The photographic news

• Bandzählung: 29.1885
• Erscheinungsdatum: 1885
• Sprache: Englisch
• Signatur: F 135
• Vorlage: Hochschule für Grafik und Buchkunst Leipzig
• Digitalisat: Hochschule für Grafik und Buchkunst Leipzig
• Digitalisat: SLUB Dresden
• Rechtehinweis: Public Domain Mark 1.0
• URN: urn:nbn:de:bsz:14-db-id1780948042-188500006
• PURL: http://digital.slub-dresden.de/id1780948042-18850000
• OAI: oai:de:slub-dresden:db:id-1780948042-18850000
• Sammlungen: LDP: Historische Bestände der Hochschule für Grafik und Buchkunst Leipzig
• Sammlungen: Fotografie
• Bemerkung: Seite I-II fehlen in der Vorlage. Paginierfehler: Seite 160 als Seite 144 gezählt.
• Strukturtyp: Band

• Digitalisat: SLUB Dresden
• Strukturtyp: Ausgabe

March 20, 1885.] the PHOTOGRAPHC Sews. 187 That the body of the lantern folds without being disconnected at any of the angles, as the ruby cloth, or other medium, entirely surrounds it, and forms the hinges. A FEW STRAY “SHOTS” IN IRELAND. BY ADOLPH W. BEER.* LEAVING Liverpool one evening last September, Holyhead is reached about an hour after midnight, and we at once secure our berths on board the express steamer Banshee, now blowing off steam alongside the railway platform. This done, we go on the saloon deck and admire the weird and ghastly effect produced by the illumination of Holyhead harbour by electric lights, raised to great elevations, and having anything but a pleasing appearance. Presently, in the twilight of daybreak, we steam through the double harbour, and soon the red and white lights are left far behind, and we are fairly on our way. After an unrefreshing sleep one is aroused by a lovely perfume pervading the saloon that can only be manufactured at Cologne or Dublin, and on looking out, see a narrow ditch, crowded with tumble-down buildings and rotting wharves—in a word, the Liffey at low water—stinking and filthy. Fortunately we are soon at North Wall, and after pissing through a miniature “ Mersey tunnel,” we and all our traps emerge on to the quay, and essay our first ride in an Irish low- backed car. Away we tear, in early autumn evening, passing the Custom House—a fair specimen of the public buildings of Dublin— through the only just awakening streets of the city, and on to the station for Bray. Having no intention to lose any time, we defer looking round Dublin until our return. We reach Bray in time for breakfast, for which we are about ready, previously engaging, and coming to a satisfactory understanding with, a carman for the day’s drive. Enough has been said for and against the Irish jaunting car, and we are bound in fairness to admit that we found them not only delight fully easy riding, but also, upon the whole, reasonably cheap travelling. After the "feed,” we find our “boys” waiting for us, and drive off to the Dargle and Carvers Court. It was one of our pieces of good fortune that our photographic chum was an old Dublin resident, and who knew the ground ; consequently we were able to get to work without any loss of time. A drive of about two miles brings us to the Powerscourt entrance to the Dargle Glen (the stream dividing the demesnes of Lords Monck and Powerscourt), aud at once stride down to the bed of the river. Working up the glen, countless pictures are to be obtained, limited only to the plate-power of the photographer. Many of these views are made popular by the camera of Payne Jennings, who, it is said, owes much of his repute to his success here. The day is perfect for this class of work. Not a breath of air stirring, not a ripple through the trees, not a quiver of a leaf, although the sun is at times rather too bright. Are we ever quite content ? Half way through the valley we come to a most lovely pool, shut in by precipitous rocks, with a gorge-like opening framed in shining foliage, reflected in the still, deep, cool water at the foot, with just a suspicion of current on the surface. Of course we do our best to make a picture of it, but, un fortunately, no photograph—or, for the matter of that, painting either—could faithfully render all the beauties of that “ gem of the Dargle.” We tread reluctantly away, and mount the steep banks, to the picturesque cottage. A walk across the fields brings us to where our car is waiting for us, to continue our drive. A little further on we again find the stream just past the house and grounds presented by a grateful nation to Henry Grattan. Here, at what is called the “Golden Bridge,” we find more camera work. A long and rather wearisome drive through a fir plantation and between hills shutting out all prospect, and making the valley look dull and dismal, brings us to the famous Powers court Waterfall, where the Dargle is thrown over a hill or mountain 300 feet high, and if there is any body of water at all, it must be a most