SAINT CUTHBERT was a Scotch shepherd boy who tended his flocks along the
river Tweed near Melrose. Night and day he lived in the open air,
drinking in the sunshine and sleeping on the heather. And he grew up big
and strong and handsome,--the finest lad in all that part of the
country. He could run faster than any one, and was always the champion
in the wrestling matches to which he challenged the village boys for
miles around. And you should have seen him turn somersaults and walk on
his hands! No one in all the world could beat him at that. Saint
Cuthbert lived more than a thousand years ago, and yet the people of
Scotland still tell tales of his strength and agility and grace in games
with the other boys. He was their leader and chief, and every one was
sure that he would grow up to be a famous man.
But he tended his sheep faithfully until the time came. For he was
growing and learning all the while. In his happy outdoor life he became
wise in many things which other people never know. He found the secret
of the whispering wind, and the song of the brook. He knew what the
chatter of the squirrels meant, and the caw of the crows. He learned the
ways of all the little bright-eyed animals whom he met in his walks over
the hills of heather; and he grew to love every creature which has fur
or feathers and goes upon four legs or on two. Especially he loved the
birds. He used to watch them for hours together, the little larks
gurgling up and trilling down again; the great gulls swooping and
curling and sailing like white ships in the blue sea of sky. And he
longed, oh! how he longed to have wings and to flutter and float away
like the birds.
One night while he lay watching his sheep upon the pink heather which
bears you up like a springy cushion, he saw a strange thing in the sky.
There seemed a great pathway of light, and down it a band of angels came
from heaven, clothed all in rainbow glory. And in a little while he saw
them mounting back again, bearing a beautiful blossom among them. And he
guessed that it was the soul of some holy man, being carried to
Paradise.
[Illustration: SAINT CUTHBERT'S VISION]
Sure enough, the next day the news went abroad that Aidan, the holy
Bishop of Lindisfarne, had died that very night. Then Cuthbert knew
that he, a little shepherd boy, had been blessed to see a holy vision.
He wondered why; but he felt sure that it meant some special grace to
him. Day after day, night after night, he thought about it, wondering
and wondering. And at last he made up his mind that he, too, would
become a holy man, and then perhaps he should find out all about it.
He was fifteen years old when he came to Melrose Abbey to be made a
monk. And there he lived and grew rich with the wisdom of books; which,
added to the wisdom of the woods and hills and streams which he already
possessed, made him a very wise man indeed.
He had not been there long before every one, even the Abbot himself, saw
that this glorious young monk was the most powerful of them all. Every
one obeyed and reverenced him. Every one came to ask his advice and
help. Every one sent for him in time of trouble. With his beautiful face
and strong body, his kind eyes and great hands tender as a woman's to
touch a little sick child, he was loved by the people in all the
country around. For he had the great gift of sympathy. In those years
while he had lived under the kind, hot sun his heart had grown mellow
and soft like a ripe apple.
Many of the people in the far-off hills and lonely Scotch moorlands were
like savages, wild and timid, hating every stranger. But the hearts of
these poor children of the heather warmed to the big brother who came
among them with love shining in his eyes and a desire to help them. He
used to trudge into the wildest, most distant places to reach them, to
teach and comfort them. He was always carrying food and clothing to the
poor and medicine to the sick, for he could not bear to see others
suffer. But he was not afraid of suffering himself.
One thing Cuthbert used to do which showed how strong and healthy he
was. Even until he grew to be quite an old man he used to take a bath in
the sea every day of his life. No matter how cold it was he would plunge
into the waves and come out all dripping upon the frozen beach, where he
would always kneel and say a little prayer before going home.
One bitter night in winter as Cuthbert knelt thus in the snow after his
plunge, blue with cold, two brown otters came up out of the sea and
stole to Cuthbert's side. And as he prayed, not noticing them at all,
they licked his poor frozen feet, trying to warm them, and rubbed
against him with their thick, soft fur till he was dry again. Thus the
water-creatures did their little best for him who loved them and who had
done so much for others.
When the Abbot Boswell died Cuthbert became head of the Abbey in his
place. But after twelve years of living indoors with the other monks he
could bear it no longer. For he longed to get out into the fresh air and
under the sky once more. He resolved to become a hermit, and to live a
wild outdoor life with the birds whom he loved.
He built his nest on a wild little island named Farne, a steep, rocky
sea-mountain where ten or fifteen years before had lived that same holy
Aidan whose passage to heaven he had witnessed when he was a shepherd
boy at Melrose. The nest was really a hole in the ground--you know some
birds build so. He dug himself a round cell in the rock, the roof
having a window open to his dear sky. The walls were of turf and stone
and it was thatched with straw. There were two rooms, one where he lived
and slept and cooked; the other for his little chapel, where he sang
praises like any bird and sat for hours thinking holy thoughts. Before
the door he hung an ox-hide, and this was his only protection from the
winds of the sea. He found a spring in the rock and this supplied him
with water; and he planted a plot of barley which yielded him food.
