At Last We Came In Sight Of Loughveigh Lying Cradled Among The Rocks,
And Got A Glimpse Of The White Tower Of Glenveigh Castle.
There is a
small skirting of wood near the castle where the silver barked birch
prevails from which the glen takes its name, interspersed with holly
trees, which grow here in profusion, and some dark yews, prim and
stately, drawn up like sentinels to guard the demesne.
No place could be imagined more utterly alone than Glenveigh Castle. The
utter silence which Mr. Adair has created seems to wrap the place in an
invisible cloak of awfulness that can be felt. Except a speculative rook
or a solitary crane sailing solemnly toward the mountain top, I saw no
sign of life in all the glen. Owing to the windings of the road it
seemed quite a while after we sighted the top of the tower before we
entered the avenue which sweeps round the edge of the lake shore, and
finally brought us to the castle. The castle stands on a point
stretching out into the lake. Opposite, on the other side of the lake, a
steep, bare, dark rock rises up to the dizzy height. It is the kind of
rock that makes one think of fortified castles, and cities built for
defence, that ought to be perched on a summit, but Glenveigh Castle
should be a lady's bower, instead of a fortalice. Behind the castle the
mountain slopes are clothed with young trees. The castle itself is a
very imposing building from the outside; grand, strong, rather
repellant; inside it has a comfortless; ill-planned, unfinished
appearance. The mantel-piece of white marble with the Adair arms carved
on it - the bloody hand, the motto _valor au mort_, the supporters
two angels - lies in the hall cracked in two. A very respectable
Scotchman, a keeper, I suppose, showed me over the building. He must
enjoy a very retired life there, for in all the country for miles there
is not a human habitation except the police barrack that looms up like a
tall ghost at the other end of the lake.
As we drove home through the mountains I noticed that Mukish wrapped
herself in the misty folds of her veil. Soon after the storm rolled down
the mountain sides and chased us home.
XII.
GOOD-BYE TO RAMELTON - ON LOUGH SWILLY - A RUINED LANDLORD - FARM STOCK VS.
WAGES - A GOOD LANDLORD - A REMINDER OF CANADA - MOVILLE - PORT-A-DORUS
ROCKS - ON GOOD TERMS WITH THE LANDLORD.
Left Ramelton at seven o'clock Monday morning, April 4th, the hoar-
frost lying white on the deck of the little steamer. The cabin was black
with smoke that would not consent to go in the way it should go, so one
had to be content with the chill morning, the hoar frost and the deck.
We steamed up past the town of Rathmullen with the two deserted forts
grinning at one another.
Two women of the small farming class were, like myself, sitting close to
the machinery to get warm.
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