Blackrock, Frescati, Dalkey

Frescati, Maritimo, Dalkey, etc. *

Blackrock. - Frescati. -  Pamela. - Lord Edward FitzGerald. - Mantimo. -  Lady Cloncurry. - DaIkey. - The King of Dalkey.

“No town in the world has more beautiful surroundings than Dublin.” I quote from a recent writer; and I think few will disagree with this opinion. On the south side we have a foreshore running from Dublin to Dalkey, where, I take it, suburban melts into country ; and all along the line by road 6r rail there is the same continuous expanse of what D’Israeli calls the melancholy ocean - not melancholy, how-ever, on a clear day, when the blue of the sky reflects itself in the blue of the sea, when in the distance we see the Hill of Howth, and farther away the little Islet of Innisfallen (Ireland’s Eye).

With a good glass, on such a day, it is easy to pick out the man on the Bailey Lighthouse, fully 11 miles across. Farther down this side of the coast is Kingstown, the Cowes of Ireland ; its plaster villas glisten in the sunlight like the frosting of a bride cake, and its harbour looks like a loop of ribbon floating upon the water. Far away little white splashes can be made out on the purple-grey horizon there are the fishing boats and yachts scudding along under a good spread of canvas; they look from the distance like so many white swans dipping their pretty necks into the cool water. Yes, I do maintain (like the Vicar of Bray) that our Irish coast is our strong point.

The road from Dublin to Kingstown is one long line of suburban townships rejoicing in different names, all of them more or less submerged, so far as fashion goes, in the more important Kingstown and its dependencies, but formerly, before the jerry-builder craze set in, having an importance of their own. Such was Sandymount, the resort of the cockle girls, Merrion, a sleepy hollow, Booterstown, and Blackrock.

The Rock Road is one of the oldest in the country, dating back before St. Patrick landed on the shores of Ireland. In the 15th century it was called the Road to Bray, and it was by this road that the O’Byrnes and O’Tooles of earlier times made their “unwelcome” appearance in Dublin.

Blackrock came into existence somewhere in the beginning of the reign of George II., when we read of it as a fashionable resort. People of quality went there to stop at Conway’s Tavern, which had a great reputation for its ball-room, 70 feet in length, the ceiling being highly ornamented.

In the bathing season the Rock Road was crowded with every sort of vehicle, from the fine family coach to the humble noddy and cart, the great inducement being the facility of bathing on the soft and gently sloping strand.

At Blackrock there still remains traces of its former high estate in some charmingly designed houses which stand away from the high road in a pleasant lawn and shubbery. [One of these was *Rockfield, at *one time the residence of the Viceroy, Lord Townahend.] One of these is “Frescati,” which was built for Hely Hutchinson, Provost of Trinity College, generally called the Prancer. He had a very vulgar wife, of whom he was heartily ashamed ; and his enemies, who were legion, made capital of this, and invented all manner of stories concerning the poor woman.

The great attraction of Frescati, however, lies in its association with the unfortunate Lord Edward FitzGerald and Pamela.[ Lord Edward bad married Pamela at Tournai in 1791**. **After the marriage they resided for two years at Hamburg, Lord Edward being a political agent.] Here, after they came to Ireland, some months were spent. In a letter to the Duchess of Leinster, dated May 6, 1793, the young husband writes:

“Wife and I come to settle here. We came last night, got up to a delightful spring day, and are now enjoying the little hook-room, [The book-room in the illustration is marked A It has a bay window opening on the lawn. It was Pamela and Lord Edward’s favourite sitting-room.] with the windows open, hearing the birds sing, and the place looking beautiful. The plants in the passage are just watered, and, with the passage door open, the room smells like a greenhouse. Pamela has dressed four vases, and is now working at her frame, while I write to my dearest mother; and upon the two little stands there are six pots of fine auriculas, and I am sitting in the bay window with all those pleasant feelings which the Fine weather, the pretty place, the singing birds, the pretty wife, and Frescati give me, with your last dear letter to my wife before me. So you may judge how I love you. At this moment she is busy in her little American jacket planting sweet-peas and mignonette; her thimble and workbox, with the little one’s caps, are on the table. The dear little, pale, pretty wife sends her love to you.- Your Edward.”

To us who know the tragic sequel of this love idyll the picture presented of the young wife in her American jacket is full of interest. The young pair did not stay long at Frescati. It was one of the features of their short married life never to have a permanent home. They were forever moving restlessly here and there, according to the necessities of Lord Edward’s complicated schemes.

But all through the feverish episodes which succeeded one another, Pamela’s love and confidence in her husband seem never to have failed. In Captain Jephson’s Letters there is a pleasant account of this pretty creature paying Lord Charlemont a visit in his library at Charlemont House. “She is elegant and engaging in the highest degree,” he says, “and showed the most judicious taste in her remarks upon the library and curiosities.” She promised Lord Charlemont, with great good humour, to assist him in keeping her husband in order. She was dressed in a plain riding habit, and came to the door in a curricle. He adds, ” The ladies of Dublin, I understand, mean to put her down.”

