By CHARLES BLATHERWICK.
Helen’s tower, here I stand,
Dominant over sea and land.
Son’s love built me, and I hold
Mother’s love engraved in gold.
Love is in and out of time,
I am mortal stone and lime.
Would my granite girth were strong
As either love, to last as long,
I should wear my crown entire
To and thro’ the Doomsday fire,
And be found of angel eyes
In earth’s recurring Paradise.—_A. Tennyson._
Halfway up Belfast Lough, on the high ground to the left you may see a
remarkable landmark. This is Helen’s Tower, built by the present Earl
of Dufferin as a tribute of filial affection to his mother, the late
Countess of Gifford, and formally named after her on attaining his
majority.
Looking across from the grey old walls of Carrickfergus, it may be seen
crowning the highest hill on the Claudeboye estate. Clear cut against the
sky, there it stands, lashed by the winds or touched by the sun, ever
firm and enduring—a fitting memorial of one of the best and noblest of
women.
Lady Gifford was a Sheridan, one to whom wit and beauty came as natural
gifts, yet one who dipped deeply into the font of human knowledge, and
by pure sympathy with all that was good and beautiful in life, exerted a
lasting influence on all those whose privilege it was to know her.
A short drive from Bangor, or, still better, a pleasant two-mile stretch
across the turf from Claudeboye House, will bring you to the foot of the
hill. Here, glimmering amid ferns, sedges, birches, and firs, very calm
and peaceful on a golden autumn day, with Helen’s Tower reflected on its
face, is a quiet lake. Then a smart climb through a fir wood, and the
tower—a veritable Scotch tower, with “corbie stairs” and jutting turrets
all complete—is before you.
At the basement lives the old keeper with his wife; and here, after
inscribing your name in the visitors’ book, you follow him up the stone
steps.
The sleeping chamber first. A cosy little room, remarkable for the fine
specimen of French embroidery which decorates the bedstead, with the
quaint inscription on the tester—
“_I . nightly . pitch . my . moving . tent_
_A . day’s . march . nearer . home._”
From here you are taken to the top.
Looking east on a clear day the view is superb. From Claudeboye woods and
lakes, Belfast Lough and the Antrim hills on the left, the eye sweeps
round to Cantire and the Scotch coast, till distance is lost in the dim
range of Cumberland hills.
Descending again, we enter the principal chamber—octagonal, oak-paneled,
with groined pointed ceiling and stained-glass windows. On these are
numerous quaint designs, intermixed with the signs of the zodiac, showing
the pursuits of mankind during the progress of the seasons—from the
sturdy sower of spring to the shrivelled old man warming his toes by
the winter fire. Over the fire-place is a niche for a silver lamp, and
flanking the west window are two poetical inscriptions—that on the left,
printed in gold and having reference to the lamp, is by Lord Dufferin’s
mother; and that on the right, printed in bold black type, is by the
poet-laureate.
On reading Lady Gifford’s graceful verses, we are pathetically reminded
that she was not spared to see her son’s brilliant career. I give them
here, and the laureate’s sonorous lines stand at the head of this paper.