Noticing this church and the swarm of other grand churches with
the same emblems and the five convents as well as other buildings for
different fraternities, noticing also the queer by-places where
dissenting places of worship are hidden away, one concludes that they
are in a Catholic city, and so they are. On Sunday found out a little
Presbyterian Church hid away behind some houses and joined its handful
of worshippers.
In the afternoon walked along the streets for some way and found myself
all at once in what is called the English part of the town, but which
looked more foreign than any place I have yet seen on my own green isle.
The houses were tall, and had been grand in King Donagh O'Brien's time,
I suppose. The streets were very narrow. 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.
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