St.Patrick and Father Matthew.St. Patrickwas a famous missionary, who went to Ireland about fourteen hundred years ago, and taught the people Christianity. At that time, the Irish were heathen, and their religion was a kind of idolatry. Their priests were called druids, who taught the adoration of the sun and moon, together with many superstitions.St.Patrick persuaded the people to dismiss their errors and to adopt the truths of Christianity. He accomplished this great object by the gentle arts of persuasion; and consequently his memory has been ever held in kind and honored remembrance by the greater part of the Irish people. As it is a great while sinceSt.Patrick lived, many curious stories have been invented about him; and, among others, it is related that he drove all the venomous serpents, together with the toads, frogs, lizards and tadpoles, out of the island. Now this is no doubt a fiction. Probably these stories are a kind of allegory, by which, under the idea of reptiles, the errors of heathenism are meant, and these were cast out by the good old saint.But, however this may be, something quite as wonderful as the tales aboutSt.Patrick, has taken place in our day. A good priest or minister, called Father Matthew, seeing that the people of Ireland were very much addicted to drunkenness, thought he would try to induce them to give it up, and become temperate. So he drew up a pledge, and began to get the people to sign it. He succeeded very well indeed; the people signed the pledge, and many that were very miserable before, on account of the use of whiskey and other strong drinks, were reformed, and became sober, useful, and happy people. Seeing the great good that was thus done, other persons signed the pledge; and thus the great work proceeded, until five or six millions of people had signed it.This is indeed a great and wonderful work. It is impossible to say how much evil has been prevented, and how much good has been done by Father Matthew. He has recently been to England, and thousands signed the pledge there. It is said he is coming to America, and surely we shall all be glad to see him. The following lines, aboutSt.Patrick and Father Matthew, may be amusing to our readers, and make them remember the good they have done.St.Patrick, ’tis said, cleared Ireland’s bogsOf serpents and reptiles—toads, tadpoles and frogs—But a saint of our day shows a far greater wonder—For good Father Matthew’s got alcohol under!St.Patrick did well—and we give him a glassOf pure cold water—so round let it pass!We drink to his name—’tis a bright one in story,And, wreathed with green shamrock, shines ever in glory;For if we will read the old legend aright,The reptiles he vanquished so bravely in fightWere druidical monsters—dark errors and crimes—Which he drove, with the cross, from Erin’s fair climes;But alas! when the saint had long slept in the grave,A serpent, more monstrous, crept out from the wave;He seemed a good genius—was joyous and frisky—And so he was welcomed, and they christened himWhiskey.A favorite he grew, and at wedding or fair—By every one cherished—sure Whiskey was there!And all the world fancied, when he took a part,Though ’t were praying or dancing, it came from the heart.But at last it was seen that a demon of nightHad passed himself off as an angel of light;For, in moments of glee, like a serpent he stoleUnseen to the bosom, and coiled in the soul!Nor was this all—for Whiskey’s a fellowThat lives in each liquor, which makes one mellow—And though he may dwell in a hogshead himself,His spirit is found in a julep—the elf!’Twas thus by his arts that he spread o’er the isle,And millions on millions did Whiskey beguile.In vain are the efforts the evils to paint,Where Whiskey was worshipped as more than a saint!There was madness and death—there was sorrow and guile—Yet—the source of them all—he was worshipped the while!But murder will out—and Whiskey grew bold,Was detected—convicted of all we have told.St.Patrick was dead, but he left an example—And so Father Matthew adopted the sample;He attacked the old monster, and though he roared out,And flourished his tail, and turned round about—Mat laid it on well, and his blows, like a sledge,Fell heavy and thick, for he wieldedThe Pledge;And the last news is this—’tis surely no wonder—Father Matthew’s atop, and Whiskey is under.The real Culprit.—A noble lady of Florence lost a valuable pearl necklace, and a young girl who waited upon her was accused of the theft. As she solemnly denied the charge, she was put to the torture. Unable to support the terrible infliction, she acknowledged that “she was guilty,” and, without further trial, was hung. Shortly after, Florence was visited by a tremendous storm, and a thunderbolt fell upon a figure of Justice on a lofty column, and split the scales, one of which fell to the earth, and with it the ruins of a magpie’s nest, containing the pearl necklace!
