Saint Patrick | Page 7

or two

a policeman forces them back.
At a quarter of seven a preliminary praise-meeting begins. Singing
from within 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 come now will
have to stand. Still, people continue to file in: laborers, Portuguese
sewing-women, two or three firemen in long-tailed coats and silver
buttons, from Hook and Ladder Six, in the next block; gross-looking
women, habitués of the Mission, with children; women who are
habitués of no mission; prosperous saloon-keepers; one of the
councilmen of the ward,--he is a saloon-keeper too.
Dr. Parsons's train brought him to town in good season. He passed in
with other invited guests at the private door, and he has been upon the
platform for ten minutes. His daughter is beside him; ten or a dozen of
his parishioners, who have come too, occupy seats directly in front.
The platform seats are nearly all taken; it is time to begin. The
street-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 few
chairs 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 preliminary
arrangements. The audience sit in stolid expectation.
Dr. Parsons, from beneath his eyebrows, is studying the faces before
him. In this short time his address has entirely changed form in his
mind. It was simple as he had planned it; it must be simpler yet But he
has felt the pulse of the people before him. He feels that he can hold
them, 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 the
evening. The missionary appears to be explanatory and apologetic, the
chairman flushed. In a moment a hand is placed on Dr. Parsons's

shoulder. He starts, half rises, and turns abruptly.
There has been, it seems, an unfortunate misunderstanding. Through
some mistake Mr. Martin has been asked to make the address upon the
life of Saint Patrick, and has prepared himself with care. He is one of
the Mission's most influential friends; his church is among its chief
benefactors. It is an exceedingly painful affair; but will Dr. Parsons
give way to Mr. Martin?
So it is all over. The Doctor takes his seat and looks out again upon
those hard, dreary faces,--his no longer. He has not realized until now
how he has been looking forward to this evening. But the vision has
fled. No ripples of uncouth laughter, no ready tears. No reaching these
dull, violated hearts through the Saint whom they adore: that privilege
is another's.
But the chairman again draws near. Will Dr. Parsons make the opening
prayer?
The Doctor bows assent. He folds his arms and closes his eyes. You
can see that he is trying to concentrate his thoughts in preparation for
prayer. It is doubtless hard to divert them from the swift channel in
which 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
rows of hardened faces,--looking on those whom he has so longed to
reach. He raises his hand; there is a dead silence, and he begins.
It was inevitable, at the outset, that he should refer to the occasion
which had brought us together. It was natural to recall that we were
come to celebrate the birth of an uncommon man. It was natural to
suggest that he was no creature of story or ancient legend, floating
about in the imagination of an ignorant people, but a real man like us,
of flesh and blood. It was natural to add that he was a man born
centuries ago; that the scene of his labors was the green island across
the sea, where many of us now present had first seen the light. It was

natural to give thanks for that godly life which had led three nations to
claim the good man's birthplace. It was natural to suggest that if about
the sweet memories of this man's life fancy had fondly woven countless
legends, we might, with a discerning eye, read in them all the saintly
power of the man of God. What though his infant hand may not have
caused earthly waters to gush from the ground and heal the blindness of
the ministering priest, nevertheless doth childhood ever call forth a
well-spring of life, giving fresh sight to the blind,--to teacher and
taught.
But why