Armagh, the Primatial city, where St. Patrick's successor rules St. Patrick's flank, is always fair and quiet and pleasant; a visit thither is always memorable.
Brown and gold are the leaves about the twin-spired cathedral that overlooks the older city, and at the other side of the town is the recentlyopened new church of St. Malachi, a beautiful piece of Romanesque, built of local atone, and situated close to the traditional site of Se Malachi's birthplace.
Sad, Sad Sight
As I went through the little city last week, thinking of the loveliness of it all I saw what Was a sad, sad sight. Lads who seemed little more than boys, in new-cut khaki and bearing guns, were being drilled in the market square below Ara Coeli, the cathedral that is reached by flights of stairs on the green bill.
Smartly they drilled, moving as briskly as old soldiers, their boyish limbs answering the commands that rang on the autumnal air—preparing for battlefields afar. Armagh's immemorial sanctity and quietude cannot escape the thought and the sound arid the sight and reality of that war which has run fire-like through all the envied haunts of peace in all the world.