The Torch Bearer

       Green ! Green !

       Green in the shops, you say. Green candies and green clothes and green carnations and little green flags. And men selling something they call shamrock on the street corner. And you young folks want to know the meaning of it all. So you've come to me because you saw me marching in the parade this morning, wearing a sash of green?

       Well, I'll tell you the best I can. But a poor best I fear me it will be. For while it's easy enough to tell the story of this holiday, how can an old man put into words all it means, all it stands for to Ireland and to her children all over the world?

       But to begin now, and it's an Irish bull I begin with, St. Patrick isn't Irish at all. He's British, born on the west coast of Scotland, toward the end of the third century. His father was a magistrate in the Roman colony near the mouth of the river Clyde, not so far from Glasgow. His mother was a niece of

St. Martin of Tours.

       The father taught the boy all that a Roman citizen should know. The mother taught him to be courteous and knightly, for she brought from sunny France many a memory of courtly manners. So Patrick grew up learning various things not known in that wild, savage, northern land. But the chief of them was a knowledge of the Christian faith. Psalms he had to learn and many prayers. Sometimes

these lessons seemed dull and uninteresting.

       "I wonder now," he would think, "if it isn't pleasanter to be a heathen than a Christian? For they have no psalms to learn, no prayers to recite."

       "Some day you'll think differently," answered his gentle mother. "What you call dull tasks will be like apples of gold in pictures of silver."

       One stormy night when the lad Patrick was sixteen years old pirates from Ireland burst into the farmhouse where the Romans sat before the glowing peat fire. Without warning they were attacked. Bravely they fought and with no thought of fear. Outnumbered, overpowered they were killed, or captured and bound hand and foot.

       "To the boats!" cried the pirate captain. "Handle the lad carefully, my men," he added pointing to Patrick at the end of the row of prisoners. "He's strong and will bring a good price on the other side. No, no, leave the women here."

       Through the long dark night the boat tossed on the stormy sea. When morning came Patrick found himself in Ireland. The pirates sold him to a man who lived in county Antrim. And he was sent to feed his master's swine.

       On the mountains, in the forest, in snow and rain the young slave lived for six long years. Often he was hungry. Often he was bitterly cold. It was a life to test his endurance, strong and hardy as he was. Rest and leisure? None for him. A slave's tasks are never finished. Snow on the ground? He

must drive out his pigs and find acorns for them. Frequently he spent the night on the hillside though a biting wind swept over the mountains.

       One thing he had in plenty'-- time to think. He thought of his home, of his parents, and of the dull lessons his mother had made him learn. Little by little they came back to him. In the psalms, in the prayers that he now recited over and over he found many a word of comfort. They were indeed like apples of gold in pictures of silver.

       Patrick made good use of these long months of slavery. He learned the manners and customs and language of the people of Ireland. He learned to see beauty in the common things around him. You know the story of how he was asked, years afterward, to explain the Trinity - three persons in one - and how he stooped down and from the grass at his feet plucked a leaf of the delicate, little, green

shamrock and used its three leaves growing from one stem to illustrate the mystery?

      One night when he was resting in the shelter of a rock he fell asleep. In his dream he heard a voice say, "You shall soon return to your home. Behold, a ship is ready."

       It was the voice of an angel, Patrick thought. He set out for the seashore at once. After many a weary mile he found a ship with sails already set to begin its voyage to Britain.

       "No," cried the captain angrily, "begone! I'll take no runaway slave!"

       Sorrowfully Patrick turned away and trudged up the road. But the captain changed his mind and sent a sailor after him.

       "Come, we'll take you on trust. You can work out your passage."

       Fainter and fainter grew the Irish coast. Three days later the ship reached land, but not near the river Clyde. Across a strange, desolate country they had to travel. Day by day their supply of food grew less. Must they starve to death?

       "Christian," said the captain, "I've often watched you at your prayers. Pray for us now, for we are starving."

       "I will," answered Patrick, "but you too must have faith."

       He knelt down and prayed. Suddenly in the woods there was a rushing, tearing sound. A herd of wild boars swept by. The sailors gave chase and soon killed enough to give them food for weeks.

