1835. The entire porch has been torn away, a porch that years ago had ornate brickwork of a herringbone pattern with antique Roman bricks of an ochre brown color and a glazed surface. The brickwork was topped with a marble molding patterned on the bases of antique columns. All of that stone work was destroyed by frost and ice twenty years ago, and now has been replaced with a cement slab, and wrought iron fencing of the type you can buy at Home Depot by the four foot modular section.
1836. Needless to say most of the stained glass once so perfectly related to the old brickwork of the walls has been removed at one time or another to raise the necessary funds to pay for the most necessary repairs, and the only truly old glass has been covered to protect it with thick Plexiglas that long ago has turned a terrible yellow brown color.
1837. The little church offers me this explanation, since she can see that I remain standing a few feet from the entrance reluctant to enter and continue to eye her up and down. She says to me, “Gone are the days when my heart was young and gay.”
1838. “What kind of talk is that from a Roman Church the basement of which is most likely some antique temple from the days of the republic? Those are the opening lines of ‘Old Black Joe,’” I said. “I don’t know,” she replied “they just came into my head, that’s all. However, if you are intending to visit my interior you have to hurry because my doors are only open a few more minutes, and are locked by the rector at 4:00.”