There are just two extant letters written by Patricius, aka St. Patrick. His Confession, in which he describes his life, and his Elegy, a letter to Irish chieftain Coroticus protesting his penchant for killing new-minted Christians.
On this day in which we celebrate his birthday by dying rivers green and drinking ourselves into a stupor, let us take a moment to contemplate the man himself.
As a youth, nay, almost as a boy not able to speak, I was taken captive, before I knew what to pursue and what to avoid. Hence to-day I blush and fear exceedingly to reveal my lack of education; for I am unable to tell my story to those versed in the art of concise writing—in such a way, I mean, as my spirit and mind long to do, and so that the sense of my words expresses what I feel.
Ya, he is a tad prolix. On second thought, I’ma stick with a pint of Guiness and a shamrock pinned to my lapel.