       After twenty-seven days of wild adventure Patrick reached home again. Picture the joy and happiness of his arrival! All his hardships, all his troubles were forgotten. But he could not be again the careless lad of sixteen. He was a man and must do a man's work in the world.

       "Yes," agreed his mother. "But I beg of you, do it here. Never leave us, now that we have found you so wonderfully."

       For a while that was Patrick's sole desire, to stay in his dear home. Then one night as he slept an angel came to him carrying a bundle of letters. On the first was written, "The voice of the Irish." As he read the words he heard a call, the voices of many people who dwelt by the western ocean, "Come and dwell with us! We pray thee, holy youth, walk among us as before!"

       His eyes were dimmed with tears. He could no longer see the letter held out to him and he awoke.

       Those people near the western ocean were poor and untaught. They were heathen and had never heard of God. Patrick made up his mind to spend his life preaching to them. With the torch of God's love in his hand he would spread abroad the glorious light of Christianity in every corner of dark Ireland.

       His friends and relatives opposed this plan. They made Patrick great offers to detain him.

       They tried to frighten him with talk of the dangers of that savage land. But for riches and honors he cared nothing. His one desire was to carry his message to the Irish people. By day he thought of Ireland. By night he dreamed of her green and fertile shores.

       But he was too wise to go unprepared. For such a mission years of study were needed. Into France and Italy Patrick journeyed. At Tours he stayed with his mother's uncle. From the good St. Martin's hands he received the habit of a monk. It was the pope Celestine, say the old books, who consecrated him bishop and charged him to convert the people of Ireland.

       In the year 432 the lad who had been a slave and swineherd returned. Not alone he went, but with a train of clergy and helpers. Books and priestly vestments he had and his pastoral staff; and learning and a loving heart, and that was best of all.

       At Wicklow they landed. The first person they met was a lad tending swine. Terrified he fled away through the woods to his master.

       "Pirates!" he cried. "Pirates are landing at the bay!"

       But when the man summoned his followers and marched down to the beach he saw only a group of unarmed folk.

       "Friends and not enemies they are," he called back to his soldiers after he had talked earnestly with Patrick. "Put up your weapons!"

       Now it was in the spring that this torchbearer returned to Ireland. But the glad season of Easter had no meaning for the people. They worshiped the sun which was putting winter to flight and changing buds to blossoms. In its honor every year their priests, the Druids, held a great festival at Tara where lived the fierce King Laoghaire. On the day before all fires were put out. On pain of death no man could kindle one until the king's great festal beacon should be lighted on the hill of Tara.

       When Patrick heard of this gathering of the people and their priests, and that the king himself would be there, it seemed a splendid opportunity. Swiftly he traveled across hill and dale. On Easter Eve he reached the hill of Slane, a dozen miles from the mouth of the river Boyne.

       The whole land was wrapped in darkness. Not a fire, not a light was to be seen. Over  Tara was a solemn blackness. The night was cold. Patrick started a fire and sat watching the little tongues of flame as they shot up higher and higher.

       The white-robed Druids and the king saw the glowing light. Astonished and angry Laoghaire asked, "Who has dared do this thing?"

       "None of thy subjects surely, my lord king," said the priests. "The commands are most strict. Gold and silver could not save the life of a man who disobeyed. It is an enemy."

       "What does it mean then?"

       "The old prophecies say, if this fire be not extinguished tonight it will never be extinguished, but will overtop all our fires. And he that kindled it will overturn thy kingdom."

       "He shall not challenge us thus," cried the king. "We will go forth and punish this bold stranger."

       There was heard the shouting of men and the stamping of horses while the royal chariots were made ready. Over the dark, silent hillside went king and priests, till they came nearer and nearer to the fire burning on the hill of Slane.

       "Go not within the line of that magic light," urged the Druids. "Let a messenger fetch him forth."

       "You say well. We will wait here. Rise not when he comes, lest he should think we seek to honor him."

       They sat down to wait the return of the messenger. Soon Patrick came toward them, outlined against the flickering fire. As he approached the group sat silent, the warriors resting their chins on the rims of their great shields, looking grim and terrible in the flaring light.

