SAINT PATRICK

By Heman White Chaplin

1887

I. 

One of the places which they point out on Ship Street is the Italianfruit-shop on the corner of Perry Court, before the door of which, sixyears ago, Guiseppe Cavagnaro, bursting suddenly forth in pursuit ofMartin Lavezzo, stabbed him in the back, upon the sidewalk. "All two"of them were to blame, so the witnesses said; but Cavagnaro went toprison for fifteen years. That was the same length of time, as ithappened, that the feud had lasted. 

Nearly opposite is Sarah Ward's New Albion dance-hall. It opens directlyfrom the street There is an orchestra of three pieces, one of whichplays in tune. That calm and collected woman whom you may see rocking inthe window, or sitting behind the bar, sewing or knitting, is not a citymissionary, come to instruct the women about her; it is Sarah Ward, the proprietress. She knows the Bible from end to end. She was aSunday-school teacher once; she had a class of girls; she spoke inprayer-meetings; she had a framed Scripture motto in her chamber, andshe took the Teachers' Lesson Quarterly; she visited the sick; sheprayed in secret for her scholars' conversion. How she came to changeher views of life nobody knows, --that is to say, not everybody knows. And still she is honest. It is her pride that sailors are not druggedand robbed in the New Albion. 

A few doors below, and on the same side of the street, is the dance-hallthat was Bose King's-. It is here that pleasure takes on its most sordidaspect. If you wish to see how low a white woman can fall, how coarseand offensive a negro man can be, you will come here. There is aninscription on the bar, in conspicuous letters, --"Welcome Home. "

By day it is comparatively still in Ship Street. Women with soullessfaces loll stolidly in the open ground-floor windows. There are fewcustomers in the bar-rooms; here and there two or three idlers shake fordrinks. Policemen stroll listlessly about, and have little to do. Butat nightfall there is a change; the scrape of fiddles, the stamp ofboot-heels, is heard from the dance-halls. Oaths and boisterous laughtereverywhere strike the ear. Children, half-clad, run loose at eleveno'clock. Two policemen at a corner interrogate a young man who is hotand excited and has no hat. He admits that he saw three men run from thealley-way and saw the sailor come staggering out after them, but he doesnot know who the men were. The policemen "take him in, " on suspicion. 

It is here that the Day-Star Mission has planted itself. Its white flagfloats close by the spot where Martin Lavezzo fell, with the long knifebetween his shoulder-blades. Its sign of welcome is in close rivalrywith the harsh strains from Sarah Ward's and the lighted stairway toBose King's saloon. It stands here, isolated and strange, an unbiddenguest. It is a protest, a reproof, a challenge, an uplifted finger. 

But while, to a casual glance, the Day-Star Mission is all out of place, it has, nevertheless, its following. On Monday and Thursday afternoons atroop of black-eyed, jet-haired Portuguese women, half of whom arenamed Mary Jesus, flock in to a sewing-school. On Tuesdays and FridaysAmerican, Scotch, and Irish women, from the tenement-houses of thequarter, fill the settees, to learn the use of the needle, to enjoya little peace, and to hear reading and singing; and occasionally thegeneral public of the vicinity are invited to an entertainment. 

It was a February afternoon; at the Mission building the board were inmonthly session. The meeting had been a spirited one. A propositionto amend the third line of the fourth by-law, entitled "Decorum inthe Hall, " by inserting the word "smoking, " had been debated and hadprevailed. A proposition to buy a new mangle for the laundry had beendefeated, it having been humorously suggested that the women couldmangle each other. Other matters of interest had been considered. 

Finally, as the hour for adjournment drew near, a proposition wasbrought forth, appropriate to the season. Saint Patrick's Day wasapproaching. It was to many a day of temptation, particularly in theevening. Would it not be a good plan to hold out the helping hand, in the form of a Saint Patrick's Day festival, with an address, forexample, upon Saint Patrick's life, with Irish songs and Irish readings?Such an entertainment would draw; it would keep a good many people outof the saloons. Such was the suggestion. 

The proposition excited no little interest. Ladies who had begun to puton their wraps sat down again. To one of the board, a clergyman, who hadlately been lecturing on "Popery the People's Peril, " the propositionwas startling. It looked toward the breaking down of all barriers; itgave Romanism an outright recognition. Another member, a produce-man, understood, --in fact he had read in his denominational weekly, --thatSaint Patrick could be demonstrated to have been a Protestant, andhe suggested that that fact might be "brought out. " Others viewedthe matter in that humorous light in which this festival day commonlystrikes the American mind. 