They could hardly have accomplished this, for not even the sad circumstances in which she was placed dimmed her beauty, which, we gather from the accounts of those who knew her, was more of expression than beauty of feature. In Romney’s portrait there is a slight suggestion of Emma Hamilton. Rogers, who saw her when she was a girl, describes her as lovely and quite radiant with beauty. Shortly before her marriage she was at Bath with Madame de Genlis; who went by the name of Madame de Sillery. Mademoiselle d’Orleans was also of the party. When the Master of the Ceremonies proposed putting Mademoiselle above Pamela, Madame de Genlis said, “Non, non, tous sont égaux!”

Miss Holroyd, who tells this story, talks of Pamela’s eyes as being very fine; but does not seem to have been particularly impressed by her beauty. At Bath she made the conquest of Sheridan, who proposed for her, and was accepted, but went away, and no more was heard of his offer. She soon after married Lord Edward; and it would seem that they lived very happily together.

After his death, however, her career became very disappointing. After a short interval, *only one year, *she married again - Mr. Pitcairn, the American Consul at Hamburg, whither she had returned, and it was said as a political agent. Her union with him was not happy; and after the birth of one child, a daughter, there was a divorce.

Pamela reappeared in France, residing at Montauban, where she comported herself strangely, dressing up as a shepherdess and carrying a crook. In 1830 she came to Paris, hoping to renew relations with the royal family; but she was not accorded a warm welcome. She was in bad health, and died in 1831 at the Hotel Danube, Rue de la Sauviere. She was found to be absolutely penniless, although she had £500 a year. Her funeral expenses were paid by the French royal family.

Not long ago a violent controversy was carried on in *Notes and Queries *as to who Pamela was, some curious theories being put forward. Many years before, the subject had been thoroughly sifted by Sir Bernard Burke, who had singular opportunities for knowing the truth, and seems to have been convinced that she was the daughter of Madame de Genlis and the Duke of Orleans.

On the other hand Mr. Alger, who in the course of preparing his notice of Pamela for the “National Biography” went into the question very carefully, has arrived at a contrary conclusion, and considers she was the illegitimate daughter of Mr. Sims, of Fogo Newfoundland. It must be said that Mr. Alger does not assert this quite so positively in the “National Biography” as he does in Notes and Queries.

There is no doubt the family of Lord Edward did not wish that it should be thought Pamela was in any way connected with the Orleans family ; and in this connection it should be noted that Mr. Alger received his conviction that Sims was the father of Pamela from Mr. *James FitzGerald, *of Fogo Island.

If she were the daughter of Sims, it is hard to understand why she should have received a pension of six thousand francs from Égalite, and why her funeral expenses should have been paid by the royal family of France.

Of her three children by the FitzGerald marriage, the son died unmarried; and of the two daughters, one was Lady Guy Campbell; the other married a clergyman with a living in Essex. Both ladies had an heredity of beauty and charm, which descended to Lady Campbell’s daughters in a remarkable degree.

Little more than a year ago, Helen Pitcairn, her child by the second marriage, died at the advanced age of 96. She had survived her husband, an American, Hugh McQuordale, and apparently all her relations and friends. She bequeathed most of her fortune to charities, and constituted her maid her residuary legatee, by which means a number of relics of Lord Edward FitzGerald, medallions and miniatures, have passed away from his descendants. From first to last Pamela’s story is a strange sort of enigma.

Not far from Frescati, but nearer to Booterstown than Blackrock, is **

Maritimo**

the seat of Lord Cloncurry. It has the most lovely view that can be well imagined, and for those who love the sea is well-nigh enchanting. The house is. unpretentious. It was here that the patriot Lord, after his release from imprisonment, resided.

It is always. difficult to understand why it was that Lord Edward FitzGerald, Lord Cloncurry, and the Duke of Leinster should have been the leaders of a popular rising against the English Government. They belonged to the party of ascendency, and would seem to have had no cause for complaint.

And in this connection. it is a singular fact, overlooked by most writers, that nearly all the rebellions against English rule have been led by Protestant leaders. Lord Cloncurry was. somewhat of a feather-headed revolutionist, and did his party more harm than good.

Another and perhaps a pleasanter association with Maritimo is the late Lady Cloncurry, one of the most beautiful women of her day. She was a. Miss Kirwan, of Castle Hackett, Galway; and was in every sense of the word a typical Irishwoman - warm-hearted, generous, a true friend, full of fun and repartee, and equally prone to sad retrospection and. tenderness.

In her later years she retained all her verve and beauty, being as lovely in old age as she had been in the days when she was the toast of Galway. Her daughter, the Hon. Emily Lawless, has won great distinction as a writer of Irish fiction, her story of ” Hurrish” ranking with the works of Miss Edgeworth and Carleton. **

Dalkey**

“This is Dalkey,” says Mr. Moore; and as I have given my readers some of this writer’s drastic abuse of Dublin, I think it is only fair to give them his artistic conception of Dalkey, for Mr. Moore is a word-painter when he chooses.

