THE IMPERIAL MAGAZINE.

SEPTEMBER, 1833.

POUL-A-PHUCA WATERFALL, COUNTY OF WICKLOW, IRELAND.

(With an Engraving.)

To afford a diversity of materials, and thus cater for the varied literary tastes of our readers, we have occasionally presented them with an Engraving, representing some striking scenery, or interesting object, accompanied by a brief topographical description; and from the general satisfaction which this rare departure from our usual plan of Portrait and Memoir has given, we now venture to give a View of one of the most magnificent Waterfalls in Ireland: but as the local information required to illustrate the Plate is necessarily brief, we shall take the liberty to preface it by glancing at the geographical position and agricultural character of the county which has furnished us with the subject.

The County of Wicklow is situated on the east coast of Ireland, having the county of Dublin on the north, the Irish sea on the east, the counties of Kildare, Dublin, and Carlow, on the west, and that of Wexford on the south. Its extent from north to south is thirty-two Irish (forty and a half English) miles; from east to west, twenty-six Irish (thirty-three English) miles; and the superficial contents are 311,600 acres, or 486 square miles, equal to 500,600 acres, or 780 square miles English. Mr. Radcliffe, according to the county map, states the superficial contents at 305,404 Irish acres. There are fifty-eight parishes, which have twenty churches, mostly in the archbishopric of Dublin. The population is estimated at about 60,000.-Several considerable rivers have their sources in this county. The Liffey, with its tributary streams, takes a circular course through the county of Kildare, and falls into the bay of Dublin; the Slaney runs southward from the Mountain District to the harbour of Wexford; the Fartray disembogues itself at Wicklow; and the Ovoca at Arklow.

"No native of the British dominions," says a writer on Irish scenery, "can be justified in travelling to Italy and Switzerland in search of beauty, until he has visited the county of Wicklow." It contains a singular combination of the sublime with the more beautiful features of scenery. In some parts of this romantic county, nature puts on her most wild, rugged, and precipitous aspect, while in other parts all is verdure, profusion, aud beauty. The tract, for example, extending from Bray to Arklow, bounded on the east by the sea, and on the west and north by the mountains, is rich and beautiful. Here the climate is mild, owing to the shelter of the northern hills, and the soil more fertile than in the western part of the county. The central division, in a direction north and south, is barren, waste, and desolate; though even this region has in all ages compensated for the unproductiveness of its soil, by supplying the ancients with iron, and probably with gold, and the moderns with abundance of copper and lead. In general, the interior of this county is cheerless, while, throughout 2D. SERIES, NO. 33.-VOL. III.

3 D

177.-VOL. XV.

the long extent of its borders, and particularly on the sea-coast, it assumes a splendour and variety of scenery which is not surpassed in any part of the island. In allusion to this contrast between the rugged aspect of the central divisions of this county, and the exuberant richness of its borders, Dean Swift has made a happy remark (suggested by the chief manufacture of the inhabitants,) in which he compares Wicklow to a frieze cloak trimmed with golden lace.

The romantic beauties of this county have been often described. The vicinity of Dublin makes them easily accessible, and few travellers omit to visit them. Perhaps one of the most picturesque scenes which this county offers is represented in the engraving prefixed to this account. It is called Poul-a

Phuca, which signifies the puck's or demon's hole, and is so called consistently with a very prevalent superstition of our forefathers, because its depth has never been ascertained. It is a most romantic water-fall, by which the river Liffey is precipitated from a higher to a lower level, through a rocky bed, divided into several distinct falls in the manner of a staircase. The breadth of the opening between the bold rocks on either side is but forty feet, and the height through which the waters fall from the upper stage beyond the bridge, to the level of the figures in the fore-ground of the picture, is 180 feet. In tumbling down this height, projecting fragments impede the water, dash it into foam, and add to the agitation in which it reaches the bottom. The hoarse roar of the fall may be heard at a distance of some miles, and the eddy created in the abyss which receives it, has been compared to the phenomenon on the coast of Norway called the "navel of the sea," in which the power of suction is such as to draw in and destroy vessels from a considerable distance.