St. Patrickwas a famous missionary, who went to Ireland about fourteen hundred years ago, and taught the people Christianity. At that time, the Irish were heathen, and their religion was a kind of idolatry. Their priests were called druids, who taught the adoration of the sun and moon, together with many superstitions.St.Patrick persuaded the people to dismiss their errors and to adopt the truths of Christianity. He accomplished this great object by the gentle arts of persuasion; and consequently his memory has been ever held in kind and honored remembrance by the greater part of the Irish people. As it is a great while sinceSt.Patrick lived, many curious stories have been invented about him; and, among others, it is related that he drove all the venomous serpents, together with the toads, frogs, lizards and tadpoles, out of the island. Now this is no doubt a fiction. Probably these stories are a kind of allegory, by which, under the idea of reptiles, the errors of heathenism are meant, and these were cast out by the good old saint.
But, however this may be, something quite as wonderful as the tales aboutSt.Patrick, has taken place in our day. A good priest or minister, called Father Matthew, seeing that the people of Ireland were very much addicted to drunkenness, thought he would try to induce them to give it up, and become temperate. So he drew up a pledge, and began to get the people to sign it. He succeeded very well indeed; the people signed the pledge, and many that were very miserable before, on account of the use of whiskey and other strong drinks, were reformed, and became sober, useful, and happy people. Seeing the great good that was thus done, other persons signed the pledge; and thus the great work proceeded, until five or six millions of people had signed it.
This is indeed a great and wonderful work. It is impossible to say how much evil has been prevented, and how much good has been done by Father Matthew. He has recently been to England, and thousands signed the pledge there. It is said he is coming to America, and surely we shall all be glad to see him. The following lines, aboutSt.Patrick and Father Matthew, may be amusing to our readers, and make them remember the good they have done.
St.Patrick, ’tis said, cleared Ireland’s bogsOf serpents and reptiles—toads, tadpoles and frogs—But a saint of our day shows a far greater wonder—For good Father Matthew’s got alcohol under!St.Patrick did well—and we give him a glassOf pure cold water—so round let it pass!We drink to his name—’tis a bright one in story,And, wreathed with green shamrock, shines ever in glory;For if we will read the old legend aright,The reptiles he vanquished so bravely in fightWere druidical monsters—dark errors and crimes—Which he drove, with the cross, from Erin’s fair climes;But alas! when the saint had long slept in the grave,A serpent, more monstrous, crept out from the wave;He seemed a good genius—was joyous and frisky—And so he was welcomed, and they christened himWhiskey.A favorite he grew, and at wedding or fair—By every one cherished—sure Whiskey was there!And all the world fancied, when he took a part,Though ’t were praying or dancing, it came from the heart.But at last it was seen that a demon of nightHad passed himself off as an angel of light;For, in moments of glee, like a serpent he stoleUnseen to the bosom, and coiled in the soul!Nor was this all—for Whiskey’s a fellowThat lives in each liquor, which makes one mellow—And though he may dwell in a hogshead himself,His spirit is found in a julep—the elf!’Twas thus by his arts that he spread o’er the isle,And millions on millions did Whiskey beguile.In vain are the efforts the evils to paint,Where Whiskey was worshipped as more than a saint!There was madness and death—there was sorrow and guile—Yet—the source of them all—he was worshipped the while!But murder will out—and Whiskey grew bold,Was detected—convicted of all we have told.St.Patrick was dead, but he left an example—And so Father Matthew adopted the sample;He attacked the old monster, and though he roared out,And flourished his tail, and turned round about—Mat laid it on well, and his blows, like a sledge,Fell heavy and thick, for he wieldedThe Pledge;And the last news is this—’tis surely no wonder—Father Matthew’s atop, and Whiskey is under.
St.Patrick, ’tis said, cleared Ireland’s bogsOf serpents and reptiles—toads, tadpoles and frogs—But a saint of our day shows a far greater wonder—For good Father Matthew’s got alcohol under!St.Patrick did well—and we give him a glassOf pure cold water—so round let it pass!We drink to his name—’tis a bright one in story,And, wreathed with green shamrock, shines ever in glory;For if we will read the old legend aright,The reptiles he vanquished so bravely in fightWere druidical monsters—dark errors and crimes—Which he drove, with the cross, from Erin’s fair climes;But alas! when the saint had long slept in the grave,A serpent, more monstrous, crept out from the wave;He seemed a good genius—was joyous and frisky—And so he was welcomed, and they christened himWhiskey.A favorite he grew, and at wedding or fair—By every one cherished—sure Whiskey was there!And all the world fancied, when he took a part,Though ’t were praying or dancing, it came from the heart.But at last it was seen that a demon of nightHad passed himself off as an angel of light;For, in moments of glee, like a serpent he stoleUnseen to the bosom, and coiled in the soul!Nor was this all—for Whiskey’s a fellowThat lives in each liquor, which makes one mellow—And though he may dwell in a hogshead himself,His spirit is found in a julep—the elf!’Twas thus by his arts that he spread o’er the isle,And millions on millions did Whiskey beguile.In vain are the efforts the evils to paint,Where Whiskey was worshipped as more than a saint!There was madness and death—there was sorrow and guile—Yet—the source of them all—he was worshipped the while!But murder will out—and Whiskey grew bold,Was detected—convicted of all we have told.St.Patrick was dead, but he left an example—And so Father Matthew adopted the sample;He attacked the old monster, and though he roared out,And flourished his tail, and turned round about—Mat laid it on well, and his blows, like a sledge,Fell heavy and thick, for he wieldedThe Pledge;And the last news is this—’tis surely no wonder—Father Matthew’s atop, and Whiskey is under.
