From The Steamer We Saw The Ruined Fortress, Annabreen Castle, Said To
Be Six Hundred Years Old.
The masonry is very curious, being all done
within and without, quoins, doorways, window frames, of undressed stone,
and yet most admirably done.
I stood on the deck of the little steamer while the wind blew in the
teeth of the little boat and made her shiver and rock, and I endured
sharp neuralgiac pain, and lost my veil, which was blown off and went
sailing off into the lake because I would not miss seeing all Lough
Corrib had to show. I saw the ivy plaided walls of Caislean na
Cailliach, and on a little island the remains of an old uncemented stone
fort, so old that antiquity has forgotten it. The scenery was very
grand, the islands grassy and round, or waving with trees, the lake
covered with white horses riding with tossing manes to the shore; the
little boat with its broad breast holding its own against the swells,
the shores with green mountains checked off into fields, with higher
mountains blue in the distance rising behind them. All under
"The skies of dear Erin, our mother
Where sunshine and shadow are chasing each other."
The little steamer steamed up to the wharf and backed and stopped, in
most American fashion, at a lonely backwoods-looking wharf, but the
pillars for the snubbing rope were pillars of stone, and near were the
ruins of a tall square castle in good preservation.
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