magnificent sight; but at the time of our visit the quantity was very limited and the stream thin ; neverthe less, its situation, where the green, rocky mass seems to close up * Abstract of a communication to the Photographic Society of Ireland. the valley as by a gigantic wall, dwarfing the magnificent trees, and frowning grimly in the fading afternoon light, surpasses our expectations, and is well worth the “fag” of the otherwise purposeless drive. We find the day rapidly closing in aud the light fading, but by means of full aperture and long exposure, a fair rendering is secured. We drive back to Bray through the Monck demesnes, over a grandly picturesque road, cut high up on the hill side, com manding broad and swelling vistas of wood, and road, and hill in ever-changing variety, and in the far distance, through the openings in the hills, can be seen, under the line of the horizon, the gleam of the open sea. The low wall that guards the precipitous edge of the road looks very insecure—-being but a foot or two high ; and we are entertained by an account describing how, some years ago, a drunken coachman drove a carriage and pair, together with Lady Monck, who was inside, right over the wall and down the precipice, her life only being saved by the dense foliage breaking the fall. Arriving back on the high road, we essay to photo graph the famous Dargle Bridge—the subject of many tender at tentions by many ambitious artists. The stream here is very diversified and broken up, and many changing views both up and down stream are available. The bridge here makes good pictures from the bed of the river, and we now admire it from half way up the little footpath taken with a long focus lens, the distant water being softly and delicately rendered. We leave the pretty suburban, sea-washed town of Bray by rail, and wind round and through the great mass of rock known as Bray Head, a magnificent headland, not unlike St. Bee’s Head, in Cumberland. In the gloaming we hurry round the rugged Wicklow coast, the dull boom of the breaking waves harmonizing with the rattle of the train; through the county town of Wicklow, with its ruined castle overlooked by the bay ; past the genuine and unadulterated Irish town of Rathnew, and into Rathdrum — our quarters for the night—long after dark. We select Rathdrum on account of its central position, and the large number of excursions that can be made from it; we will only describe one of them, viz., Glendalough. Our car being now ready, we lash bags, baggage, and plates, and start for the three miles drive to Glendalough. Only that our supply of plates was of a limited character, we could have found numerous subjects cn route, but we only pause for a few moments at the Vale of Clare, and with a “ shot ’’ at the pretty cottage, and a last look at the bridge, we push along. Although the old proverb “a bird in the hand, &c.,” is well to be remem bered and acted upon when out upon photographic excursions, as often when most is expected least is found. However, we are now close to Glendalough, aud a turn of the road brings us in full view of the magnificent valley stretching away at our feet; with all the little piles of stones (like small outhouses with the roofs off) scattered, as it were, broadcast over the land ; while from the centre rises one of those mysterious wonder-provoking erections. The great Glendalough Road towers white far beyond ; the two lakes— which give the name to the valley—lay darkening under the shade of the eternal hills. As we take this revelation of beauty in, we become unpleasantly aware of being confronted with another curiosity of Ireland. The beautifully bright, warm, clear morning has given place to a bleak, raw, wet noon, with strong gusts of wind and heavy showers of cold rain. We are in despair, so arriving at the hotel we do the next best thing, viz., order dinner. Promised at 2.30, we don’t get it until 4 p.m., but this is, we presume, not un usual in these latitudes. Meanwhile, we skirmish around, dis couraged, but not hopeless. The gateway to the enclosure containing the principal ruins is somewhat remarkable, being castellated with a tunnel-like con tinuation, reminding one of Walmgate Bar, York, in miniature. Through the long, wet grass bank, we force our way, crowded with memorial stones of all ages, sizes, and shapes, and in every possible variety of position, with fragments of ancient crosses of unknown antiquity; the whole falling into a strange state of utter neglect. Here is the Cathedral—we should imagine the smallest build ing in the world ever dignified by this title, being only about 50 feet long, and supposed to have been built about a.d. 600, I but the extreme antiquity of these structures is at once seen by the shape of the doorways—viz., with sloping sides and solid