Rathmines, Ranelagh, Rathfarnham

*Rathmines, Ranelagh, Rathfarnham, etc.

**Rathmines. - Portobello. - Canal Travelling. - Lord Edward FitzGerald. - Mrs. Di1lon. - Ranelagh Gardens. - Marlborough Green. - Tallaght. - The Battle of Tallaght Hill. - Fortfield. - Rathfarnham Castle. - Dolly Monroe. - The Priory.

• Curran and his Family. - His Wit.**

Rathmines is, or rather I should say has lately become, an important suburb of Dublin. Not many years ago little better than an enlarged village, it now stretches its interminable rows of houses, mostly built of the same pattern, into Rathgar, which in its turn extends almost to Rathfarnham.

We come to Rathmines by crossing Portobello Bridge, which connects the City with Rathmines. In the early part of this century Portobello Bridge was one of the principal “locks” belonging to the canal-boats, which, previous to the introduction of steam, formed a favourite mode of travelling.

This snail-like method of getting about had certain advantages; it was an excellent means of seeing the country, and there was a lazy indifference to the value of time that suited the Celtic character. The inconveniences far outnumbered the advantages.

To reach Dublin from Athlone or Mullingar took two days and two nights, during which travellers of both sexes had only one saloon in which to eat their food and spend the night sitting bolt upright on each side of the table upon which the meals were served.

In fine weather the days could be spent loitering along the banks or sitting upon the narrow deck; but imagine the long night in the saloon, with the reeking smell of perpetual whisky-and-water. The only other mode of transit was the public coach, unless for those of higher condition, who travelled in their own carriages.

It must be owned that, rapid as is our method of locomotion, it does not bear comparison with the luxurious style in which the upper ten of long ago made their progresses in those large, roomy, travelling carriages, with soft cushions and leg-rests, and coffin-like imperials and mysterious boot-boxes on the top. There was no rushing for trains or hunting for luggage; the horses were changed at every stage; and generally two stages (20 or 30 miles) comprised a day’s work, at the end of which came the comfortable inn, where the landlord welcomed the arrivals with effusive servility.

But to return to our canal-boat, which was the resort of the middle classes and those who hung on to the genteel fringe of society. These, as may well be imagined, never acknowledged their humble method of visiting grand relations, for it must be owned our ancestors had not the healthy contempt for public opinion that now prevails, when no one is ashamed of travelling how be likes.

Not long since a man of high position remarked that the best-mannered people were to be found in the third class; and every one knows the saying of the bishop, that if there was a fourth class he would travel in it.

Another amusing anecdote is of the gentleman who was going to visit some aristocratic friend, and who met in the third class a gentleman of distinguished address, who seemed on easy terms of acquaintance with the owners of the fine parks past which the course of the line ran. Mr. D--- as we will call the gentleman, had a habit, upon which he much prided himself, of descending a couple of stations before he reached the end of his journey, which latter portion he performed in the more exalted first class.

In this way he did not notice that his travelling companion alighted at the same station as he did. At dinner he was in the midst of describing his distinguished fellow-passenger, who, he declared, was one of the most charming men he ever met, when he suddenly looked across the table, and there in full livery stood the very man. Mr. D--- left his noble friend next morning.

One of the dangers of travelling by canal-boat was “passing the locks,” the force of the water sometimes submerging the not too well constructed craft.

A most extraordinary accident occurred many years ago upon Portobello Bridge. One evening, when a gale of wind was blowing, the omnibus or coach that plied between Rathfarnham and Dublin was blown into the canal; many people were injured, and Mr. Gunn, father to the late manager of the Dublin Theatre, lost his life.

A short step from the bridge, but at a good distance from the main road, stands a tall, sinister-looking house, with a large garden behind. This was the residence of Grattan, to whom it was presented by the citizens of Dublin in lieu of the gift of money which he declined. A less attractive residence cannot be imagined. For many years it was occupied by Mrs. Grattan, widow of Grattan’s second son, Henry. I believe it has now passed into strange hands.

Yet another association with Portobello is with the unfortunate Lord Edward FitzGerald, who lay concealed in one of the small houses on Rathmines Road, at the back of Portobello Hotel. Mr. Madden, in his “United Irishmen,” says it was the house of a widow lady of the name of Dillon, to whom Lord Edward was introduced by Dr. Lawless. Lord Edward went by the name of Jameson; but his real name was discovered by means of his boots, on the lining of which his titles were given at full length.