St.Patrick, ’tis said, cleared Ireland’s bogs
Of serpents and reptiles—toads, tadpoles and frogs—
But a saint of our day shows a far greater wonder—
For good Father Matthew’s got alcohol under!
St.Patrick did well—and we give him a glass
Of pure cold water—so round let it pass!
We drink to his name—’tis a bright one in story,
And, wreathed with green shamrock, shines ever in glory;
For if we will read the old legend aright,
The reptiles he vanquished so bravely in fight
Were druidical monsters—dark errors and crimes—
Which he drove, with the cross, from Erin’s fair climes;
But alas! when the saint had long slept in the grave,
A serpent, more monstrous, crept out from the wave;
He seemed a good genius—was joyous and frisky—
And so he was welcomed, and they christened himWhiskey.
A favorite he grew, and at wedding or fair—
By every one cherished—sure Whiskey was there!
And all the world fancied, when he took a part,
Though ’t were praying or dancing, it came from the heart.
But at last it was seen that a demon of nightHad passed himself off as an angel of light;For, in moments of glee, like a serpent he stoleUnseen to the bosom, and coiled in the soul!Nor was this all—for Whiskey’s a fellowThat lives in each liquor, which makes one mellow—And though he may dwell in a hogshead himself,His spirit is found in a julep—the elf!
But at last it was seen that a demon of night
Had passed himself off as an angel of light;
For, in moments of glee, like a serpent he stole
Unseen to the bosom, and coiled in the soul!
Nor was this all—for Whiskey’s a fellow
That lives in each liquor, which makes one mellow—
And though he may dwell in a hogshead himself,
His spirit is found in a julep—the elf!
’Twas thus by his arts that he spread o’er the isle,And millions on millions did Whiskey beguile.In vain are the efforts the evils to paint,Where Whiskey was worshipped as more than a saint!There was madness and death—there was sorrow and guile—Yet—the source of them all—he was worshipped the while!But murder will out—and Whiskey grew bold,Was detected—convicted of all we have told.St.Patrick was dead, but he left an example—And so Father Matthew adopted the sample;He attacked the old monster, and though he roared out,And flourished his tail, and turned round about—Mat laid it on well, and his blows, like a sledge,Fell heavy and thick, for he wieldedThe Pledge;And the last news is this—’tis surely no wonder—Father Matthew’s atop, and Whiskey is under.
’Twas thus by his arts that he spread o’er the isle,
And millions on millions did Whiskey beguile.
In vain are the efforts the evils to paint,
Where Whiskey was worshipped as more than a saint!
There was madness and death—there was sorrow and guile—
Yet—the source of them all—he was worshipped the while!
But murder will out—and Whiskey grew bold,
Was detected—convicted of all we have told.
St.Patrick was dead, but he left an example—
And so Father Matthew adopted the sample;
He attacked the old monster, and though he roared out,
And flourished his tail, and turned round about—
Mat laid it on well, and his blows, like a sledge,
Fell heavy and thick, for he wieldedThe Pledge;
And the last news is this—’tis surely no wonder—
Father Matthew’s atop, and Whiskey is under.
The real Culprit.—A noble lady of Florence lost a valuable pearl necklace, and a young girl who waited upon her was accused of the theft. As she solemnly denied the charge, she was put to the torture. Unable to support the terrible infliction, she acknowledged that “she was guilty,” and, without further trial, was hung. Shortly after, Florence was visited by a tremendous storm, and a thunderbolt fell upon a figure of Justice on a lofty column, and split the scales, one of which fell to the earth, and with it the ruins of a magpie’s nest, containing the pearl necklace!