One side of the Waterfall Glen is the property of the Earl of Miltown, and was elegantly planted by him some years since: the other side belongs to Colonel Wolfe, and is left in a naked, barren, and uninteresting condition.

Poul-a-Phuca bridge is built from the spirited design of A. Nimmo, Esq. -it consists of one gothic, or pointed arch, of what should be called the second order, springing from the rock on either side. The span is 65 feet,

and the key-stone is elevated 180 feet above the level of the river's bed at the lower side. Precisely beneath the bridge lies a circular basin, formed by the rotatory action of the water, in which an unlucky tourist once met his fate, having fallen from the rock above: and, from the little mosshouse, that just peeps beneath the arch, and occupies the distance, there is a splendid retrospect of the rocky vista down which the river is precipitated.

The quantity of water is not generally sufficient to give to the scene the character of dignity; but after rainy weather it presents a noble picture, as may readily be concluded, from the acts of violence with which its course is marked. The dell into which the river descends is a favourite scene of summer festivities. Grottoes, banqueting-rooms, rustic seats, and moss-houses are scattered through the woods that shade the right side of the glen, and witness many morns and eves of mirth and revelry. Yet these are not the ideas naturally associated with the scene: the closing rocks that tower above the head, cause a premature decay of light; the everlasting murmur of the agitated cataract excludes all other business but that of contemplation; and when the eye is raised from the solemn scene below, it rests upon the noble work of art that boldly bestrides the angry flood, or catches the trace of some narrow path, formed by the adventurous foot of curiosity, winding here and there along the dark blue cliffs.

395

ENGLISH POETRY IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

THE delightful author of the "Sketch Book," in one of his imaginary colloquies with a certain dusty black-letter quarto in Westminster Abbey, introduces this striking and beautiful observation :-"There arise authors, now and then, who seem proof against the mutability of literature, because they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream,-which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold, as it were, on the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the ever-flowing current, and uphold many a neighbouring plant, and perhaps worthless weed, to perpetuity.-Such," he continues, "is the case with Shakspeare, whom we behold, defying the encroachments of time,-retaining in modern use, the language and literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indifferent author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity."

In this passage, Shakspeare is rightly adduced, as the highest example of permanent and indestructible renown. Of all the mighty masters of the poetic art, in all ages of the world, not one has ever realized that vast magnitude, and comprehensive variety of genius, which form the noblest attributes of our great dramatist. His works are as a glorious mirror of all nature :-the universal creations of God are imaged there with a lustre and a beauty more transcendent than their own, because it originates in that which partakes more largely of divinity than they-a glory which is immortal, because born of the spirit of man, and animated by its undying principle. Even Homer has less, immeasurably less, of this intense, life-giving energy of imagination: his muse is but a priestess of Apollo,—an unbaptized heathen. His eyes have not been visited with that day-spring from on high,' which the imperishable revelations of Christianity let in upon the human soul; and in the effulgence of whose 'holy light,' Shakspeare beheld the deepest workings and mysterious movements of the inner mind, and stamped them on that shining page, which he has left as a possession, for all time, to all the generations of the earth.

Let us not be misunderstood :—when we speak of the peculiar illumination of the poetic faculty by the exceeding lustre of Christian truth, we mean to indicate the intellectual and speculative relations—as separate from the moral influences- of our faith. Those "obstinate questionings" of the origin and destinies of our surviving being, which perpetually disturb the soul of man, can only be interpreted by the oracles of Sacred Revelation. And without a knowledge of those eternal truths, which form the sum and substance of Christianity,-considered relatively to man, and the nature of man,-it is utterly and eternally impossible for the highest genius rightly to understand the mystery of our complex life.-Herein, therefore, consists the superiority of modern over ancient poetry. Both, alike, deal with the manifestations and the principles of a nature which is ever essentially the same. But of its principles the ancient poets could know but little; and to them, its external phenomena must have been confounding and inexplicable.-Hence it is, too, that the greatest of all human productions are the offspring of minds deeply imbued with Christian philosophy :-that the innumerable forms of intelligent existence are nowhere bodied forth so strikingly, as in the representations of Shakspeare and of Milton,-no where so vividly and variously exhibited-so clothed with all the living attributes of sentient, spiritual being. And, yet, how few of all the multitude of Shakspeare's readers have any suspicion, that his dramas present a finer series of illustrations of many of the fundamental articles of Christian theology, than can be found in any extant commentary under heaven!"

