It was a morning such as could only be brought into existence by the
Maker of mornings in Ireland. It was a day such as Dublin placed away
carefully into the pantechnicon of famous archives.

The city of Dublin was not always clean, but in the bright, gorgeous sun
her natural filth was no menace to the eye, no repulse to the senses.
Above the Liffey, even at so early an hour, the heat shimmers like a
silver mist. The bells of churches were ringing, and the great cathedral
bells boomed in thrilling monotony over the peaceful city. Here and
there in the shabby yet renowned streets, horsemen moved along; now and
then the costermonger raised his cry of fresh fruit, flowers, and
"distinguished vegetables."

People moved into church doorways on their way to mass or confession--
some bright and rather gorgeous beings, some in deep mourning, shy,
reserved, and obscure. Here and there, also, in certain streets--where
officials lived or worked--were soldiers afoot; soldiers with carbines
and long bayonets, with tall, slightly peaked hats, smart red coats,
belts crossing their breasts, knee-breeches and leggings, and all with
epaulets shining. They were in marked contrast to the peasant folk with
the high-peaked soft hat, knee-breeches, rough tail-coat, and stockings,
some with rifles, some with pikes, some with powder-horns slung under
their arms or in the small of the back.

Besides this show of foot-soldiers--that is, regulars and irregulars of
the Cornwallis Regiment, and men of the Defenders and the Peep-o'-Day
Boys--there were little groups of cavalry making their way to the parade-
ground, the castle, the barracks, or the courts.