The motion prevailed. Even the anti-papistic clergyman was comforted, apparently, at last, for he was heard to whisper jocosely to hisleft-hand neighbor: "Saint Patrick's Day in the Morning!"

A committee, with the produce-man at the head, was appointed to select aspeaker, and to provide music and reading. It was suggested that perhapsMr. Wakeby and Mrs. Wilson-Smith would volunteer, if urged, --theirprevious charities in this direction had made them famous in theneighborhood. Mr. Wakeby to read from "Handy Andy;" Mrs. Wilson-Smith tosing "Kathleen Mavourneen, "--there would not be standing-room!

So finally unanimity prevailed, and with unanimity, enthusiasm. 

The committee met, and the details were settled. The chairman quietlyreserved to himself, by implication, the choice of a speaker. He knewthat it would be an audience hard to hold. The occasion demanded a manof peculiar gifts. Such a man, he said to himself, he knew. 

II. 

The single meeting-house of L------ stands on the main street, with itstall spire and its two tiers of gray-blinded windows. Beside it is themossy burial-ground, where prim old ladies walk on Sunday afternoons, with sprigs of sweet-william. 

Across the street, and a little way down the road, is the square whitehouse with a hopper-roof, which an elderly, childless widow, departingthis life some forty years ago, thoughtfully left behind her for aparsonage. It is a pleasant, home-like house, open to sun and air, andthe pleasantest of all its rooms is the minister's study. It is an upperfront chamber, with windows to the east and the south. There is nothingin the room of any value; but whether the minister is within, or isaway and is represented only by his palm-leaf dressing-gown, somehow thespirit of peace seems always to abide there. 

There is the ancient desk, which the minister's children, when theywere little, used to call the "omnibus, " by reason of a certain vast andcapacious drawer, the resort of all homeless things, --nails, wafers, thebed-key, curtain-fixtures, carpet-tacks, and dried rhubarb. Perhaps itwas to this drawer that the minister's daughter lately referred, when she said that the true motto was, "One place for everything, andeverything in that one place. "

Over the chimney-piece hangs a great missionary map, showing thestations of the different societies, with a key at one side. This bluesquare in Persia denotes a missionary post of the American Board ofCommissioners; that red cross in India is an outpost of a Presbyterianmissionary society; this green diamond in Arrapatam marks a station ofthe Free Church Missionary Union. As one looks the map over, he seems tobehold the whole missionary force at work. He sees, in imagination, Mr. Elmer Small, from Augusta, Maine, preaching predestination to acompany of Karens, in a house of reeds, and the Rev. Geo. T. Wood, fromMassachusetts, teaching Paley in Roberts College at Constantinople. 

Thus the whole Christian world lies open before you. 

Pinned up on one of the doors is the Pauline Chart. Have you never seenthe Pauline Chart? It was prepared in colored inks, by Mr. Parker, atheological student with a turn for penmanship, and lithographed, and was sold by him to eke out the avails of what are inaptly termed"supplies. " You would find it exceedingly convenient. It shows in atabulated form, for ready reference, the incidents of Saint Paul'scareer, arranged chronologically. Thus you can find at a glance thevisit to Berea, the stoning at Lystra, or the tumult at Ephesus. Itsusefulness is obvious. Over the desk is a map of the Holy Land, withmountain elevations. 

The walls of the room are for the most part hidden by books. The shelvesare simple affairs of stained maple, covered heavily with successivecoats of varnish, cracked, as is that of the desk, by age and heat. Thecontents are varied. Of religious works there are the Septuagint, in twofat little blue volumes, like Roman candles; Conant's Genesis; Hodgeon Romans; Hackett on Acts, which the minister's small children usedto spell out as "Jacket on Acts;" Knott on the Fallacies of theAntinomians; A Tour in Syria; Dr. Grant and the Mountain Nestorians, andsix Hebrew Lexicons, singed by fire, --a paternal inheritance. 