We might illustrate our meaning, in this place, by a comparison of the Agamemnon of Eschylus, with Macbeth or Hamlet ;* but this, besides being altogether foreign to our

There is one scene, in particular, of the Greek drama, which might be well contrasted with the first and second of Act II. of Macbeth :-that, namely, in which Cassandra pours forth her dismal prophetic

present purpose, would lead us into a far wider field of discussion than we are now prepared to traverse. Be it observed, however, that Shakspeare's representations of deep and ardent feeling surpass those of the great Grecian dramatist, in vigorous and distinct development, but, above all, in their wondrous preservation, throughout, of that intimate harmony which subsists between the seemingly discordant elements of individual character. There is, in all the speakers and agents of his dramas, a perpetual presence of one will and spirit—an absolute principle of identity, which manifests itself in all their words, and thoughts, and actions,-which modifies and subjugates to consistency even the outrages of passion,-which colours, as it were, with some distinctive hue, every successive growth of natural affection, and renders it an incommunicable and peculiar quality, and which, while it demands the expression of a sympathy founded upon the universal community of man's nature, maintains unbroken, through all the ceaseless fluctuations of time and circumstance, the integrity and independent unity of separate being. Strange mysteries lie asleep within our souls,

Now, it is precisely in his presentations of these 'strange mysteries,' these supernatural phenomena of nature,—that the pre-eminent genius of Shakspeare is so magnificently displayed. In the perfection and truth of such revelations of the inward conflicts of the mind-of its eternal bafflings, agonies, disturbances of every kind,-consists the noblest excellence of dramatic poetry :-and in this it is, chiefly, that the sovereign skill of the bard of Avon is discovered.

These somewhat desultory observations have, in our mind, connected themselves, we know not how, with the great truth so finely announced in the quotation with which our article commences. We shall scarcely need to apologize for their introduction here, if they only suffice to explain one prominent cause of difference in the characteristic tones of the antique or heathen, and the modern or Christian, poetry. How it happens, we have no wish at present to inquire,-but the fact is indisputable,—that of all forms of composition, the high and true poetic is always the least popular. Unfortunately, in our own day, the vulgar propensity to neglect, if not to despise, every creation of genuine poesy, has been fostered by the voluntary degradation of the art to mean and base purposes, by some of its most distinguished professors. Not only is a great proportion of the poetical literature, now current in the reading society of the age, profaned by a spirit of shameless scepticism, and of avowed hostility to all religion and virtue ;—but to a far wider extent is that literature disfigured by a secret, but most decided and injurious tendency to morbid unnatural excitement. We charge this latter sin, especially, upon Lord Byron, and the minor poets of his school. They have done more by the insidious poison of their works, to corrupt the moral taste of the living generation, than could ever have been effected by a whole army of ruffian infidels, like Paine and his associates. It may be very well for travelling German princes, and other such sagacious and selfsatisfied personages, to talk of "pitiful cockney judgment," pronounced, in England, on the merits of Byron, as a poet. No doubt, his Lordship's misanthropical herds are

wailings, and the chorus,-while the Queen remains within, awaiting the fatal moment when she should smite her Lord upon the forehead with the murderous axe,-utters its dark mysterious intimations of the approach of some disastrous and overwhelming calamity. This, undoubtedly, is the finest scene, of its kind, that can be found in the whole range of ancient classic poetry. We maintain, however, that the Shakspearean exhibition of similar misgivings far transcends even its Grecian prototype in strength and beauty, if, for no other reason, for that, at least, which we have specified in the text.-We learn from it more of the origin and character of those fierce strugglings of the soul to free itself from the fetters which are woven around it, in this unintelligible life-we see more plainly the import of those mystic phantasms which imagination conjures up, when gazing eagerly upon the troubled darkness of futuritya darkness that seems ever agitated and perturbed, as by the vague evolutions of innumerable spectres in some hideous dream.