Thus he lived, alone with the birds which swarmed about the rock. The
winds swept over him and the waves curled and broke almost at the door
of his hut, but he did not care. Indeed, the sea was a rough friend to
him. Once when by mistake it came too near and washed away part of the
cottage, Cuthbert sent to his brother monks on the mainland, asking them
to bring him a beam to prop up the roof, for there was no wood on his
rocky isle. But this the brothers forgot to do. The sea, however, seemed
sorry for having been so careless, and at the next high tide it washed
up at the Saint's feet the beam he wished.
He did not lack for friends. For, as soon as he made this island rock
his home, it became the haunt of every kind of bird. The other animals
could not reach him from the shore, poor things. But the blessed wings
of the gulls and curlews, the eider-ducks and the ravens, bore them to
their Master in his retreat.
"Hi!" they said to one another, "we have got him to ourselves now. Those
poor, featherless creatures can't come here, neither can he get away,
without wings. He is all our own now!"
This was not quite true, for they forgot that though men cannot fly they
make boats with wings, and so can cross the sea. Cuthbert often went
ashore to do errands of mercy, in peasants' huts and in the Queen's
palace. And many people came to see him also, because his fame had
spread over the kingdom. He made them welcome to the house which he had
built for his guests as far as possible from his own solitary cell. He
loved them, and helped them when he could. But after all, the birds
were his dearest friends, and he liked best to be alone with them.
They would come and sit upon his shoulders and knees and let him take
them up and caress them. They followed him in flocks when he went to
walk. They watched at the door of his hut and ate breakfast, dinner, and
supper with him. Many people believed that every day the birds brought
him food from Paradise, but this story arose, as so many false stories
do, from another thing that really happened. For once when some
blackbirds thoughtlessly stole his barley and some of the straw from his
roof, Cuthbert scolded them, and bade them never to do so again. It made
the birds ashamed, and to show that they were sorry they brought him a
great lump of suet. He did not eat it, however, as they expected he
would, but used it to grease his shoes with, and it lasted a long time.
Now Cuthbert loved all these birds dearly, especially the unselfish
eider-duck who picks the down from her own breast to make a softer bed
for her little ones. He was kind to them and they had no fear of him.
But he dreaded lest after he was gone others should be less kind to his
pets. So to protect them he made a promise, and he bequeathed them a
legacy, the gift of _Saint Cuthbert's Peace_. He promised that no one
should harm or kill them on that island without being dreadfully
punished. And he gave them this Peace for ever and ever. So that
thenceforth ill befell whoever injured one of Saint Cuthbert's birds.
There are two stories to prove this, and they both happened long after
Cuthbert was gone from Farne.
Now Liveing was the servant of AElric, the hermit who next dwelt in
Cuthbert's cell. And one day while AElric was gone away to the mainland,
Liveing killed and ate one of the eider-ducks who still lived and built
their nests near the hut where the Saint had lived. Liveing knew the
promise of Saint Cuthbert's Peace, but he thought that no one would find
out his crime. For he scattered the bones and feathers over the cliff,
and saw them washed away by the waves. But after AElric, his master, came
back, he found a lump of bones and feathers rolled together and cast by
the tide upon the very steps of his chapel. For even the sea was
promised to Saint Cuthbert's Peace, and had to betray the guilty man.
So Liveing was discovered and punished.
And this is the second story. The birds themselves were bound by the
Peace to be kind to one another. The big birds were forbidden to hurt or
kill a little one. And this is what happened to a great hawk who flapped
over from the neighboring island of Lindisfarne and ate up the tame
sparrow which belonged to Bartholomew, another hermit who lived after
AElric at Farne. For Saint Cuthbert's power made the hawk fly for days
around and around the island, never able to get away, never able to
stop, though he was ready to drop with weariness and hunger. He would
have kept on flying until now, or until he fell into the sea and was
drowned, if at last the hermit had not taken pity upon him. Bartholomew
caught the tired hawk by his wings and carried him to the seashore, and
there in Saint Cuthbert's name he bade him fly away, and never come back
to Farne to bother him and his peaceful birds.
So Saint Cuthbert lived on his island surrounded by his feathered
friends. He never grew proud, though every one loved and reverenced him
and called him a Saint. He was always poor, although royal ladies, even
the Queen herself, made him presents of gold and jewels,--which he gave
away to the needy. He was always meek, though Egfried the King himself
came all the way to Farne to make him a grand Bishop, kneeling on the
ground before Cuthbert and begging him to accept the gift. His life was
like a beacon to men, burning bright and clear. And after he died a
lighthouse was built on his rock to be a spark of hope for the sailors
at sea.
As for Saint Cuthbert's Peace, it still blesses the lonely rock of
Farne. Flocks of sea-birds swarm about it, descendants of those who knew
the Saint himself. They are tame and gentle and suspect no harm from any
one, for have they not the promise of their Saint? Alas! Men less kindly
than he have forgotten the promise and have broken the Peace. They have
killed many of the trusting birds who let them come up close and take
them in their hands, expecting to be petted. For the birds never even
thought to run away, poor, innocent, soft-eyed creatures. And how
cruelly they were deceived!
But I am sure that Saint Cuthbert's dreadful charm still binds the
murderers. He will not forget his promise; and though they may not be
punished immediately, as Liveing was, nor suffer like the wicked hawk,
Saint Cuthbert will bring sorrow upon their heads at last and misfortune
to the cruel hands which dare to hurt his birds.