But these details did not stifle my desire to see the famous mansion
of Castle Carabas, nay, possibly excited my interest to know more about
that lordly house and its owners.
At the entrance of the park, there are a pair of great gaunt mildewed
lodges--mouldy Doric temples with black chimney-pots, in the finest
classic taste, and the gates of course are surmounted by the CHATS
BOTTES, the well-known supporters of the Carabas family. 'Give the
lodge-keeper a shilling,' says Ponto, (who drove me near to it in his
four-wheeled cruelty-chaise). 'I warrant it's the first piece of ready
money he has received for some time. I don't know whether there was any
foundation for this sneer, but the gratuity was received with a curtsey,
and the gate opened for me to enter. 'Poor old porteress!' says I,
inwardly. 'You little know that it is the Historian of Snobs whom you
let in!' The gates were passed. A damp green stretch of park spread
right and left immeasurably, confined by a chilly grey wall, and a damp
long straight road between two huge rows of moist, dismal lime-trees,
leads up to the Castle. In the midst of the park is a great black tank
or lake, bristling over with rushes, and here and there covered over
with patches of pea-soup. A shabby temple rises on an island in this
delectable lake, which is approached by a rotten barge that lies at
roost in a dilapidated boat house.
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