From this noble edifice, we bent our steps to another part of the city,
and soon found ourselves in the vicinity of St. Patrick's, where we had
a heart-sickening view of the poorest of the poor. All the recollections
of poverty which I had ever beheld, seemed to disappear in comparison
with what was then before me. We passed a filthy and noisy market, where
fruit and vegetable women were screaming and begging those passing by to
purchase their commodities; while in and about the market-place were
throngs of beggars fighting for rotten fruit, cabbage stocks, and even
the very trimmings of vegetables. On the side walks, were great numbers
hovering about the doors of the more wealthy, and following strangers,
importuning them for "pence to buy bread." Sickly and emaciated-looking
creatures, half naked, were at our heels at every turn. After passing
through a half dozen, or more, of narrow and dirty streets, we returned
to our lodgings, impressed with the idea that we had seen enough of the
poor for one day.

In our return home, we passed through a respectable looking street, in
which stands a small three storey brick building, which was pointed out
to us as the birth-place of Thomas Moore, the poet. The following verse
from one of Moore's poems was continually in my mind while viewing this
house:--

"Where is the slave, so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?"

* * * * *