e barrack over the way, in their courtly uniform, white, scarlet,
and blue, cocked hats, and cues, and ruffles, presenting arms--into his
emblazoned coach and six, with hanging footmen, as wonderful as
Cinderella's, and out-riders out-blazing the liveries of the troops, and
rolling grandly away in sunshine and dust.

The 'Ecclesiastical Commissioners' have done their office here. The
tower, indeed, remains, with half its antique growth of ivy gone; but
the body of the church is new, and I, and perhaps an elderly fellow or
two more, miss the old-fashioned square pews, distributed by a
traditional tenure among the families and dignitaries of the town and
vicinage (who are they now?), and sigh for the queer, old, clumsy
reading-desk and pulpit, grown dearer from the long and hopeless
separation; and wonder where the tables of the Ten Commandments, in long
gold letters of Queen Anne's date, upon a vivid blue ground, arched
above, and flanking the communion-table, with its tall thin rails, and
fifty other things that appeared to me in my nonage, as stable as the
earth, and as sacred as the heavens, are gone to.

As for the barrack of the Royal Irish Artillery, the great gate leading
into the parade ground, by the river side, and all that, I believe the
earth, or rather that grim giant factory, which is now the grand feature
and centre of Chapelizod, throbbing all over with steam, and whizzing
with wheels, and vomiting pitchy smoke, has swallowed them up.

A line of houses fronting this--old familiar faces--still look blank and
regretfully forth, through their glassy eyes, upon the changed scene.
How different the company they kept some ninety or a hundred years ago!

Where is the mill, too, standing fast by the bridge, the manorial
appendage of the town, which I loved in my boyhood for its gaunt and
crazy aspect and dim interior, whence the clapper kept time mysteriously
to the drone of the mill-sluice? I think it is gone. Surely _that_
confounded thing can't be my venerable old friend in masquerade!

But I can't expect you, my reader--polite and patient as you manifestly
are--to potter about with me, all the summer day, through this
melancholy and mangled old town, with a canopy of factory soot between
your head and the pleasant sky. One glance, however, before you go, you
will vouchsafe at the village tree--that stalworth elm. It has not grown
an inch these hundred years. It does not look a day older than it did
fifty