Julia Griffiths to Frederick Douglass, October 21, 1856

For Frederick Douglass' Paper.

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

Number XXXII.

THE DINGLE, LIVERPOOL, Oct. 21, '56.

MY DEAR FRIEND: —I am scribbling this in the sweet and shady retreat on the banks of the Rivery Mersey, known as the "Dingle," or "Dingle Bank." The readers of "Sunny Memories," will probably bring to mind Mrs. H. B. Stowe's sketch of this charming spot—the residence of the COOPER family. It is not in your delineations of the people you are visiting; and, therefore, I forbear saying much that I should have liked to tell my American friends, about my excellent host, and hostess, and the large and delightful family by whom they are surrounded. The beautiful grounds of the Dingle comprise (I am told) nearly twenty acres of plantation—shrubbery, pasture, and garden ground extending to the water's edge; walks of every variety traverse these grounds in all directions. Here the trees meet over your head, and the crisp, brown leaves of autumn fall beneath your feet. Here, in shady, pleasant nooks, you come upon pretty little summer-houses, rustic bridges, and romantic windings. Delightful is the Terrace by this side of the river. Here the rambler is fanned by the fresh breezes of the Mersey; he watches the white sails of the pretty vessels that are gliding by, I have just come in from a charming walk, through the Dingle. The weather is very lovely for England, and for this season of the year; and although our autumn foliage lacks the brilliant hues that color your American forests, our woods are just now very grand, arrayed in their dress of darker and more sombre russet brown. Among the most attractive ornaments of the Dingle, are the groups of lovely children that one meets in all directions, hounding hither and thither in full enjoyment of their liberty. Just now I came suddenly upon a pretty little summer (or winter) house by the water; and there I found two sweet little boys, sons of MATTHEW ARNOLD, Esq., the poet, and grandsons of our much beloved Dr. ARNOLD; and then I came upon another little boy, who is called DENMAN, after his grand-papa, the late Lord Chief Justice DENMAN. Time fails me to tell you of the rich plantations of trees, its choice evergreens, fine flower gardens and conservatories, and its three pretty English cottage residences, all so snugly located in the midst of the grounds.—As for the inmates—so good, so kind, so wise,

philanthropic, and so Christian—I wish I dare attempt to describe them. I wish I could give you my idea for her who is the presiding spirit here, and whose ineffable sweetness adds the crowning charm to this sweet spot. But it may not be; and witout lingering longer by the banks of the Mersey, I will take you to the city of Liverpool, and tell you of the large meeting of ladies that was convened there yesterday, for the purpose of founding an Anti-Slavery Association, of which I send you the Constitution. (The Constitution alluded to, appeared in our issue of last week.—Ed.) The Hon. Mrs. Edwards Cropper has kindly consented to be President of this new Society; the Committee is large, influential and philanthropic, and I have little doubt that the ladies who compose it will do all in their power to serve that cause to which they have pledged themselves. Be of good cheer, the, my friend, and so long as you labor faithfully and earnestly in behalf of your deeply injured and much oppressed race, never dobut that the Chris tian friend of the cause in Great Britain and Ireland, will do what they can to aid your efforts. But, in this connection, I must not omit to mention the fine array of contributions for the Rochester Bazaar, which it was very cheering to behold, last week, at the house of Mrs. Robberds, High Park Street. There I paid the first part of my visit to Liverpool, and there I had the pleasure of meeting a number of the ladies who had contributed to this object. I wish, extremely, that I could be at Rochester at the un[acking this year! for, by

old, in Rochester, thoughtful, earnest and somewhat melancholy. We had much interesting conversation about the Slavery subject, and the Anti-Slavery subject also. Deeply does this man of true Christian Charity mourn the divisions and conflicting jealousies of the Abolitionists, and earnestly does he seek to heal the breaches, and to reconcile what (it seems to me) is irreconcilable. I always think of Lord FALKLAND when I look at Mr. Channing. If the people who live in this beautiful world of our's, were all as clear, and transparent, in heart and mind, as noble and magnanimous, in word and action, and as ready to "render tribute to whom tribute is due," and "honor to whom honor is due," as he desires to have them, paradise would have begun here below.

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THE DARGLE, Co. Wicklow, Oct, 25.

So many, my dear friend, have been the claims upon me, and so constantly increasing is my correspondence, that (as much as I desired it) I found it impossible to send off my letter, yesterday, by the U. S. mail, and now I snatch a few moments to add a line or two, and tell you of my present whereabouts, which is none other than the Dargle, or Dark Glen. Here, seated in a rough rustic summer house, most romantically positioned, and looking up the wood-crowned heights, and down into the leafy depths of this beautiful glen, I am listening, by turns, to the wild music of the rive Dargle, and to "Garry Owen" and "St. Patrick`s Day in the Morning," which is, at this time, being vigorously performed by the old Irish Fiddler, who tells us he has played here these forty years!—Here I wish that you, and your favorite fiddle, could be with us! I came here a few hours ago from Dublin, with a dear friend, who could not bear the thought of my being twice in Erin's Isle, without taking a peep at County Wicklow, and very much am I enjoying the excursion. We came by railway to Bray. In the first part of the journey, I saw nothing of especial interest, except the range of "the Dublin mountains," and to me, mountains ever have a charm. Crossing the Dodder stream, we passed the town of Dundrum, and Taney Hill church, which stands on rising ground. After whirling by Stillorgan District, the ocean appeared in sight, with the range of the Killiney Hills, which are three in number, (one being crowned with an obelisk,) graduating in size, and appearing to extend into the sea, while Dalkey Island (just beneath this fine range of hills) rises up from the bosom of old ocean.—The sea view here is magnificent; while, on the

