Arriving at a modern archway in the ancient style protected
by an iron gate, we sought admittance, showing our permit from the
office. The keeper's wife examined it and passed it over to the keeper,
who examined it also, asked some prudent, cautious questions, and we
were admitted to a part of the grounds.
This gate keeper, a remarkably gentlemanly old man, in his respectable
blue broadcloth, his comely sagacious, weather-beaten face, his guarded
manner of speaking, and his name, Grant, made me quite sure that he was
a Highlandman, which he was not, but a Western Irishman. He informed us
as we went along that only part of the grounds could be seen on account
of the troubled state of the country. Whether there was any part of the
demesne that an elderly woman and a pretty girl were likely to run away
with became a subject of thought to me. Conscientiously this delightful
old man kept us off tabooed walks and shunted us into permissible
places. Where all was beautiful and new, and time having a limit, we
were quite willing when brought to order, to follow on the allowed path.
I was admiring a tree of the regally magnificent kind, leaf-draped
branches like green robes sweeping down to the emerald sward, that
always remind me of the glorious trees which sunlight loves to gild in
the grounds at Castle Coole; I remarked on its exceeding beauty to our
guide, who said it would bear a nearer view, and we followed him on a
path through the grass till we stood beside it.
Pages:
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351