The first time he was concealed at Mrs. Dillon’s he escaped detection, and went away unharmed. He returned in May, when the pursuit after him was becoming very keen. He arrived at Mrs. Dillon’s, accompanied by his faithful friends Dr. Lawless and Cormick, the feather merchant. His clothes were soiled with mud, from having lain down in a ditch by the roadside until some people passed.

Moore tells how Mrs. Dillon was visiting a neighbour when the news was brought to her, ” Miss FitzGerald of Ally” had arrived. The poor woman was so agitated that she fainted. Lord Edward’s unguarded conduct was always a source of great anxiety to his friends. “He would take no precautions,” says Moore, “and scarcely a day passed without his having company to dinner.”

He left Mrs. Dillon’s house on May 13 to concert measures for the general rising, which was fixed for the 23rd. The tragedy of his arrest and death quickly followed.

Near Rathmines is Ranelagh, an old-world spot, with mean second-class houses, mostly given over to lodgers. Here in the last century were the Ranelagh Gardens, very popular and fashionable, and a good imitation of Vauxhall. “Ranelagh,” says Seward, “was formerly the rural and beautiful seat of a Bishop of Derry, which was afterwards converted into a place of entertainment”; and in all the social annals of Dublin Ranelagh Gardens figure. One of the many versifiers of the day thus describes the scene

Along the grass full many a group

Are pacing slow, in lightsome talk;

Full powdered wig and swelling hoop

Flutter along the velvet walk.

Coy ribands wave on breast and waist;

Rings flash, and laces’ golden glow

Display the deep maturèd taste

Of blooming maid and brilliant beau.

Now comes a light-heeled gallant by,

In ruffles, sword, and curled toupee;

While glitters in his anxious eye

The jest he’ll give the world to-day.

One of the most noted frequenters of Ranelagh Gardens was Hely Hutchinson, the Provost of Trinity College, who was notorious for his love of dancing, which gained for him the name of “the Prancer”

In minuet step how he advances;

Strike up the fiddles-see how he dances

With his well-turned pumps,

How he skips and he jumps!

Clear tables and chairs, for he prances, he prances!

He dancing lectures did ordain,

And drove out all the Muses’ train.

Dancing is a prancer’s pleasure,

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Sweet the pleasure that requires no brain I

Provost Hutchinson was not the only celebrity we hear of as being a constant visitor to Ranelagh. There were Isaac Corry, who originated the window tax, and was always spoken of as “having laid a tax upon daylight,” and Lord Norbury, who *“shot *up” into preferment. Lord Charlemont and the Duke of Leinster were also often there, as well as many other celebrities and beauties, such as Miss Swete, who jilted John Fitz-Gibbon, afterwards Lord Clare, for the sake of the unfortunate Henry Sheares, whose body lies in St. Michan’s ghastly vault. The beauties who came to Ranelagh (and amongst them are mentioned the beautiful Gunnings) are admonished by the bal1ad-mongers of the day, with great frankness, to desist from aiding nature by cosmetics:

Why lay the noxious rouge upon that face

Where now already blooms the vermeil grace?

Or why with washes strive to add new charms

To the consummate lily of your arms?

Since more true beauties deck one Irish *“toast”

*Than a whole world of painted dolls can boast.

Let Art patch up proud Gallia’s olive dames,

And form its beauties on the banks of Thames;

Let the Italian courtesan display

Her white-washed face, spoiled shape, and rich array

But cursed be she who first from foreign parts

Brought upon Irish ground these baneful arts,

Destroying Nature’s, Virtue’s loveliest plan,

And rend’ring woman hateful unto man.

Marlborough Green was another favourite tea garden. The duel which took place here in 1761 between Richard Lord Delvin, only son of the sixth Earl of Westmeath, and Captain George Reilly, in which the young nobleman was killed, caused the *grande monde *of Dublin society to desert Marlborough Green, although it was proved at Captain Reilly’s trial that the duel was forced upon him by Lord Delvin, who had taken too much wine and persisted in annoying with his attentions a very handsome lady not of his acquaintance who was walking with Captain Reilly. According to the then rules of society, Reilly had to resent his impertinence. The desertion of fashionable society caused Marlborough Green to be closed.

