He it was far more than the gentry of the island who demanded toll, and,
through the mortgages on the Irish estates, had determined to drain
Ireland as he has drained and rendered desert so much else. Is it not a
miracle that he has failed?
Ireland is a nation risen from the dead; and to raise one man from the
dead is surely miraculous enough to convince one of the power of a great
spirit. This miracle, as I am prepared to believe, is the last and the
greatest of St. Patrick's.
When I was last in Ireland, I bought in the town of Wexford a coloured
picture of St. Patrick which greatly pleased me. Most of it was green in
colour, and St. Patrick wore a mitre and had a crosier in his hand. He
was turning into the sea a number of nasty reptiles: snakes and toads
and the rest. I bought this picture because it seemed to me as modern a
piece of symbolism as ever I had seen: and that was why I bought it for
my children and for my home.
There was a few pence change, but I did not want it. The person who sold
me the picture said they would spend the change in candles for St.
Patrick's altar. So St. Patrick is still alive.
The Lost Things
I never remember an historian yet, nor a topographer either, who could
tell me, or even pretend to explain by a theory, how it was that certain
things of the past utterly and entirely disappear.
It is a commonplace that everything is subject to decay, and a
commonplace which the false philosophy of our time is too apt to forget.
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