       Forgetting the king's order one of the pages rose to his feet in reverent greeting. Raising his hand Patrick blessed the lad. And years later he became bishop of Slane.

       "Who are you?" questioned Laoghaire. "What is your errand here?"

       "I am a torch bearer. I bring light to this dark land. I bring peace and good will. Hear my message, I pray."

       "Slay him!" commanded the king.

       Before his followers could obey a violent tempest arose. In fright the horses ran over the plain. The chariots were swept away and destroyed. Confused and terrified, the people turned upon each other fiercely. After struggle and bloodshed they fled. Only the king and one other remained. Alone, unarmed Patrick stood before them.

       "Come to Tara tomorrow," said Laoghaire, "and speak before the court."

       This was what Patrick most desired. Robed in white, wearing his mitre and carrying his staff the priest appeared at Tara. Unafraid in the presence of king and court he explained the leading points in the teachings of Christianity. A new and wonderful message it was, of love and mercy and forgiveness. Such words the Irish had never heard before. Laoghaire gave permission for the newcomers to go safely through his dominions to teach and to preach.

       What a glad Easter for the new bishop, for the slave who had tended swine in that land!

       Up and down through the country ruled by Laoghaire Patrick went with his Christian teachings. Into Connaught he journeyed and won over the seven sons of the king and twelve thousand of his subjects. To the far west he went and north to the most distant point on the rocky coast of Antrim, then south to the very end of Munster. Thus his travels formed a cross over Ireland.

       Now a wild and rude country it was. The poor people used to worship snakes. No one dared to kill them and the Irish were greatly troubled, the land was so full of the reptiles. Patrick traveled over the land, says the old story, with a drummer marching before him beating the big drum with all his might. The power of the good saint, added to the noise of the drum frightened the snakes. Fast as they could they ran and jumped into the sea. And in the whole of Ireland today you can't find a single living snake!

       But once Patrick met up with a monstrous serpent that feared him not a whit. Instead of running away it lay right across his path. What should he do? He hunted around till he found a big box with a strong cover. With many a soft word - for though he wasn't Irish he'd learned the Irish way of speaking - he coaxed the snake to get into the box.

       "It's too small to hold me," said the wily creature.

       "'Tis quite large enough," declared Patrick.

       At great length they argued the matter.

       "I'll show you! I'll prove the truth of what I say," cried the serpent angrily.

       Slowly, carefully it crawled in and coiled down. In a flash the cover was clapped on tight. The box was cast into the Irish Sea.

       The rest of his life Patrick spent among these people. He labored to win over the chiefs of the land. Their followers would then be the more ready to hearken to his message. He labored to teach the lads. He could not forget his own years as a tender of swine. From him the people learned to believe in God. Gladly they turned from darkness to the light.

       When a chief became a Christian it was the custom for him to give Patrick a piece of land on which to build a church. Near each of the three hundred and sixty-five churches he founded a school. In the monasteries he left disciples to carry on his work.

       All who loved learning flocked to these Irish schools so that they became famous through western Europe. Thither came also the Druids, the poets and musicians of that age. But now they tuned their harps in the service of God. Beautiful was their music, so beautiful that it's said the angels of heaven stooped down to listen. That's why the harp became the badge of Ireland.

       And at last after he'd given many a year of faithful work and had made the Irish people Christians, in the spring when the shamrocks decked the land with their dainty green Patrick died. Everywhere there was mourning. From the most remote villages priests and people came to pay a last tribute to their master. For twelve days and nights the ceremonies lasted, each group joining as it arrived. The blaze of hundreds of torches made the whole time seem like one continuous day.

       Now whether he died on the eighth of March or on the ninth I can not tell. Among the Irish there was great debate. Some insisted on the one day and some held out for the other. At last they decided to add the two together and to have the seventeenth for St. Patrick's day.

       For all that he did for her Ireland can never be grateful enough. She chose him for her patron saint. She worships his memory and keeps it green forever. In every Irish family there's sure to be a Patrick or a Patricia.

       The world over Irishmen celebrate this day. We parade with music and banners. We wear the green and make speeches in praise of the emerald isle, in honor of our saint. Do you see why? by Grace Humphrey.