better suited to the atmosphere of Germany than to that of his own country—and long may they continue to be so! To us, however, it is abundantly evident, that the exhibition, by the noble bard, year after year, and season after season, of some new scoundrel -some wretched outcast from society, on whom the world had set its universal cursesome fierce, sneering, murderous renegado, the very loathsomeness of whose infamy had sickened even his own heart, and filled it, as it were, with one consuming agony of vindictive malignity,—as a creature worthy of pity, of sympathy, even of love,—has tended, more than any thing else, to deprave the imagination, and afflict with an inveterate taint, the irritated emotions of his readers. That Byron's pictures of these outlawed and ferocious warriors against their kind, are coloured with prodigious force and splendour, is not to be denied ; but the very conception of such characters is radically vicious. Moreover, it is by this very fascination of his verse,-by this adventitious charm,-that all the mischief is effected. Strip from each hideous impersonation its gilded and graceful apparel -or thrust aside the elaborate foldings of its gorgeous mantle, and let the spectral monster beneath stand forth in all its native deformity, and the only sentiment which can arise in the mind of the beholder will be one of unmingled horror and disgust.—True, Byron rarely violates the precept, which forbids the naked exposure of aught that is utterly offensive-of unredeemed baseness or sordid villany :-this is not our charge.— We accuse the poet of investing characters constructed on the principles of vice, with attributes of glory which belong of right to virtue alone. He has arrayed Duessa in the radiant habit of "Heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb;"

he has claimed for incarnations of revenge and guilt, that reverent affection which is due only to innocence and mercy; and over countenances, whose misshaded leprosy would look ghastly as the face of Death itself, has spread a veil of flimsiest sophistry, yet withal so artfully and curiously interwoven with gems and pearls of truth, that the eye of the spectator too seldom pierces the seductive disguise.

Let it not be thought that we are here reproaching Byron for the exercise of a faculty, which in other cases we profess to consider one of the highest proofs of genius. Unquestionably the obligation which the poet must impose upon himself, requires that he should contribute largely to the delight of all his readers. Even if his subject be unpromising, he is bound to soften down its prominent asperities, and to neglect no means of rendering it as interesting and attractive as it can be made. The hero must have claims upon our human affections, or the poem is nothing better than a newspaper record of extraordinary transactions. Thus the fallen angels of Milton, and the baser agents of Shakspeare, are all redeemed within the limits of our sympathy, either by their stupendous fortitude, and majestic power of endurance,-by that unconquerable energy of will, which impels them to resume their hopeless contest with Omnipotence, or by those lingering regrets and casual awakenings of virtuous sentiment, which ever and anon disturb the peace of inveterate selfishness and malice, and would fain deter it from the persecution of suffering innocence and beauty. But in all these instances, we find that the redeeming quality is either good and amiable in itself,-or such as we are accustomed to discover in intimate and essential combination with intrinsic nobleness and excellence. It is always some relic-though, perhaps, a mutilated and impaired one-of the primeval grandeur of the mind, that demands our admiration and approval: some transient gleam of that fastfading lustre, which flashes fitfully athwart the darkness of the spirit, and saves it from the condemnation of irrecoverable depravity.

Now, with Byron and his followers it is not so. Their aim is to awaken interest in favour of their miscreant characters, as beings that are stung into acts of madness and rebellion against "the world, and the world's law," by the vindictive memory of some tremendous excess of penal infliction visited upon the venial transgressions of their youth. It is true, indeed, that, from the days of Cain, misanthropy has been the common bane of all diseased and vitiated minds; but with the general mass of mankind it is not, and in the nature of things it cannot be, an ordinary, permanent, or influential sentiment.