There are a good many works, too, of general literature, but ratheroddly selected, as will happen where one makes up his library chiefly bywriting book-notices: Peter Bayne's Essays; Coleridge; the firstvolume of Masson's Life of Milton; Vanity Fair; the Dutch Republic; thePlurality of Worlds; and Mommsen's Rome. That very attractive book inred you need not take down; it is only the history of Norwalk, Conn. , with the residence of J. T. Wales, Esq. , for a frontispiece; the coveris all there is to it. Finally, there are two shelves of Patent OfficeReports, and Perry's Expedition to Japan with a panoramic view of Yeddo. This shows that the minister has numbered a congressman among his flock. 

It is here that Dr. Parsons is diligently engaged, this cold Marchafternoon, to the music of his crackling air-tight stove. He is deeplyabsorbed in his task, and we may peep in and not disturb him. He has alarge number of books spread out before him; but looking them over, wemiss Lange's Commentaries, Bengel's Gnomon, Cobb on Galatians, --thosesafe and sound authorities always provided with the correct view. 

The books which lie before the Doctor seem all to, deal with a RomishSaint, and, of all the saints in the world, Saint Patrick. In full sightof his own steeple, from which the bell is even now counting outthe sixty-nine years of a good brother just passed away in hope of aProtestant heaven, --tolling out the years for the village housewives, who pause and count; under such hallowing influences, --beneath, as itwere, the very shadow of the Missionary Map and the Pauline Chart, andwith a gray Jordan rushing down through a scarlet Palestine directlybefore him, suggestive of all good things; with Knott on the Fallaciesat his right hand, and with Dowling on Romanism on his left, the Doctoris actually absorbed in Papistical literature. Here are the works of Dr. Lanigan and Father Colgan and Monseigneur Moran. Here is the "Life andLegends of Saint Patrick, " illustrated, with a portrait in gilt ofBrian Boru on the cover. Here are the Tripartite Life, in Latin, and thesaint's Confession, and the Epistle to Co-roticus, the Ossianic Poems, and Miss Cusack's magnificent quarto, which the Doctor has borrowed fromthe friendly priest at the factory village four miles away, who borrowedit from the library of the Bishop to lend to him. 

Perhaps you have never undertaken to prepare a life of Saint Patrick. If so, you have no idea of the difficulties of the task. In the firstplace, you must settle the question whether Saint Patrick ever existed. And this is a disputed point; for while there are those, like FatherColgan, whose clear faith accepts Saint Patrick just as he stands inhistory and tradition, yet, on the other hand, there are sceptics, likeLedwick, who contend that the saint is nothing but a prehistoric myth, floating about in the imagination of the Irish people. 

Having settled to your satisfaction that Patrick really lived, youmust next proceed to fix the date of his birth; and here you enter uponcomplicated calculations. You will probably decide to settle first, as astarting-point, the date of the saint's escape from captivity; and todo this you will have to reconcile the fact that after the captivity hepaid a friendly visit to his kinsman, Saint Martin of Tours, who died in397, with the fact that he was not captured until 400. 

Next you will come to the matter of the saint's birthplace; and this isa delicate question, for you will have to decide between the claims ofIreland, of Scotland, and of France; and you will very probably findyourself finally driven to the conclusion--for the evidence points thatway--that Saint Patrick was a Frenchman. 

Next comes the question of the saint's length of days; and if youattempt to include only the incidents of his life of which there can beno possible doubt, you will stretch his age on until you will probablyfix it at one hundred and twenty years. 

But when you have settled the existence, the date of birth, and thenationality of Saint Pat-rick, you are still only upon the thresholdof your inquiries; for you next find before you for examination a vastvariety of miracles, accredited to him, which you must examine, weedingout such as are puerile and are manifestly not well established, andretaining such as are proved to your satisfaction. You will be struckat once with the novel and interesting character of some of them. PrinceCaradoc was changed into a wolf. An Irish magician who opposed the saintwas swallowed by the earth as far as his ears, and then, on repentance, was instantly cast forth and set free. An Irish pagan, dead and longburied, talked freely with the saint from out his turf-covered grave, and charitably explained where a certain cross belonged which had beenset by mistake over him. The saint was captured once, and was exchangedfor a kettle, which thenceforth froze water over the fire instead ofboiling it, until the saint was sent back and the kettle returned. Ruain, son of Cucnamha, Amhalgaidh's charioteer, was blind. He went inhaste to meet Saint Patrick, to be healed. Mignag laughed at him. "Mytroth, " said Patrick, "it would be fit that you were the blind one. " Theblind man was healed and the seeing one was made blind; Roi-Ruain is thename of the place where this was done. Patrick's charioteer was lookingfor his horses in the dark, and could not find them; Patrick lifted uphis hand; his five fingers illuminated the place like five torches, andthe horses were found. 

