Statue Of Father Mathew.
Father Mathew's Grave.
If Father Mathew were alive to-day, he would find ample scope for all his energies again in Ireland. Speaking, not as a total abstainer, or as a prohibitionist, but as one who has all his life used wine in moderation, and holds that tern perance in al forms of food and drink is of the greatest possible impor tance to good health and morals, I must confess to be ing always made pro foundly sac and sick at heart in the prominent cities of Great Britain by the sight of their enormous number of dram-shops. In many thorough-fares of London, Liverpool, Glasgow, Dublin, and other large centres of population, it is scarcely an exaggeration to say that one is never out of sight of a saloon. Moreover, as a rule, these bars are dirty and repulsive, and at their counters may be seen not only bestial-looking men, but often equally degraded women and wretched children. On Sunday, which is otherwise so strictly kept in the United Kingdom by the " unco guid," the gin-shops seem to be the only places of business open outside of church hours.
Where Father Mathew Worked.
Watching A Secret Still.
Among The Lowly.
The amount of money spent for wines and spirits by the people of Great Britain tells its own story. Thus, while they expend three hundred and fifty million dollars annually for bread, and seventy-five millions for coal, they pay for alcoholic drinks seven hundred million dollars, which is equivalent to thirteen hundred dollars every minute of the day and night! That this stupendous consumption of intoxicants is demoralizing and degrading to the masses who indulge in it, cannot be doubted; and I am unable to understand how any Government that has at heart the welfare of the people can issue such a multitude of licenses to " publicans." I do not know that Ireland is worse than England in this respect. Let any one walk within the circuit of a mile from St. Paul's in London, and he will ask himself what can be very much worse in any civilized country. The Irish, however, are a poorer people than the English, and naturally more improvident; and lack of work for willing hands produces a forced idleness which is the cause of hopelessness, discouragement, and intemperance. There is surely room enough in Great Britain, as in the United States, for the most strenuous and noble philanthropic efforts, without going thousands of miles across the seas for fields of labor. The lower classes of her Majesty's subjects can never be debrutalized, so long as dram-shops swarm in every town; nor can poor Ireland ever become prosperous, until her people shall have been lifted from the bestiality of drunkenness to a higher plane of self-control.
Ireland At Her Best, Cushendall.
ST. Patrick's Cathedral.
St. Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin is not only attractive in point of architecture, but, as the burial-place of many persons intimately associated with the development of Ireland, possesses great historic interest. One memory, however, dominates all others in this church. It is that of Jonathan Swift, who was its Dean for more than thirty years. The pulpit where he preached is here; his marble bust looks down upon us from the wall, and beside it is the characteristic epitaph, composed by Swift himself. What an amount of mental anguish its words reveal!
Howth Castle, Near Dublin.
Dean Swift's Bust And Epitaph.
"Here lies the body of Jonathan Swift, Dean of this Cathedral, Where bitter indignation
Can no more lacerate his heart.
Go, traveler, and so far as thou art able, Imitate this strenuous advocate of liberty."
Beneath this, under the adjoining pavement, is his grave; and, close beside it, that of "Stella," the woman whom he loved. In the neighboring garden a willow tree still marks the site of the Dean's house, from which (too ill to be present there himself) he watched the torches moving in the cathedral at Stella's midnight burial. Seventeen years after her interment here, Death mercifully threw across the gulf of time which had divided them a bridge to let his rest-less spirit pass. During that interval he had lived on, remorseful, pessimistic, finally insane; until, in 1745, another midnight sepulture startled the gloom of the cathedral with its glare of torches, and Swift was buried by her side. There are few graves more eloquent of suffering than these. Swift was a Titan in rebellion against Heaven. Always dissatisfied, he never ceased to protest not only against the oppression of his country, but also against his own misfortunes; and, though a churchman, was renowned less for his preaching than for his caustic satire. The best gift of the gods to man, both for his own and others' happiness, is an even, cheerful temperament. This does not mean bovine placidity, nor yet that chirping optimism, which, when well fed, well clothed, and in good health, considers this the best imaginable world. It is consistent with a mental attitude of reasonable hope and philosophic calm. Yet it is rarely found in high-strung men of genius. Swift's was a heart whose discontent and hatred turned to vitriol a flood of naturally warm affection, and made it overflow with such excessive virulence, that it blistered all on whom it fell. In some respects this venom did good service to his country. A master in the art of English composition, the pamphlets which he wrote against the unjust taxes and oppression heaped upon the Irish were in their way as powerful and beneficial as were the writings of Thomas Paine to the North American Colonies at the period of the Revolution. But when there was no object for him to attack, Swift's fury turned upon himself, and, like the vulture of Prometheus, gnawed his vitals. " Happiness," he says, "is the perpetual possession of being well deceived." " Delusions and peace of mind go together." " You should think of, and deal with, every man as a villain."