The attractions of Rutland Gardens drew away the public from Ranelagh; but later Portobello Gardens came into vogue, and were kept up till a few years ago, when their languishing existence came to an end.

As a matter of fact, the damp nature of the Irish climate has always been the great enemy to *al-fresco *entertainments. When Ranelagh Gardens were reopened by Kolleter, rained poured in torrents whenever any attraction was announced. The unfortunate Kolleter was ruined in consequence.

Rathmines, as well as its neighbours Rathgar and Rathfarnham, denotes, by the first syllable of the word rath, a castle, that here some sort of fortresses once existed. Where Rathmines Castle stood does not seem to be known; but it probably was occupied by Cromwell’s troopers after the Battle of Rathmines in 1641, when the Republicans under General Jones annihilated Ormonde’s army.

The drive from Rathmines through Rathgar is extremely pretty, the sweet-smiling country suggesting no sanguinary recollections ; and yet not more than 30 years ago what was called “a Fenian rising” had its centre in this neighbourhood.

All the world has heard of the Battle of Tallaght Hill, which took place in 1867. I do not think it was ever accepted seriously, and I search my memory in vain for any haunting recollections of that time - unless it were that there was that feeling of excitement in the air always pleasant to the young. Guns were pointed on the gate of the Castle, there was no admittance within without a countersign, and dinner parties were apt to lose Lord Strathnairn’s presence, and balls were shorn of some of the best dancers, who were out against the Fenians.

It is now well known that, as in Emmet’s rising, the country contingents proved false; the reinforcements from Meath, Wicklow, and Wexford failing to put in an appearance. Fortunately for themselves they did not; for Lord Strathnairn, whose Indian experience had taught him to be prompt, had stationed troops at every quarter where the reinforcements were expected.

Deserted by their allies, the rather irregular forces within the capital kept their tryst on March 5. There were rather too few men amongst them to excite great alarm; they were mostly young, inexperienced shop-boys, and they had with them two cart-loads of arms and ammunition. These poor boys - for they were little more - had a nasty walk of four miles over an undulating country, with a drizzle of rain and sleet in their faces: still they went on their way. The following is an account of what followed, from an eye-witness

“The police barrack at Tallaght is a weak building, incapable of resisting determined assailants. On the night of March 5 there were 14 constabulary in the barrack, when an excited messenger gave information that the Fenians had risen and were marching on the Tallaght Road.

Almost at the same moment the sound of a very large number of advancing men was heard. The inspector who commanded the constabulary ordered his men to move out and face the enemy. These could be heard and seen advancing like an irregular moving wall. It seemed as if the earth had risen five or six feet high, and were pressing forwards.

When the constabulary challenged the crowd, no reply was given. Some order was issued to the insurgents, and then a volley came from the rebel ranks, irregular and scattered ; but the light of the rifles pointed out the insurgents to the constabulary. These had knelt down, and the insurgents fire passed over them without wounding a man.

Then the constabulary delivered their fire, all together, like one shot. There was silence for an instant, then terrific yells rent the air, and screams of men in agony. The insurgents recoiled and broke at once.

I can compare their breaking up to nothing but that of a ‘school’ of mackerel. They ran everywhere, jostling, impeding, fighting each other, in anxiety to escape. You could hear the pike-staves and revolvers falling on the ground, as they were thrown away in the panic. The dark mass melted away, but on the ground lay two dying men: one clutching at the gravel, and screaming out, ‘O men! O men!’ The other was desperately wounded, and insensible.

Two others were found next morning. They had been thrown into a ditch to die. The bullets of the constabulary did their work well; no one can tell how many were ‘hurt badly’ by that one volley. I know there have been several clandestine burials and unhonoured graves; and I believe that there are still many sorely mangled lying in out-houses, a terror to their friends.”

This is the account of the Battle of Tallaght Hill, which is summarized by the natives, who are much too quick-witted not to see where the shoe pinches, and who at once gave the name of “Tallaght tall talk” to anything approaching to boasts or menaces with no power to enforce them.