You see that one has a good deal to go through who undertakes to preparea life of Saint Patrick. 

But our thoughts have wandered from Dr. Parsons. He has gathered thebooks before him with great pains, from public and private libraries, and he religiously meant to make an exhaustive study of them all; butsermons and parish calls and funerals, and that little affair ofMrs. Samuel Nute, have forced him, by a process of which we all knowsomething, to forego his projected subsoil ploughing and make such hastypreparation as he can. 

He has read the Confession and the Epistle to Coroticus, and he hasglanced over the "Life and Legends, " reading in a cursory way of theleper's miraculous voyage; of the fantastic snow; of the tombstone thatsailed the seas; of the two trout that Patrick left to live forever in awell, --

 "The two inseparable trout, Which would advance against perpetual streams, Without obligation, without transgression-- Angels will be along with them in it. "

And being very fond of pure water himself, the Doctor is touched byPatrick's lament when far away from the well Uaran-gar:--

 "Uaran-gar, Uaran-gar! O well, which I have loved, which loved me! Alas! my cry, O my dear God, That my drink is not from the pure well of Uaran-gar!"

But finally he has settled down, as most casual students will, to thesincere and charming little sketch by William Bullen Morris, --"SaintPatrick, the Apostle of Ireland. " He is reading it now by the eastwindow, holding the book at arm's-length, as is his wont. 

The theme is new to him. There opens up a fresh and interesting field. The dedication of the little book strikes his imagination: "To theMembers of the Confraternity of Saint Patrick, established at the LondonOratory, who, with the children of the saint in many lands, are theenduring witnesses of the faith which seeth Him who is invisible. "

He is interested in the motto on the title-page, --"_En un mot, on y voitbeaucoup le caractère de S. Paul_, " and in the authorization, --"_Nihilobstat_. E. S. Keagh, Cong. Orat. " "_Imprimatur_, + Henricus Eduardus, Card. "

The Doctor looks through the book in order. First, the introduction; andhere he considers the questions--First, was there in fact such a manas Saint Patrick? Second, what was his nationality? Third, when was heborn: and, herein, does the date of his escape from captivity conflictwith the date of his visit to his kinsman, Saint Martin of Tours?Fourth, to what age did he live? Fifth, where and by whom was heconverted? Sixth, are his miracles authentic? and so forth. 

After this introductory study the book takes up the saint's life inconnected order. Patrick was the son of a Roman decurio. From hisearliest days wonders attended him. When he was an infant, and wasabout to be baptized, it happened that no water was to be had for thesacrament; whereupon, at the sign of the cross, made by the priestwith the infant's hand upon the earth, a fountain gushed forth from theground, and the priest, who was blind, anointing his own eyes with thewater, received his sight. 

As Patrick grew older, wonders multiplied. He came as an apostle of thefaith to Strangford Lough. Dichu, the prince of that province, forewarnedby the Druids, raised his sword at Patrick; but instantly his hand wasfixed in the air, as if carved of stone; then light came to Dichu'ssoul, and from a foe he became a loving disciple. 

Then comes the story of the fast upon the mountain. It was on the heightever since called Cruachan Patrick, which looks to the north uponClew Bay, and to the west on the waters of the Atlantic. It was ShroveSaturday, a year and a little more from the apostle's first landingin Ireland. Already he had carried the gospel from the eastern to thewestern sea. But his spirit longed for the souls of the whole Irishnation. Upon the mountain he knelt in prayer, and as he prayed, hisfaith and his demands assumed gigantic proportions. An angel came downand addressed him. God could not grant his requests, the message ran, they were too great. "Is that his decision?" asked Patrick. "It is, "said the angel. "It may be his, " said Patrick, "it is not mine; for mydecision is not to leave this cruachan until my demands are granted. "

The angel departed. For forty days and forty nights Patrick fasted andprayed amid sore temptations. The blessing must fall upon all his poorpeople of Erin. As he prayed, he wept, and his cowl was drenched withhis tears. 

