The
Little Steamer Was Crowded Fore And Aft With Holiday Passengers, And A
Large Quantity Of Small Babies.
The river Lee, from Cork to Queenstown,
wears a green color, as if it were akin to the ocean.
Flocks of sea
gulls flying about, or perching on the ooze where the tide is out, make
one think of the sea, but the green banks of the river are there to
testify against it.
We expected to find that the scenery from Cork to Queenstown was
beautiful, and so it is. There is no use in trying to praise it, for all
praise seems flat compared with the reality. There are glorious, steep
slopes leading up to fair, round hills, waving with golden grain, or
green with aftermath, checked off into fields by gay, green hedges or
files of stately trees. On the slope, half way up the slope, snuggling
down at the foot of the slope, are residences of every degree of beauty.
Houses, square and solid, with wide porticos; houses rising into many
gabled peaks; houses that have swollen into all sorts of bay windows
running up to the roof, or stopping with the first story. Houses that
fling themselves up into the sky in towers and turrets, and assert
themselves to be, indeed, castles.
Queenstown comes at last, a town hung up on a steep hillside, and on the
very brow of the hill is an immense cathedral, unfinished like St. Finn
Barre's, of Cork. In these cathedrals two forms of religious belief are
slowly and expensively trying to express themselves in stone, chiselled
and cut into a thousand forms of beauty, in marbles, polished and
carved, in painted windows, in gildings and draperies of the costliest.
Looking at these costly fanes erected to be a local spot where Jehovah's
presence shall dwell, one can scarcely believe that He will dwell in the
heart of the poor who are willing to receive Him in the day of His
power. Is the soul of the beggar more dear to God as a dwelling place
than these lofty temples? Forever the world is saying "Lord, behold what
manner of stones and what buildings are here?" And the Lord cares more
for the toiling fisherman, the poor disheartened widow, and the laboring
and heavy laden peasant than the grandest buildings. The cost of these
churches would buy out Achil island and the appurtenances thereof, I
think. It would maybe purchase the wildest tract of the Donegal
mountains. I wonder if a hardy mountain people, who could live on their
own soil, and begin to feel the stirrings of enterprise and energy,
would be as acceptable to Him who came anointed to preach the gospel to
the poor as these poems in stone. Who knows?
We sat on a bench under the trees and looked at the harbor - its waters
cut by many a flying keel, at Spike Island lying in the sun, all its
fortifications as silent and lonely looking as if no convict nor any
other living creature was there.
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