Terenure, which is not far from Tallaght (in fact, you pass through the first to reach the latter), has an exceptionally well-cared-for air: the people look all comfortable and happy; the air is delightful. Some pretty gentlemen’s seats give an inhabited air to the landscape. Amongst these are Bushy Park, Sir William Shaw’s, and Fortfield, the handsome residence of John Hatchell, Esq. This was built by Lord Avonmore (Barry Yelverton), one of the circle of brilliant lawyers whose cleverness gave a prestige to the Irish Bar in the last century.

“In the common transactions of life,” says his contemporary Sir Jonah Barrington, “Lord Avonmore was an infant, in the varieties of wrong and right a frail mortal, in the Senate and the Bar a mighty giant.”

He began life as a teacher of classics at Dr. Black’s School in King Street, but soon found he was fitted for better work. His progress at the Bar was rapid. As a judge his great fault lay at jumping to a conclusion too rapidly.

Curran, who never allowed the weakness of friend or enemy to escape his passion for a joke, demonstrated to a full Court this weakness of Avonmore’s. Excusing his delay in attending to conduct a certain case, he referred to the necessity he felt of recovering from the distressing effects on his mind of a scene he had just witnessed.

The kind-hearted old judge inquiring what it was, “I will tell your Lordship as calmly as I can,” said Curran. “On my way to Court I passed through the market.” “Yes, I know, the Castle Market,” struck in his Lordship. “Exactly, the Castle Market; and passing near one of the stalls, I beheld a brawny butcher brandishing a sharp, gleaming knife. A calf he was about to slay was standing, awaiting the death-stroke, when at that moment. - that critical moment - a lovely little girl came bounding along in all the sportive mirth of childhood from her father’s stall.

Before a moment had passed the butcher plunged his knife into the breast of ---” “Good God! his child!” sobbed the judge, deeply affected. “No, my Lord, but the calf,” rejoined Curran; “but your Lordship often anticipates.”

Lord Avonmore died in 1805, at the age of 69. After an interval Fortfield passed into the keeping of another official dignitary, Judge Hatchell, father to the present owner.

Mr. Hatchell is under the impression that Fortfield was built after Adam’s design. But this is not so. There is no work of the Adam brothers in or near Dublin. If there was, it would be mentioned amongst the record of mansions designed by them, which extends to 20 volumes, and can be seen in the Soane Museum. Fortfield was probably built after Sir William Chambers’s design.

Ten minutes’ walk brings you to **

Templeogue**

the residence of the late Charles James Lever, one of the best of the Irish novelists, the edge of his wit being so keen, and his knowledge of human nature (especially of his own countrymen) so true, that his books will live when those of, in a sense, better writers are forgotten.

It would be indeed an extraordinarily dense mind that could find a dull page in the ever delightful “Lorrequer.”

Charles Lever was for many years editor of the *Dub/in University Magazine, *a periodical that had in its day a place in literature, many good writers being on the staff.

It is not generally known that it was in the pages of the *University Magazine *that Miss Broughton made her *debut *as a new leader of fiction. The *Magazine *was then being edited by Mr. Le Fanu, to whom she was nearly related. **

The Priory**

Retracing our steps from Templeogue, we cross a pretty rustic bridge which spans the winding Dodder, sweet and most romantic of rivers, and drive along a shady road, which to those who know its associations is full of romance; for here is John Philpot Curran’s house, the Priory, around which must ever linger a tender and sorrowful interest in the fate of those two unhappy lovers Thomas Emmet and Sarah Curran. Here they met for the last time ; and it was after taking leave of his young love that Emmet was arrested at the adjoining village of Harold’s Cross, and then it was that, to his surprise, Curran became acquainted with the mutual attachment between his daughter and the prisoner.

Curran’s enemy, Lord Clare, made an attempt to implicate Curran in the conspiracy; but he had powerful friends, and the attempt failed.

The Priory, which is an unpretending, comfortable house, was the scene of Curran’s unostentatious hospitality. His circle of friends was principally gathered from a younger generation.

“The aspect of old age,” says his son and biographer, Richard, “depressed him, while youth’s joyousness revived his own. Of his early Bar associates, whose countenances indicated the ravages of time, I never remember one as a guest at the Priory.” These youthful guests were devoted to their brilliant host, who enjoyed being the centre of an admiring group of young, ardent spirits, who applauded his sparkling wit with boyish enthusiasm.

