We Came Back Over The Bridge To The Police Barracks, Sitting On A Rock
With Its Back To A Grove Of Trees, And Reached By A Flight Of Stone
Steps.
I was introduced to the sergeant in charge, a fine specimen of
the Donegal men.
Tall and straight, strong and kindly are the men of
Donegal. The sergeant took us to a hill back of the barracks where was a
very lonely vale surrounded by steep hills wooded to the top. Down the
perpendicular sides of this hill a waterfall dashes in the rainy
seasons, but it was only a tinkling splash at this time. The sergeant
and I had some conversation about Donegal, and of course Lord Leitrim.
This noblemen has graven his name with an iron pen and lead on the rocks
for ever.
We bade adieu to the kindly sergeant and drove back to Castlebar in the
quiet evening. Opposite the Turlough round tower is the charming
residence of a Fitzgerald, one of the race whose dust moulders in an
aristocratic manner in the ruined abbey of Turlough. This gentleman, not
thinking himself safe even under protection, has left the country. Only
fancy a squad of police marching from their barracks in the dusk, five
or ten miles as the case may be, pacing round a gentleman's house in
rain or snow, sleet or hail, no shelter for their coercion heads, no
fire at which to warm their protecting fingers; pace about from dusk
till dawning, march back to barracks and to a few hours' rest.
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