At last the angel returned and proposed a compromise. The vast Atlanticlay before them. Patrick might have as many souls as would cover itsexpanse as far as his eyes could reach. But he was not satisfied withthat; his eyes, he said, could not reach very far over those heavingwaters; he must have, in addition, a multitude vast enough to cover theland that lay between him and the sea. The angel yielded, and now badehim leave the mountain. But Patrick would not. "I have been tormented, "he said, "and I must be gratified; and unless my prayers are grantedI will not leave this cruachan while I live; and after my death thereshall be here a care-taker for me. "

The angel departed. Patrick went to his offering. 

At evening the angel returned. "How am I answered?" asked Patrick. "Thus, " said the angel: "all creatures, visible and invisible, includingthe Twelve Apostles, have entreated for thee, --and they have obtained. Strike thy bell and fall upon thy knees: for the blessing shall be onall Erin, both living and dead. " "A blessing on the bountiful King thathath given, " said Patrick; "now will I leave the cruachan. "

It was on Holy Thursday that he came down from the mountain and returnedto his people. 

III. 

One afternoon at about this time you might have seen Mr. Cole, the missionary of the Day-Star, --a small, lithe man, with a redbeard, --making his way up town. He walked rapidly, as he always did, forhe was a busy man. 

He was an exceedingly busy man. During the past year, as was shown byhis printed report, he had made 2, 014 calls, or five and one-halfcalls a day; he had read the Scriptures in families 792 times; he haddistributed 931, 456 pages of religious literature; he had conversed onreligious topics with 3, 918 persons, or ten and seven-tenths persons perday, Sabbaths included. It was perhaps because he was so busy that therewas complaint sometimes that he mixed matters and took things upon hisshoulders which belonged to others. 

Mr. Cole's rapid pace soon brought him to a broad and pleasantcross-street; he went up the high steps of one of the houses, rang thebell, and was admitted. 

Rev. Mr. Martin was in his study, and the missionary was shown up. Precisely what the conversation was has not been reported; but certainit is that the next day after Mr. Cole's call, Mr. Martin began toprepare himself for an address upon the life of Saint Patrick. It was anentirely new topic to him; but he soon found himself in the full currentof the stream, considering--First, did such a man really exist, or isSaint Patrick a mere myth, floating in the imagination of the Irishpeople? Second, what was his nationality? Third, where was he born, and, herein, how are we to reconcile his escape from captivity in 493, withhis visit to his kinsman, Saint Martin of Tours, after his escape fromcaptivity, in 490? Fourth, to what age did he live? Fifth, --and soforth. 

Mr. Martin had begun his labors by taking down his encyclopaedia andsuch books of reference as he had thought could help him, and hadsucceeded so far as to get an outline of the saint's life, and tofind mention of several works which treated of this topic. There wereMontalembert's "Monks of the West, " and Dr. O'Donovan's "Annals of theFour Masters, " the works of Monseigneur Moran and Father Colgan, theTripartite Life, and a certain "magnificent quarto" by Miss Cusack. Allthese and many more he had hoped to find in the different libraries ofthe city. But great had been his surprise, on visiting the libraries, to find that the books he wanted were invariably out. It was a littlestartling, at first, to come upon this footprint in the sand; but alittle reflection set the feeling at rest. The subject was an odd oneto him, to be sure, but there were thousands of people in the city whomight very naturally be concerned in it, particularly at this time, whenSaint Patrick's Day was approaching. None the less the fact remainedthat the books he wanted--scattered through two or three libraries--werealways out. 

As he stepped out from the Free Library into the street, it occurredto him to go to a Catholic bookstore near at hand to look for what hewanted. 

It was a large, showy shop, with Virgins and crucifixes and altarcandelabra's in the windows, and pictures of bleeding hearts. He went inand stood at the counter. A rosy-faced servant-girl, with a shy, pleasedexpression, was making choice of a rosary. A young priest, a few stepsaway, was looking at an image of Saint Joseph. 

The salesman left the servant-girl to her hesitating choice, and turnedto Mr. Martin. 

"What have you, " asked Mr. Martin, with a slightly conscious tone, "uponthe life of Saint Patrick?"

The priest turned and looked; but the salesman, with an unmovedcountenance, went to the shelves and selected two volumes and laidthem in silence on the counter. One was the "Life and Legends of SaintPatrick" with a picture in gilt of Brian Boru on the cover. The otherwas "Saint Patrick, the Apostle of Ireland, " by William Bullen Morris, Priest of the Oratory. They were both green-covered. 