Curran’s wit was, like his eloquence, spontaneous; it seemed to burst forth almost without his volition ; he could move his audience at will to bitter tears or laughter. One of the many stories told of his sudden power of repartee was when on one occasion he drove his jaunting car against the gig of a gentleman, who was highly indignant, and insisted upon an apology, which Curran refused to make. Cards were exchanged. When Curran saw the gentleman’s name was Shiel, he burst into shouts of laughter.

“My dear sir,” he said, when he could speak, ” I apologize; you have conferred the greatest favour on me; I never expected to see Shiel in a gig, and here I have you. Shiel in a gig! Shiel in a gig!” [Shiel-in-a-gig, an old ballad] and with another shout of laughter he drove away, leaving his adversary more indignant than ever.

Stories of Curran’s wit have been told over and over again, his powers of retort and repartee being unrivalled. Rogers used to tell a story of how a young girl once threw the wit into the utmost confusion. It was at a Greenwich dinner, and Curran was asseverating loudly that, sooner than submit to a particular thing, he would rather be hanged on 20 gibbets. On this said the young girl, in a gentle voice, ” Don’t you think, sir, that one would be sufficient ?”

[Asseveration, we are told, hetrays celtic Origin; it is an unconscious effort to impress upon “the gallery” the importance of the speaker. So we find many persons using “I never in all my life” and such phrases, which are all assertive; in fact, the personal pronoun should be kept under as much as possible. “Bannissez-le *moi,’) *says Madame de Swetchine, “c’est haissable!”]

Curran has often been accused of being a neglectful husband and an unkind father. It must be remembered that when he married his cousin, Miss Creagh, he was passionately attached to her, and continued to be so for many years, until her affectations, her laziness, and her inordinate conceit thoroughly disgusted him.

His coldness to his children was very much on the surface; he grieved intensely for the death of a girl of 12 years old, who is buried in the grounds of the Priory, and on whose monument some simple lines testify to the sorrow caused by her death.

It is impossible that a man of his nature was not deeply moved by the sad tragedy that darkened Sarah’s life, but his was not a nature to lay bare his griefs to an unsympathizing world. The latter portion of his life was full of gloom, as is well described by his intimate friend Cyrus Redding.

Curran’s portrait by Lawrence, which is in the National Gallery, Dublin, is a veritable masterpiece. The painter, seeming to have been inspired by the “forcible character of the face before him,” rose into power and dignity, two attributes generally wanting in Lawrence’s “fashionable portraits.”

The story goes that the first portrait of Curran painted by the artist was of the ordinary type ; but before it was completed he chanced to meet his sitter at a convivial dinner, and at once realized that he had only painted a sort of wooden effigy of the man. He told Curran he must paint him again. The result is the striking portrait, which, once seen, is not forgotten. The colouring and handling of this wonderful picture all show a sudden burst of vigour and dash quite different from Lawrence’s usual “florid luxuriance of colour and stroke, which he flattered himself was Titianesque.”

After we leave the Priory and drive along the Rathfarnham Road, we are attracted by the fine gates of Rathfarnham Castle, which is associated with one of the most celebrated beauties of her day, Dolly Monroe, who turned the heads and won the hearts of the *jeunesse dorée *of Dublin 130 years ago.

Hers is a sad story, althqugh not so tragic as Sarah Curran’s. To her befell that unpleasant accident of falling between two stools, although, to say the truth, this tumble was due to the influence of her ambitious advisers.

It is an old story this - the preaching down of a girl’s heart and setting up therein the golden idol of money or rank. Truly Dolly should not have listened; but she was young, and accustomed to look up to her aunt, Lady Loftus, and obey her as a mother. So she sent away her handsome lover, Hercules Langrishe, [Since writing the above lines, I have been informed by Mr. Richard Langrishe that the story of Sir Hercules Langrishe’s love for Dolly Monroe is an “utter fabrication.”

He admired her, as all the world did but he was a married man with a large family, and an excellent husband. So perishes a pretty love story.

The Statement also made (original]y by Sir Jonah Barrington) that Sir Hercules took a sum of £15,000 for surrendering his right to vote against the Union is also, I understand from Mr. Langrishe quite false.

The Governtnent paid the money for the disfranchisement of the borough, and not for many years *after the Union. *It gives me much pleasure to make this contradiction, as Sir Hercules had served his country so well it seemed a sad ending.] and sought the conquest of Lord Townshend, the newly made Viceroy, whose wife, dying since his appointment, had left the post of Vice-Queen vacant.

