightly or wrongly: I am sure I do not know, but will leave it to Mrs. Lynn-Linton to decide.

Near Celbridge lived Valdré, an Italian artist, who was invited to Dublin by the Earl of Buckinghamshire, the then Viceroy, to decorate St. Patrick’s Hall. Valdré decorated many of the houses in Dublin; his style was very much that of Marinari and Angelica Kauffmann.

Valdré was the hero of an extraordinary adventure: he was a guest at a marriage where the bridegroom failed to put in an appearance. After waiting in vain for the recalcitrant lover, the wedding party broke up. The bride’s dejected air of mortification and distress appealed to the kindness of heart for which Valdré was noted. Going up to her, he offered himself as substitute for her recreant admirer. Strange to say, his offer was accepted; they would have been married there and then only for the refusal of the clergyman to perform the ceremony without the banns being previously published. This caused a delay of a couple of weeks, when the pair were united, and lived together most happily to old age.

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