Owing to the very great kindness of Mr. Trimble, editor of the
Fermanagh Reporter, we have seen some of the fair town of Enniskillen.
Knowing that Innis or Ennis always means island, I was not surprised to
find that Enniskillen sits on an island, and is connected with the
mainland by a bridge at either end of the town. Of course, the town has
boiled over and spread beyond the bridges, as Derry has done over and
beyond her walls. There is a military flavor all over Enniskillen, a
kind of dashing frank manner and proud steps as if the dragoon had got
into the blood. There is also nourished a pride in the exploits of
Enniskillen men from the early times when they struggled to keep their
feet and their lives in the new land. They feel pride in the fame of the
Enniskillen dragoon, in the deeds of daring and valor of the 27th
Enniskilleners all over the world. Enniskillen military pride is closely
connected with the Cole family, lords of Enniskillen.
The town is not old, only dating back to the reign of the sapient James
the First. Remembrance of the sept of Maguires who ruled here before
that time, still lingers among the country people.
Had a sail on Lough Erne at the last of April; tried to find words
sufficiently strong to express the beauty of the lake and found none. It
is as lovely as the Allumette up at Pembroke. I can not say more than
that. The banks are so richly green, the hills so fertile up to their
round tops, checked off by green hedges into fields of all shapes and
sizes; the trees lift up their proud heads and fling out their great
arms as if laden with blessing; the primroses, like baby moons, more in
number than the stars of heaven, glow under every hedge and gem every
bank, so that though the Lake Allumette is as lovely as Lough Erne, yet
the banks that sit round Lough Erne are more lovely by far than the
borders of Lake Allumette. They are as fair as any spot under heaven in
their brightness of green.
Sailing up the lake or down, I do not know which, we passed the ruins of
Portora old castle; ruined towers and battered walls, roofless and
lonely. Kind is the ivy green to the old remnants of by-gone power or
monuments of by-gone oppression, happing up the cold stones, and draping
gracefully the bare ruins.
The Island of Devenish, or of the ox, is famed for the good quality of
its grass. Here we saw the ruins of an abbey. It has been a very large
building, said to have been built as far back as 563.