How it was that Dolly did not succeed to the vacancy would take too long to tell; it is all written elsewhere, and is a very useful lesson to young ladies who have two strings to their bow. Dolly got neither of her strings, and would have fallen altogether to the ground, only she was picked up by a third admirer, and ended her days as Mrs. Richardson.

Her portrait is in the National Gallery, painted by Angelica Kauffmann ; it is rather a formal face, not in Angelica’s best manner, and one likes far better the larger canvas by the same artist, - a family group, with Dolly, sweet and girlish, in the centre; the Marquis and Marchioness of Ely; and Angelica, then on a visit to the Castle, standing by the harpsichord.

[Angelica Kanffmann visited Dublin in ‘771, bringing letters of introduction from her many friends amongst the nobility. She was introduced to Lord Townshend by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Her portraits of Dolly and the family group were discovered after Chief Justice Blackburne had purchased the Castle; they were hidden away with other valuables behind the oak panelling in the hall. Lord Ely presented both pictures to the National Gallery. The large group was then thought to be the work of Sir Joshua Reynolds or Cotes, and it was so named in the Catalogue. It was Mr. Henry Doyle, the then Director of the Gallery, who discovered the signature]

The canvas is rather crowded, and suggests the Vicar of Wakefield’s friends the Flamboroughs; but it was the fashion then to. get the worth of one’s money.

We are told that Lord Townshend personally superintended the taking of Dolly’s likeness; his widowed eyes found comfort in looking at her golden hair and sunny eyes, and each day his Excellency’s grand coach and six horses, with running footmen to match, made quite a stir as it came clattering along the country road from Dublin. No wonder Dolly’s aunt saw in imagination the coronet. upon her sweet charge’s golden head!

To return to the history of Rathfarnham Castle, for a history, it has, written on its massive stone walls.

The old tower dates from the reign of Queen Elizabeth. It was built by Adam Loftus, Lord Chancellor of Ireland and Archbishop of Dublin. He was likewise created in 1685 Lord Rathfarnham and Viscount Lisburne. This fortunate individual had one crumple in his universal rose-leaf: he had no son to whom his honours could descend, so he was forced to make what he could of his only daughter Luucia, who succeeded to all his grand hereditaments, etc.

Lucia married Thomas, Lord Wharton, and her son was Philip, Duke of Wharton, who will live for all time in Pope’s damning indictment:

Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days,

Whose ruling passion was the lust of praise;

Born with whate’er could win him from the wise,

Women and fools must like him or he dies.

Philip, Duke of Wharton, was not the man to fancy a home in a retired corner of the world’s big fair, such as Rathfarnham; he arrived in Ireland one Sunday, and sold all his property there before the week was out. The Bishop of Elphin, who writes this piece of news to his brother of Derry, adds: “I hear Lord Chetwynd gives him £85,000 English for Rathfarnham, General Wynne £16,000 for his Cavan estate, and Mr. Wesley (the father of Lord Mornington) £30,000 for his Meath estates, which is calculated at forty years’ purchase one with another.” So there was the end of Lucia’s Irish fortune, for the money got by the sale soon was dissipated.

Rathfarnham did not long remain in the Chetwynd family; Mr. Prendergast seems to say he never paid the purchase money, so it was resold this time to a reverend cleric, Dr. Hoadley, Archbishop of Dublin. He, like his predecessor in the See of Dublin, Adam Loftus, had only one daughter, who marrying Bellingham Boyle, he sold the Rathfarnham property to Nicholas, Earl of Ely, who was a Loftus by descent.

In the troubled days which succeeded the rising of 1798 Rathfarnham Castle was altogether abandoned to its fate. At one time it was a barrack for soldiers, at another a dairy, kept by Mr. Roper, who had a lease of the lands for grazing his cattle. These last were stabled in the fine banqueting hall, decorated by Angelica Kauffmann.

From Mr. Roper the Castle passed into the keeping of the late Right Hon. Francis Blackburne, whose son makes it his residence. The entrance gates are very fine, although perhaps they raise expectations not quite realized by the house itself. The handsomest is the one which opens on the banks of the Dodder River, and is classical in style. The architect is not known. Cassels was at one period considered the designer; but dates, those stubborn witnesses to truth, disprove this assertion.

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