They
Pointed Out Near The Spot, A Cluster Of Trees On An Eminence, Where James
Beheld The Defeat Of His Followers.
We crossed the Boyne, entered
Drogheda, dismounted among a crowd of beggars, took our places in the most
elegant railway wagon we had ever seen, and in an hour were set down in
Dublin.
I will not weary you with a description of Dublin. Scores of travellers
have said that its public buildings are magnificent, and its rows of
private houses, in many of the streets, are so many ranges of palaces.
Scores of travellers have said that if you pass out of these fine streets,
into the ancient lanes of the city, you see mud-houses that scarcely
afford a shelter, and are yet inhabited.
"Some of these," said a Dublin acquaintance to me, "which are now roofless
and no longer keep out the weather, yet show by their elaborate cornices
and their elegant chimney-pieces, that the time has been, and that not
very long since, when they were inhabited by the opulent class." He led me
back of Dublin castle to show me the house in which Swift was born. It
stands in a narrow, dirty lane called Holy's court, close to the
well-built part of the town: its windows are broken out, and its shutters
falling to pieces, and the houses on each side are in the same condition,
yet they are swarming with dirty and ragged inmates.
I have seen no loftier nor more spacious dwellings than those which
overlook St. Stephen's Green, a noble park, planted with trees, under
which the showery sky and mild temperature maintain a verdure all the
year, even in midwinter.
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