Early in the evening Mr. Martin settled down by his study fire to hisnew purchases. First he took up the "Life and Legends. " He read thesaint's own Confession, and the Letter to Co-roticus, and looked throughthe translation of the Tripartite Life, with its queer mixture of Latinand English: "Prima feria venit Patricius ad Talleriam, where the regalassembly was, to Cairpre, the son of Niall. " "Interrogat autem Patriciusqua causa venit Conall, and Conall related the reason to Patrick. "

He glanced over the miracles and wonders of which this book was full. But before very long he laid it aside and took up the Life by WilliamBullen Morris, Priest of the Oratory, and decided that he must dependupon that for his preparation. 

It was late at night. It was full time to stop reading; but it laidstrong hold of his imagination, --this strange, intense, and humorousfigure, looming up all new to him from the mists of the past. He readthe book to the end; he read how the good Saint Bridget foretold theapostle's death; how two provinces contended for his remains, and how alight shone over his burial-place after he was laid to rest. 

It was very late when Mr. Martin finished the book and laid it down. 

Thus it happens that the Rev. Dr. Parsons and the Rev. Mr. Martin areboth preparing themselves at the same time on the life of Saint Patrick, from this one brief book by William Bullen Morris, Priest of theOratory. 

IV. 

Saint Patrick's Day has come and is now fast waning. The sun has sunkbehind the chimney-stack of the New Albion dance-hall; the street lampsare lighted and are faintly contending against the dull glow of the lateafternoon. 

There is a lull between day and evening. All day there has been a stirin the city. There has been a procession in green sashes, with harps onthe banners, --a long procession, in barouches, on horseback, and afoot. There have been impassioned addresses before the Hibernian Society andthe Saint Peter's Young Men's Irish Catholic Benevolent Association. There has been more or less celebration in Ship Street. 

The evening advances. It is seven o'clock. Strains of invitation issuefrom all the dance-halls. Already the people have begun to file in tothe Day-Star Mission. The audience-room is on the street floor. Themissionary stands at the open door, with anxious smiles, urging decorum. A knot of idlers on each side of the doorway, on the sidewalk, commentfreely on him and on those who enter. Every moment or two a policemanforces them back. 

At a quarter of seven a preliminary praise-meeting begins. Singing fromwithin jars against the fiddling from over the way. You hear at once"Come to Jesus just now!" and "Old Dan Tucker. "

Already the seats are filled, --eight in a settee; those who comenow will have to stand. Still, people continue to file in: laborers, Portuguese sewing-women, two or three firemen in long-tailed coatsand silver buttons, from Hook and Ladder Six, in the next block;gross-looking women, _habitués_ of the Mission, with children; womenwho are _habitués_ of no mission; prosperous saloon-keepers; one of thecouncilmen of the ward, --he is a saloon-keeper too. 

Dr. Parsons's train brought him to town in good season. He passed inwith other invited guests at the private door, and he has been upon theplatform for ten minutes. His daughter is beside him; ten or a dozen ofhis parishioners, who have come too, occupy seats directly in front. 

The platform seats are nearly all taken; it is time to begin. Thestreet-door opens and a passage is made for a new-comer. It is Mr. Martin. A contingent from his church come with him and fill the fewchairs that are still reserved about the desk. 

Now all would appear to be ready; but there is still a few moments'pause. The missionary is probably completing some preliminaryarrangements. The audience sit in stolid expectation. 

Dr. Parsons, from beneath his eyebrows, is studying the faces beforehim. In this short time his address has entirely changed form in hismind. It was simple as he had planned it; it must be simpler yet But hehas felt the pulse of the people before him. He feels that he can holdthem, that he can stir them. 

Meanwhile a whispered colloquy is going on, at the rear of the platform, between the missionary and the chairman of the committee for theevening. The missionary appears to be explanatory and apologetic, the chairman flushed. In a moment a hand is placed on Dr. Parsons'sshoulder. He starts, half rises, and turns abruptly. 

There has been, it seems, an unfortunate misunderstanding. Through somemistake Mr. Martin has been asked to make the address upon the lifeof Saint Patrick, and has prepared himself with care. He is one ofthe Mission's most influential friends; his church is among its chiefbenefactors. It is an exceedingly painful affair; but will Dr. Parsonsgive way to Mr. Martin?