other side of us, we see a hill with the unpronounceable name of Collygorithy; and the Scalp, a wild, mountain pass appears in sight —on—on we go—and now we reach the little town of Bray, which is backed by the far-famed Wicklow mountains. To our left is Bray-Head, a lofty hill jutting into the sea, whch I, at once, am seized with a desire to climb.—Next rises the sharp peak of the Little Sugar Loaf, which is good humored, and shows us his face—not so his next neighbor, the Great Sugar Loaf. His countenance is clouded, and heavy mists hang around his brow. In the distance, we see Shankhill and Collygorithy. The scene is grand, wild and picturesque, and the mountains beckon us onward. We decline all invitations to mount "outside cars," and "inside cars," and passing through the town of Bray, we are soon on our way to the Dark Glen, (or Dargle). The walk is long, but I much enjoy it, for my companion, with characteristic enthusiasm, and prompt kindness, desires to point out every beauty—and truly I am in the midst of the beautiful here. Although it is autumn, and many of the leaves are changing color, yet never did I see such a bright, full array of verdure as here. Evergreens abound—the holly, the laurel, the ivy, the lamestina, and the arbutus, are all here, in a profuse luxuriance, unknown in less emerald islands. We pass a fine place, owned by Sir George Hudson—here is one of the prettiest and greatest glens—here the graceful larch, and the sturdy Scotch fir appear in rare beauty—here the walls are covered with moss, while sweet little ferns peep out their heads from every crevice; rich ivy trees, now in full blossom, look at you from over the top of the wall, and trees of every shade and variety abound—the green oak an brown oak, the clanging ash, the beech, the birch, the horse chestnut, and the plain tree are here; and my old friend, the "whin," or furze that I left blooming in spring beauty in dear old Scotland, a few months ago, is now blossoming, in golden beauty, in Hibernia's land:—Here, by the road side, are large holly trees, thickly decked with berries, and entwined with thick ivy, in full flower. Here is the superb arbutus, with its clear bright leaves, its beautiful blossom, and its berry all together. Here are laurels in blossom, and lamestinas in full flower. I have stopped to gaze with delight at this everywhere abounding exuberance of nature. Here is a long row of ash trees, whose leaves have been nearly all whirled away by the blasts of autumn; but their stems are entwined by thick ivy, (which here does not creep, but run rapidly,) and heavy masses of this rich evergreen hang pendant from the branches of the tree, so that the ash has almost become an ivy tree. And now we have entered the

Dargle, and I, once more, bring you to the old Irish fiddler, whose summer house is, probably, about a mile from the entrance gate to this beauteous Glen. On just entering the Dargle, I was reminded of that portion of the Glenesk in the vicinity of Gannorchy Bridge. Each glen has its own particular charms and beauties. The walks here are very delightful—now you may ramble down to the edge of the murmuring stream, and anon, you are far above it, looking down into its dark depths. "Lover`s Leaps," are pointed out at every place—so, of course, there is one at the Dargle. The Leap here, tradition says, was taken by a hapless Prince of Leinster, who, being rejected by the Ladye of his love, terminated his earthly griefs by dashing himself into the yawning gulph beneath. The Ladye relented when too late, and a few months after, she followed her lover's example. So runs the legend, and I am sure I shall not dispute its authenticity. It is far more pleasant to discuss the merit of the excellent lunch, provided by my kind and thoughtful friends, and to listen to "the Harp that once through Tara`s Halls," &c. I wish I could give you a vivid portraiture of the very charming glen, where "far retired from noise and strife," a lover of the beautiful and picturesque, might wander for hours, unwearied; but you must see it yourself to understand its surpassing loveliness. The winding stream, far beneath us, now softly murmuring, then tumultuously hurrying on—the richly wooded heights of the narrow and winding glen, above you—the verdant depths beneath you—the occasional jutting rocks—the ever abounding evergreens, in full berry, blossom and beauty—the magnificent shield Ferns—the moss—nothing but beauty lies here; and over all the Little Sugar Loaf peak peeps down upon us. I am almost ready to sing with the bard of Erin, (with a slight transposition,)

"Sweet glen of the Dargle, how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,

When the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease

And our hearts, like they waters, be mingled in peace."

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Very truly yours,

JULIA GRIFFITHS.