But to return. “This is Dalkey. From where I stand I look down upon the sea as on a cup of blue water; it lies 200 feet below me like a great smooth mirror; it lies beneath the blue sky as calm, as mysteriously still, as an enchanted glass in which we may read the secrets of the future. How perfectly cuplike is the Bay! Blue mountains, blue embaying mountains, rise on every side; and amorously the sea rises up to the lip of the land. These mountains of the north, these Turnerlike mountains, with their innumerable aspects, hazy perspectives lost in delicate grey, large and trenchant masses standing out** **brutally in the strength of the sun, are as the mailed arms of a knight leaning to a floating siren, whose flight he would detain, and of whom he asks still an hour of love. I hear the liquid murmur of the sea; it sings to the shore as softly as a turtle-dove to its mate. I see white sails scattered over the grey backgrounds of the sky, and through the dissolving horizon other sails appear and disappear, lighter than the large wings of the sea-gull that floats and plunges, sometimes within a few feet of the cliff’s edge; a moment after, there are a 100 feet between it and the sea. My thoughts turn involuntarily to the Bay of Naples, which I have never seen; but perfect though it be-Nature’s fullest delight, above which no desire may soar-it cannot be more beautiful than the scene which now lies blue and translucid before me.

“I am 200 feet above a sea striped with purple and violet ; and above my head the rocks rise precipitously. From every side the mountains press with voluptuous arms the voluptuous sea; above my head the villas are perched like birds amid the rocks. There I see a bouquet of trees; here I see a greensward, where the white dresses of the young girls playing tennis float this way and that. From villa to villa a white road winds, like a thread leading through the secrets of a labyrinth; sometimes it is lost in a rocky entanglement; sometimes it vanishes in the dark and long shadows of a pine wood; sometimes it is suspended, it is impossible to say how, out of the mountain-side; and higher still, spread out on the clear sky, and crowning the mountain-brow, is the imperial heather.”

Mr. Moore is not given to exaggerating the beauties of his own country; we may accept his word-painting as fact; and for the rest the comparison of the Bay of Dublin to that of Naples has often been made. The point where the resemblance is most striking is “Sorrento,” a name suggested by the resemblance of the sister bays. A fine sea view can be had from the residence of Sir Brady, lying at the foot of Sorrento Hill, being studded with pretty villas, which give a air to the locality.

Dalkey has its history and its antiquities. There are old castles mentioned in the “Annals of the Four Masters.” Warner, the Irish historian, says the Danes, from being pirates became in 883 masters of the country, and, being animated by their great success, began to build castles and fortifications. They built these especially along the sea-shore, where attacks were most likely. Bullock Castle was one of these Danish defences, and is well worth a visit, having also a quadrangular tower of very ancient date, and its own harbour, whence in 1769** **vessels left for England.

Bullock had likewise Druidical remains. The rocking-stones used by this mysterious priesthood for the purpose of devotion were formerly to be seen but these relics, as well as the old cromlech, were taken away when the hideous Martello towers were set up to disfigure the country.

In the last century a curious convivial society or club was established in Dublin, which existed for a considerable time, until it became the parent of secret democratic societies in connection with the French revolutionists. Most of the wits and gay fellows of the middle and liberal class of society were members of it. Its president was styled, King of Dalkey, Emperor of the Muglins, Prince of the Holy Island of Magee, and Elector of Lambay and Ireland’s Eye, Defender of his own Faith and Respecter of all Others, and Sovereign of the Most Illustrious Order of the Lobster and Periwinkle.”

Proclamations in connection with this mimic kingdom were issued from “The Palace, Fownes’ Street.” The last and most popular King of Dalkey was a very respectable bookseller and pawn-broker of Dublin-Stephen Armitage, who reigned under the title of

King Stephen The First

George has of wealth the dev’l and all,

Him, we may King of Diamonds call;

But *thou *hast such persuasive arts,

We hail *thee *Stephen, King of Hearts.

- Moore.

The members of this society met once a year on Dalkey island to choose a King and State officers, the monarchy being elective. All the nobility of this little kingdom included at one time the fine fleur of Irish talent - wits, orators, musicians, and statesmen being amongst its subjects. The whole affair was an amusing burlesque in Mr. W. S. Gilbert’s style. The last royal procession, levée, and coronation anniversary of the kingdom of Dalkey was held on August 20, 1797, **on which occasion 20,000 persons were present.

At this time what had been an amusing ‘travestie of royalty” had been turned into a dangerous political association. From 1792 a new order had been introduced called “the Druids.” From every point of view this new development was objectionable. “The Druids’ Head” in South George’s Street was the meeting-place of the United Irishmen. For a long time this secret society escaped notice; but Major Sirr and his informers got on the track, and the Druids’ tavern was one evening surrounded and searched; a number of pikes were found concealed, and a number of arrests were made. So ended the kingdom of Dalkey.

Dalkey proper has been rather sat upon by her more flashy neighbour Bray. Bray, with its straggling common, its pretence of being fashionable, and its eternal and monotonous “Head,” is to my mind vastly inferior to its more modest and simple rival. One whiff of the- pure air of Dalkey is health-restoring and reviving. But, mind ye, my reader, I only decry Bray proper, not its ever- delightful surroundings. But these can be easily reached from Dalkey.

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