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McDougall, Margaret Moran Dixon, 1826-1898

"on Her Tour Through Ireland"

Truly
the fat and the wool are in one place, and the flock on the dark
mountains in another. Outside are various stone cupboards, called
vaults, where highbred dust moulders in state free from any beggarly
admixture.
That old man wished to delude me up unknown steps to the battlements and
up to other battlements on the top of the church tower--it was raining
heavily, and the gray clouds lying on the house tops, you could hardly
have seen across two streets--to see the view forsooth; then he
volunteered to set the bells ringing in my honor, but I declined. He
then told me of the bells--it was new to me; it may not be new to
others. They were--well--taken without leave from Italy. The Italian
who cast them pilgrimed over the world in search of them. Sailing up the
Shannon he heard his long-lost bells, and it killed him, the joy did.
The puritan soldiers destroyed the profusion of statues that decorated
this church. Noticed one simple monument to one Dan Hayes, an honest man
and a lover of his country. Near this cathedral is the house where
Ireton died, tall and smoky, battered and fallen into age, but very
high.


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