So it is all over. The Doctor takes his seat and looks out again uponthose hard, dreary faces, --his no longer. He has not realized untilnow how he has been looking forward to this evening. But the vision hasfled. No ripples of uncouth laughter, no ready tears. No reaching thesedull, violated hearts through the Saint whom they adore: that privilegeis another's. 

But the chairman again draws near. Will Dr. Parsons make the openingprayer?

The Doctor bows assent. He folds his arms and closes his eyes. You cansee that he is trying to concentrate his thoughts in preparation forprayer. It is doubtless hard to divert them from the swift channel inwhich they have been bounding along. 

Now all is ready. The missionary touches a bell, the signal for silence. 

The Doctor rises. For a moment he stands looking over the rows on rowsof hardened faces, --looking on those whom he has so longed to reach. Heraises his hand; there is a dead silence, and he begins. 

It was inevitable, at the outset, that he should refer to the occasionwhich had brought us together. It was natural to recall that we werecome to celebrate the birth of an uncommon man. It was natural tosuggest that he was no creature of story or ancient legend, floatingabout in the imagination of an ignorant people, but a real man likeus, of flesh and blood. It was natural to add that he was a man borncenturies ago; that the scene of his labors was the green island acrossthe sea, where many of us now present had first seen the light. It wasnatural to give thanks for that godly life which had led three nationsto claim the good man's birthplace. It was natural to suggest thatif about the sweet memories of this man's life fancy had fondly wovencountless legends, we might, with a discerning eye, read in them allthe saintly power of the man of God. What though his infant hand maynot have caused earthly waters to gush from the ground and heal theblindness of the ministering priest, nevertheless doth childhood evercall forth a well-spring of life, giving fresh sight to the blind, --toteacher and taught. 

But why go on? Who has not heard, again and again, the old-fashionedprayer wherein all is laid forth, in outline, but with distinctness! Wegive thanks for this. May this be impressed upon our hearts. May thislead us solemnly to reflect. 

The heart that is full must overflow, --if not in one way, then inanother. 

Mr. Martin has not been told about Dr. Parsons. He sits and listens asthe Doctor goes on in the innocence of his heart, pouring forth withwarmth and fervor the life of the saint according to William BullenMorris, Priest of the Oratory, --pouring forth in unmistakable detail Mr. Martin's projected discourse. 

The prayer is ended; a hymn is sung, and then the missionary presentsto the audience the Rev. Mr. Martin, whom they are always delighted tohear; he will now address them upon the life of Saint Patrick. 

Mr. Martin rises. He takes a sip of water. He coughs slightly. He passeshis handkerchief across his lips. So far all is well. But the prayer isin his mind. Moreover, he unfortunately catches his wife's eye, with asuggestion of suppressed merriment in it. 

What does he say? What can he say? There are certain vague lessons fromthe saint's virtues; some applications of what the Doctor has set forth;that is all. Saint Patrick was sober; we should be sober. Saint Patrickwas kind; we should be kind. 

Even his own parishioners admitted that he had not been "happy" on thisparticular occasion. 

But at the close of the meeting Dr. Parsons received a compliment. Ashe descended from the platform, Mr. John Keenan, who kept thebest-appointed bar-room on the street, advanced to meet him. Mr. Keenanwas in an exceedingly happy frame of mind. He grasped the Doctor's hand. "I wish, sir, " he said, with a fine brogue, "to congratulate you uponyour very eloquent prayer. It remind me, sir, --and I take pleasure tosay it, --it remind me, sir, of the Honorable John Kelly's noble orationon Daniel O'Connell. "

Late that evening the Doctor stood at his study-window, looking out fora moment before retiring to rest. There was no light in the room, andthe maps and the charts and the tall book-shelves were only outlines. There was a glimmer from a farm-house two miles away, where they werewatching with the dead. 

The Doctor's daughter came in with a light in her hand to bid her fathergood-night. 

"What did you think, Pauline, " he said to her, "of Mr. Martin's talk?"It had not been mentioned till now. 

Pauline hardly knew what to think. She knew that it was not what theRev. Dr. Parsons would have given them! But, honestly, what did herfather think of it?

The Doctor mused for a moment; then he gave his judgment. "I think, " hesaid, "that it showed a certain lack of preparation. "