The last week's wash, that
looked as if the Shannon was further away than it is, fluttered from the
broken windows of the fifth story.
All the shops were open; there did
not seem to be any buyers, but if there were, they might get supplied.
The very old huckster women sat by their baskets of very small and very
wizened apples, and infinitesimal pears that had forgotten to grow. Two
women, one in a third-story window and one on the street, were
exchanging strong compliments. In fact, as our cousins would say, "there
was no Sunday in that English quarter worth a cent." I made my escape
with a sick longing for some one to carry a gospel of good tidings of
great joy in there.
Next morning I found out the English Cathedral, which is at the very
border, so to speak, of that forgotten place. It stands in pretty
grounds. The elderly gentleman who has the care of it, and who shows it
off like a pet child, happened to be there, and took charge of me. He
was determined I should conscientiously see and hear all about that
church. This church was built in 1194 by Donagh O'Brien, King of
Munster. It was not new even then, for King Donagh made his new church
out of an old palace of his.
I followed that old man while he pointed out the relics of the old and
the glories of the new, the magnificent painted windows, the velvet of
the costliest that covered the altar, the carvings of price, the
cushions and the carpets, and, a few steps away, the fluttering rags,
the horrible poverty, the hopeless lives of the English quarter.
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